Page 74 of Rubies and Revenge

She nods too much. “You remember what to do?”

“Yes, princess. I read the brief.” It was the only interaction we had all week other than random text messages, all initiated by me. It might give anyone else a complex. Not me, though. Disappointment and frustration have definitely not been mixing in my gut like a cruel cocktail, poisoning me for days.

She pulls her phone out of the folds of her dress and checks the time. Her fingers quiver just barely. “And no questions?”

Fuck this. I close the short distance between us and pluck her phone from her, tossing it on the armchair beside us, and take hold of her hand with mine. Breath catches in her throat as she cranes her neck to meet my gaze. “My only question is: Why have you been hiding all week?”

She swallows, gold-threaded eyes flicking between mine. “There was a lot to do.”

“So you weren’t avoiding me?” I slip a finger under her chin, rest my thumb below her lips.

Her tongue swipes a hair’s breadth away from the edge of my nail. “You distract me.”

I lean in until my nose brushes hers. “Perhaps you could use the distraction.”

She grips my wrist, lifting my thumb to her lips and pressing a small kiss against it. “After this stupid fucking party.”

“Deal.” I press my own kiss to the back of her hand before offering her my elbow. “Shall we?”

She swipes her phone off the chair, shoving it into a pocket hidden in the skirt of her dress, and takes my arm. We stand still for a moment, Zarina inhaling a steeling breath as I cup her fingers. She stands straight, face set in stern arrogance. An expression I recognize for what it is—a mask.

She squeezes my bicep. “Don’t fuck up.”

“I’ll do my best, princess.” I knock on the door for Darius to open it.

TAMAYO

The sound of a single cello heralds our entrance into the main hall.

Red roses cover the ceiling, trailing down at varying lengths and creating alcoves where there are none. Everything is presented unexpectedly—the food table looks like it’s melting, the orchestra sitting in forced perspective to appear too large, a giant clock ticking on one wall with its numbers all wrong. It’s disconcerting and all the more incredible for it.

I lead Zarina into a small circle created by the crowd, polite applause welcoming us. The four Cardinal patriarchs stand at their symbolic positions: In the north stands David Capone, wearing a maroon, velvet jacket with black lapels and his silk scarf folded into the shape of a heart. In the south, Riccardo Gallo glares, a real mustache perched on his lip, his suit the same shade as a walrus. In the east, Jimmy Falcone, a patchwork top hot sitting askew on his head, his suit made to match. And last but definitely least, Alonso Accardi in the west, the shoulders of his collar flaring dramatically away from his neck and gilded in silver embroidery, a glove with the appearance of a bio-mechanical skeleton on one hand.

I sweep Zarina in a wide arc and end with her pressed against me. The music pauses as we stand in the center, my hand at the small of her back and her neck gracefully arched. At the first note, we sweep into a simple waltz, a presentation of the impending union of two families. David steps forward and twirls his wife into the dance. And then Jimmy and his wife join a moment later. The leaders of each Cardinal Family step into the circle, symbolizing support and acceptance of the impending marriage.

Riccardo and Alessandra sweep onto the floor next. She’s draped in silver gossamer and black pearls, her high collar shaped like a clamshell. A sliver of relief releases down my spine. It was never guaranteed that the Gallos would partake in tradition, not with the Accardis standing in the west, glaring daggers at the four couples on the dance floor.

Until Marcus steps forward.

He doesn’t dance, rather standing stiff in all black with a heart-shaped patch over his left eye, a fur-lined cape draped across his shoulders. The orchestra plucks and thrums and the other dons ignore him, but the message is clear—the Accardis in the west do not approve of this union. With the majority rule, though, it doesn’t matter. And so Marcus’s glare follows Zarina and I wherever we dance, an immovable boulder against crashing waves of tulle and silk.

The song ends, and we bow to each Cardinal don.

“Welcome!” Zarina speaks to the room as a whole. “We are so grateful to celebrate our upcoming union with each of you, and even more grateful to have the blessing of our friends and families.”

Alonso snorts outright.

“Tonight is made more special not only by your attendance, but by your generous donations to our favorite charity,” I call. This is the only part of this farce I’m happy about. Well, that and seeing Marcus’s anger all night. “Queer youth, especially thoseexperiencing gender dysphoria, experience homelessness and housing instability more than many other groups. Alphabet House works to provide safe haven and counseling for young queer people in our community. All gifts and profits tonight will be given in donation to help Alphabet House build better housing and make much needed updates to their community center. Thank you!”

A few faces frown in the crowd, but they all clap. I accept flutes of champagne for Zarina and myself, thanking the server as they spin away into the crowd.

“Drink! Be merry!” Zarina raises her glass. “Careful not to tumble too far down the rabbit hole.” She winks.

“Salut!” I cry.

“Salut!” The crowd raises their glasses and drinks.

The orchestra starts back up at the same moment David Capone strides forward to shake my hand, which was firmly around Zarina’s waist.

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