Page 55 of Rubies and Revenge

“Ugh fine.” He pushes up off the couch and stretches, back cracking without much effort. I shake my head, and he aims a kick at my butt before I dance out of reach. “I’ll change and meet you at the car.”

“Zarina is coming, too.” I toss my bottle in the recycling, already knowing the pained and unamused expression Darius is wearing without looking at him.

He pulls in a long-suffering breath in an attempt at being patient. It fails. “Sure, keep an eye on the ‘cops’ and ‘protestors,’ not Zarina’s ass.”

I don’t deign replying to that, walking toward the stairs already. “We’ll leave when she’s ready.”

“If she wants to come.” He sock-slides across the floor to catch up to me.

“She will.” The ghost of a smirk twitches over my lips.

Darius sees right through me. “Don’t elaborate one fucking word.”

“Yes, sir.” I salute.

“Ugh, gross.” He elbows me out of the way and races up the stairs ahead of me.

I chuckle, using the railing to ease some of the weight off my knee. It’s not aching, but it’s stiff today. Too much time sitting at my desk doing the most boring part of my job—reviewing and signing. I stop in front of Zarina’s door and knock, speaking without waiting for her to answer. “You’re coming with me to the Den. Be ready in an hour.”

“No, thanks.” Her voice is closer to the door than I expected. Like she’s standing directly behind it.

“Wifely duties, princess.” I draw my finger down the wood frame as if it’s the curve of her waist. “You’re coming or I’m carrying you out.”

“I’m heavier than I look!” she snaps.

“Just the way I like it,” I murmur. “One hour!”

ZARINA

Ican’t believe I put on a corset for this.

If Pat hadn’t broken into my room and literally shoved me into the shower, I would likely still be in bed, blue-light glasses perched on my nose, hair in a greasy top-knot, researching every property my parents own in Gachico and trying to figure out a pattern. But I haven’t deciphered anything yet. And it doesn’t help that they own the entirety of Gachico—at least until the last few years. I shift on my stool in Tamayo’s throne room above the Den of Inequity’s dance floor and signal the bartender for a third drink. My frustration at my continued failure sits heavy in my chest. Pat knows me well, knows I wouldn’t have left my room of my own volition if they didn’t make me. But for this?

Tamayo and Logan stand at the window, the latter surveying the people below like he can pluck someone out of the crowd at his leisure. I wish everyone down there would see through him, see him for the lecherous, narcissistic turd dressed head-to-toe in bloodstained Tom Ford that he is. His eyes have stuck to my ass so often tonight, I’ve debated forcing a long, loud fartjust to offend him.

Another uber-fancy cocktail I don’t know the name of slides across the bar. I pass back my empty glass and thank them for the drink. Pat stands by the door, allowed to carry their weapons inside this time and playing guard while Darius does whatever he’s doing in the club. I sip my drink and wish I was back in bed, minimally dressed and organizing the last decade’s worth of Gallo business dealings so that I can finally make sense of the information I stole.

“Miss Gallo!” Logan waves me over to join them, and I shoot the nastiest side-eye into the mirror behind the bar, not moving an inch. This isn’t Casa Nostra, and I’m not a fucking dog, happy to come at his beck and call. The bartender shares a knowing look with me, and I pop the fancy dragon fruit garnish into my mouth as if I don’t hear Logan.

He tries again. “Join us, hm? We’re lacking for feminine energy.”

I almost choke.

“Yes, Zarina”—Tamayo’s voice is teasing—“it’s far too masculine over here.”

I tap the bar once and shoot a pointed look at the bartender, who nods in understanding. I don’t think I can do this without alcoholic armor. My wine-red leather pencil skirt slides up my thighs as I slip off the stool. “Of course, gentlemen.”

Both Tamayo and Logan watch as I pick my way around the couch and chairs to the wall of windows overlooking the club. While Logan’s eyes attempt to mark the dips and curves he would like to claim, Tamayo’s gaze is shared amusement.

Logan’s hand hovers at the small of my back, millimeters from touching me. “What do you think of Tamayo’s little club?”

I step closer to her, and she wraps her arm around my waist, blocking the heat of his too-forward-hand. “I love this place,” I say honestly. “It’s actually where we met.”

He tucks his hand into his pocket, no longer able to almosttouch me. “Surprising—I could swear we’ve all attended the same parties before.”

“And yet we didn’t shake hands until this week,” Tamayo says.

“You got me there.” He points a finger at her.

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