Page 22 of Sapphires and Snakes
I don’t bother to turn as they pull out their phone and tap a few times. They pocket it again. “Each of you has been sent a video taken on that night, pulled from the security cameras.”
Everyone pulls out their phones to watch, except me. I have no desire to re-live it. A few seconds after beginning the footage, Marcus puts his down, too, and meets my glare. He smirks at me, seemingly unfazed by the footage on his screen. Footage that proves me right and him a liar.
That smirk sinks under my skin like gangrene, festering and ravaging. The swiftness with which he stopped watching, an itch I can’t scratch.
When the video’s finished, Jimmy looks up from his screen. His face is impassive, almost unsurprised. “Alonso, Marcus? Care to respond?”
Marcus leans back in his chair and clasps his hands over his stomach. “I think if you review the footage closely, you’ll notice Miss Gallo pulled a knife on me first.”
Jimmy rewinds to watch it again.
I squint at Marcus, trying to determine his angle. In my memory, we attacked simultaneously. If we hadn’t, there’s no way he would have gotten his hand on my throat. The one or two second advantage it would have given me—it would have been enough. Marcus would be dead, and we’d be having a very different meeting.
He doesn’t look away or back down, that smirk still playing on his lips. “I was within my rights to protect myself, sacred hospitality or not.”
“You attacked before my intentions were clear—I just wanted to show you my new blade.” I offer my most kittenish smile, lashes batting and voice sardonic.
He chuckles. “I prefer to lean into caution.”
“Your track record would suggest otherwise. And so would the bruises you left on me after the Council meeting.”
“Marcus?” Jimmy prompts.
Marcus waves it off. “A simple misunderstanding.”
“So many extra syllables just to say assault.” My voice stays sweet, but my jaw is clenched and my eyes burn with suppressed anger.
Tamayo’s hand in mine squeezes, and it’s probably meant to be comforting, but it feels a lot more like a parent cautioning a child. The red at the edges of my vision begins seeping inward. I try to yank out of her grip, but she holds on tighter.
She cuts through our parley and the building tension. “I believe the dozen armed men that flooded the hall and abetted in the attempted kidnapping show this was both premeditated and a targeted attack.”
Marcus doesn’t so much as spare her a glance, a flicker of annoyance, a disdainful snort. His gaze remains trained on me, his hands clasped over his stomach—the picture of ease with a singular goal. “They heard a commotion and came to check it out. If Zarina had played nice, nothing would have happened.”
“Played nice.” I chew on the words. “When you had me disarmed by the throat? Or when you were forcibly dragging me out of the building to a waiting car?”
“I was helping you outside so you could cool down. Didn’t want all your guests seeing you so indisposed.”
“Cause you’re thoughtful like that,” I deadpan.
Marcus winks. “You’re catching on.”
“By the throat, Marcus?” Jimmy sounds exasperated with a hint of incredulity. He sips on his whisky, despite the morning hour, and shakes his head. My own glass, full of water, sits untouched in front of me. Alonso nurses his drink with his lip curled in disgust, though I’m sure it has little to do with the taste.
“She was hysterical,” Marcus says with fake concern. “Clearly a danger to herself and others. I wanted to help her home, but I didn’t want her to hurt anyone. I had to make sure she was compliant.”
I can’t fucking believe this. “Bullshit.”
“You shot a gun into a crowd, Zarina,” he says.
Like I’m a crazy person. Like I’m a danger to myself and society. Like he hasn’t threatened my life, my freedom, my body, at every opportune moment.
“I shot a gun at the hallway ceiling,” I growl.
Marcus sighs, shakes his head. “We talked in the hall, yes, but it was just that—talking. Until she pulled her knife. Everything thereafter was an attempt to keep myself, the guests, and even Miss Gallo safe. That’s all I ever want.”
Red overtakes my field of vision, tunneling until all I can see is Marcus and his bullshit-smeared concern. There’s a fuckingvideo, and he’s still found a way to bend it to his narrative: A good Samaritan who was trying to help. And I’m just the evil witch temptress who uses her body and her emotions to manipulate good men into bad situations. I got what I deserved.
For all their flaws, my parents never lied to me or tried to hide the truth of our criminality from me. I grew up with eyes wide open and hands bloodied. Never before now have I experienced someone gaslighting me so heavily that I think to question myself, my memory, my experience.
