Page 29 of Roma Queen
Pasha flinches.
It’s only there for a second—the stunned reaction to the weight of so many expectant eyes on him. The next second, it’s gone, masterfully pulled back, transformed into a flat, even expression of calm. I doubt anyone else saw it, but, closer than his own shadow, tucked into his side, I saw it just fine: Pasha’s freaking the fuck out.
He swallows, rolling out his shoulders. “Fuck me, Firefly,” he hisses under his breath. “That plane ticket to Panama’s sounding pretty good right about now.”
I want to agree with him. I want to try and make him feel a little better about what he’s doing, but I can’t. There’s no time for reassurances. A Mexican Wave of anticipation rolls through the clan, and a pathway forms on the other side of the fire. A heartbeat later, and there stands Shelta.
The woman’s an evil fucking genius.
I’ve only met the woman twice, but both of those times she was wearing a button-down shirt and neatly pressed dress pants with a crisp line down the front of each leg. Regular. Smart. Almost office attire.
Not tonight, though.
As she approaches the fire, the light catches at the curtain of small golden medallions that hang down from the sheer, bright green scarf that covers her dark, steel-colored hair. Her pristine button-down is gone, replaced with a dark, almost black mid-sleeved, loose, flowing shirt, and the pleated, dark green skirt she’s wearing ends mid-calf, leaving a gap of four inches between the hem of the material and tops of her black, polished, lace-up ankle boots.
This is not some woman playing Gypsy-fortuneteller-dress-up for Halloween. Shelta’s the real deal. She is the embodiment of Roma culture and history, wearing the traditional clothing with a sharp, fierce pride…
…and I want to kill the bitch for it.
This is a calculated move. A chess piece moved with striking, strategic precision across the checkered board. At the same time, it’s also the most hypocritical, manipulative thing I have ever fucking witnessed. This isnotwho Shelta is; this one final, pathetic, insulting grasp for power, and the troubling thing is that it might just actually work.
Respect and surprise shine in the eyes of the other clan members. When I look up at Pasha, his jaw his set, andhiseyes are burning with a living fury. “Touché, bitch,” he mutters under his breath.
I grab his hand, knotting my fingers with his own. “It’s smoke and mirrors. Nothing more. She’s playing them. Help them see it. Make them choose you. Sarah…Sarah needs this to happen, Pasha. She needsyou.”
Pasha sighs heavily; all of a sudden, he seems really fucking tired of all of this. “All right, then.Fuck.” Rocking his head from side to side, he cracks his neck, and I can picture him doing this exact same thing as he prepares to climb inside a cage to fight. He looks down at me, smiling tightly. “Third time’s the charm, right, Firefly?”
Fifteen
PASHA
I’ve been waitingfor this. Well, notthisspecifically, but the stunt. The stunt that Shelta was bound to pull to try and gain favor with the Rivin clan. Dressed in her head scarf, with her eyes kohled up—something she has never done inmyliving memory—she’s trying to reach into the Rivin people’s hearts and grasp hold of whatever sentimentality might remain there, whatever fondness the people might feel toward the old ways and how things used to be.
Something occurs to me as Shelta arrives, coming to a stop in front of the crackling fire: it’ll be the younger generation that buys into this bullshit piece of performance art. The older generation actually remember what life was like back when we followed the old ways, and while some things might have been easier, other aspects of life were certainly not. The inequality. The lack of education. The arranged marriages. The crippling superstition that dictated every single action of every single day. No, the older generation—Shelta’s own generation—will not appreciate being reminded of that.
Ironically, members of the Rivin clan closer to my age might feel a little differently, though. They’re used to being persecuted and treated like shit by the outside world, but they don’t really know why. As far as they’re concerned, there is little to separate them from thegadjecommunity. Like Patrin, they might feel as if their culture and their heritage has been stripped away, and a lot of them are probably hungering for it.
Shelta smiles benevolently at me from the other side of the leaping flames, ever the proud, kind, understanding, though maybe slightly wounded motherly figure. Christ, the woman deserves an Academy Award for this performance. If I were an outsider, looking in, I’d believe that she’s bravely come to face her fate, ready and willing to accept the decision made tonight by her people, with all the grace and humility of a beloved leader.
Such a fucking bitch.
“Brothers, sisters! Sons and daughters!” Shelta calls out into the frozen night air. The words form staccato bursts of fog on her breath that float up toward the midnight blue sky. “Thank you for agreeing to participate in this sudden ritual tonight. You’ve had no time to prepare for this disruption, but we’re so grateful that you’ve gathered here this evening, before the clan elders, to carry out this Rivin family business.”
We are.She’s speaking on my behalf, as if she still speaksforme. As if I’m relying on her to be my mouthpiece, even thoughIwas the one who called together the gathering.
“In the past, our people have selected kings based on their age, experience and wisdom. They’ve always shown respect and understanding by choosing someone who is worldly-wise, capable of utilizing their own vast and broad knowledge and skillsets in order to guide our people. When my husband died, our people broke rank with the past and decided his son should succeed him. This was an unusual and unexpected decision that many have questioned over the years—”
Bullshit. Fucking. Bull. Shit. She’s a goddamn snake. To my great disappointment over the past thirteen years, no one has ever questioned the decision that I be made king. I wanted them to. I prayed for it every fucking night before I went to sleep, but I was always shit out of luck. Cleo was the one who foresaw that I’d be king. She was the one who’d stood up at thepomanoconducted after my father’s death and told everyone that I was to follow in his footsteps. No one second guesses the old woman now, and no one second guessed her then, either. My ascension to the throne has been written in stone ever since that day, no matter how little I liked it, and yet here stands Shelta, trying to cast doubt into people’s minds.
It’s a clever ploy, that’s for sure. To point out to people that our traditions have always had us choosing a sage, seasoned clan elder to rule over us, not some boy, still wet behind the fucking ears.
I grind my teeth together as Shelta continues to casually, cunningly twist a knife in the minds of the clan.
“In his wisdom, Pasha has given us yet another opportunity to reconsider the vitally important decision that was made all those years ago, when things were very different for the Rivin Clan. Itisprudent that we reassess who’ll lead us into the future, to make sure that we continue to prosper and thrive as we have done in Pasha’s absence.”
God, this is fucking painful to listen to. Her meaning is becoming less and less veiled as she blathers on:Pasha’s never wanted this responsibility. Pasha’s been gone. At the helm, guiding this ship,Iam the one who has lined your pockets with money and ensured that there’s food on your tables every single night when you’ve sat down to eat.
“We know it’s cold, and it’s starting to snow again, so we’ll make this quick. You all know how this works,” Shelta says, spreading her arms wide, as if she’s embracing each and every single member of the crowd. “Anyone who wishes to be considered for the role of clan leader will bring their bowl and place it before the fire. All who remain will take a stone and cast it into the bo—”
