Page 43 of Sapphires and Snakes
“I smoked and watchedHeartstoppers—that show heals my black, gay soul.”
I almost forget to cover my surprise and confusion. It’s like she overheard us, but I know that’s impossible; the office is soundproofed, like she said. I sidestep the landmine. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Only Mary J.” She winks.
“Interesting.”
We descend the stairs to see Angie standing in the foyer with Pat, fighting an amused expression as the latter describes something with wide, sweeping gestures. I almost miss a step. Two surprises in as many minutes. Darius shakes his head as he passes us, and I swear I hear some version oflust-struck foolsleave his lips before he disappears down the hall, making me turn to consider Angie and Pat with new eyes.
Zarina slides her hands around my elbow. “Wanna go out for dinner?”
I divert our path to avoid Pat and Angie, pulling us toward the garage. “I know just the place.”
ZARINA
Nausea sits heavy in my gut.
I stare at the key in my palm, its jagged edges harmless against my skin. Tamayo’s jewelry drawer filled with silver rings and chain necklaces and tie clips sits open beneath it. All of it innocuous.
Except me.
I’m malicious and full of intent. Last night, I made sure Tamayo didn’t go anywhere without me after her meeting with Angela and the other capo. I intercepted her outside her office, tempted her to spend the rest of the night with me, seduced her into bed after we arrived home. I made sure she would have to store her key when I was there to witness it. I made sure she didn’t suspect anything amiss as I let her use my body to find both our pleasure.
Hence the nausea.
I haven’t done anything yet. I could put it back and walk away. I could revisit the Gallo ledgers for the gazillionth time and hope a strike of genius hits me and I find the information that will save me, save my family. But it’s been two months and nothing. And when I received the Birdwatcher’s encrypted message last week, I knew I’d run out of time and options.
The early bird gets the worm, Miss Gallo. On December 1, there’ll be none left at all.
It’s December 2, and I sent my reply to the Birdwatcher days ago. It’s December 2, and I’m holding Tamayo’s office key. It’s December 2, and my stomach is roiling with the implications of finding the answers I’ve been searching for in that room.
I press the back of my hand against my mouth and swallow down acid. Fuck.
“I’m Zarina Giovanna Gallo,” I whisper to myself. “And I will do this.”
Right?
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I close my fist around the key and close the drawer with my hip, shuffling back into the room. I check the encrypted message from Pat:D’s gone.
“I can do this,” I say. And it’s as convincing as a toddler insisting they can carry a gallon of milk themselves. So, not at all. Despite that, I put one foot in front of the other until I’m outside Tamayo’s room, socked feet sliding down the hall until I stop in front of the office door with that damned key still clutched in my hand.
“I have to do this,” I mutter to myself.
And really, I have no other options now. Not after Father refused to help. Not after Mother resorted to aiding and abetting my kidnapping. Not after the Birdwatcher spilled one secret in exchange for three.
The Gallo territory is dwindling, and three shell companies are buying up majority of the properties: AGH Corp, Taylor Capital, Inc, and Pollard Properties Corp.
Which confirmed a couple things I had already suspected. First, that my parents didn’t stop the liquidation of their assets after selling the international properties. And second, if they’re desperate to the point of merging with the Accardis, then the Gallos must be on the brink of annihilation.
And whoever owns these shell companies is reaping the benefits. I’m hoping the twenty minutes of research I did on them is erroneous, a coincidence that is pointing me in the wrong direction. Taylor is a common surname. Pollard less-so, but still. AGH isn’t owned by the Angela Greene who was in Tamayo’s office yesterday. It can’t be.
I really do have to do this. If I leave this stone unturned, then I’ve gone too soft to be a don’s daughter. I struck this deal with Tamayo to buy time, not fuck around. I can’t stop now.
I grit my teeth and shove the key into the lock, turning until it clicks. The door slides open a few inches. No alarms sound that I can hear. No one comes racing up the stairs or down the hall. Nothing prevents me from pushing the door open wider and slipping inside.
It falls shut behind me, and I rest my back against it, taking stock of the room. It’s large but not grand. Floor-to-ceiling windows make up the opposite wall, dark wood shelves line either side of the room, and in front of me sits a small conference table and chairs. Beyond that sits Tamayo’s desk, two stuffed chairs before it. The whole space is modern, clean lines and blue accents.
I rush to the computer first. As soon as I move the mouse, it asks for a password. And while I could hack in, I don’t trust I’ll have time. Instead, I ignore it in favor of the binders lining the shelves, reaching for the lowest and furthest right. The cover page says W-22 and the inner pages show inventory for something I don’t care about.
