Chapter 4 Zira #2
You have to be brave, Zira, she said. Because once I’m gone, he’s going to turn to you.
I can’t get rid of him. I’ve tried. Please believe me, sweetie; I’ve tried.
So you have to survive. You have to pretend like you like it.
No, she gasped, Pretend like you love it.
Like it’s exactly what you want to do. Pretend like you’re devoted to the Syndicate more than your father.
More than anyone else in the world. Her hands shivered as she spoke the words, as if she knew how much trauma I would have to survive.
They’ll like you too much. That’s how you avoid getting killed.
Then what? I asked.
Then you can get rid of him, sweet girl, she said. I believe in you.
Get rid of him? I asked, pulling back.
Once you’re on the board, you can do anything you want, she whispered. I know you’ll do the right thing. Tip the scales, sweetie. Don’t let them continue like this forever.
My mother died a week later, and that conversation stuck in my head like a nail constantly screwing tighter and tighter into my brain.
I had to do something before I ended up like her too.
A fork tapped on the side of a glass and a hush fell over the room, interrupting my thoughts.
The silverware clinked as everyone placed their utensils on the edges of their plates.
My father stood at the head of the table.
Despite having a personal trainer and a dietician at his command, he was a round man, but he was strong to his core. My father cleared his throat.
“As you know, I’ve been interviewing many of you to figure out the best fit for the board. It’s been quite a few months since we had a full board, and I’m so pleased to say that many of you are qualified.”
The guests fidgeted. I sat up straighter in my seat.
“Some of you have expressed disinterest in a seat on the board. I understand that. It’s an important duty, one that requires you to be accessible to the headquarters at all times.
We’ve had some—” he paused, licking his lips, “—unfortunate circumstances in the last few years. It shows how dangerous the position can be. You need to be ready for anything, my friends.”
My head buzzed with tension. Get to the names already, I thought.
“Ernest Dumas.” My father locked eyes with the man near the end of the table. “Please join me.”
Everyone clapped, and I politely joined in.
Ernest Dumas was the same man who had had the remote when my mother died at the guillotine.
His jet black hair was annoyingly fake, like he got his hair dyed in a punk rock bathroom rather than an actual salon, but in all honesty, it was probably natural.
Still, he irritated me; always had, and always would.
I never cared for men who sacrificed their Marked Bloom Wives, especially when they were already members and didn’t need to sacrifice a goddamned thing.
Just like my father had sacrificed my mother, Ernest had let his wife die.
You know you’ll never be the director, right? he had said. All hail the heiress.
“Ernest Dumas’s connections within the medical industry will be key to the evolution of the board. I’m confident that having him in a position of leadership will bring wonderful things to everyone in this room, and to every member in the Syndicate.”
More applause like a cacophony of drums. My father lifted his red palm, and the room fell silent.
“As for the last open seat,” he said, his nose wrinkling in concentration.
“Now, this was a difficult decision. This secret society has been in my family for centuries, and to know that it now resides on the decisions I make in these next few years, makes me anxious to protect my legacy. There’s no other person better fit for that final seat. ”
I lifted my chin, ready to take my place at his side.
“Logan Astor.”
A polite chorus of applause echoed through the room again, and the plastic surgeon sitting on the other side of Logan slapped his back.
“Well done, lad,” he said.
Logan turned bright red with embarrassment. As if he had no idea that this was coming.
“We did it,” he stammered.
My jaw was rigid as my insides burned with fury. The words wouldn’t come out.
We? We?! You did it, you fucking asshole.
Logan stood, finding his place on the other side of my father. My father, Ernest, and Logan, the board members that now oversaw all Syndicate affairs. This meant that I had not only a father on the board, but a husband on the board as well. In reality, I had access to anything I wanted.
But stars flecked my vision. I smacked my hands together, forcing myself to applaud with the rest of them, but my nervous system was completely numb. My lips pulled back into a careful smile, my hands clenching and unclenching underneath the table.
The rest of the dinner passed by in a blur. Eventually, Logan found his way back to his seat beside me with a hoard of members following him.
“Congratulations, babe,” I said. He winked at me, then turned back to his new followers.
My throat was dry; I needed to get out of there before I did something I would regret.
But I couldn’t make myself leave; I needed to be here.
To see it through. To be a part of one of the biggest changes of the Syndicate’s history.
I drifted through the room on autopilot, making the same jokes I always had, giving out the same lines, wondering why I had even been invited to this ceremony in the first place if my father was always going to choose Logan.
Logan. My weak, submissive husband. Another little tool for my father to use.
That was the only good thing about it; I could use Logan too. If I wanted to.
But I wanted more.
Off to the side of the room, my father was speaking privately with one of the financial controllers many of the members used for money laundering.
A light bulb flashed in my mind, urging me forward.
I had found the financial controller for the Syndicate; my father couldn’t forget that.
Maybe there was still a chance. Maybe my spot would be taking my father’s place once he died.
Maybe I had to murder him.
Killing my father wasn’t off of the table for me, since he had essentially killed my mother, then treated me like an object as he used me for sex, sadism, and sacrifices.
Sometimes, I even dreamed about what it would be like to see him in pain for once.
To watch the life flow from his eyes. To make him beg for death.
He wasn’t trained in accepting torture like I was. It would be so much more brutal for him.
I went to his side, shifting back into my faithful daughter persona once again.
“Father?” I asked. He tilted his head and I waved at the member, wiggling my fingers flirtatiously. “Can we talk about this?”
My father let out a clipped breath, then excused himself from the conversation with the financial controller. His palms rolled down his summer jacket as he angled toward me.
“What is there to say?” he asked. “It’s finished.”
“Logan isn’t blood,” I said. “He isn’t truly part of our lineage. I’ve done far more for the Syndicate in my twenty-eight years than he’s done in his thirty-three.”
“You’re absolutely right,” my father said. “I agree.”
Relief fizzled through me. He agreed?
“Do I get your seat when you’re gone? Is that what this is about?” I shuffled a hand across the top of my head, checking to make sure my updo was still in place. “If that’s the case,” I chuckled, pretending like I was joking, “I can wait. You don’t have to die yet.”
“Zira,” my father said quietly. He put an arm around my shoulders, and I stiffened.
Hairs rose on the back of my neck; I hated it when he touched me.
He leaned forward, putting his weight on me.
“This is having a seat on the board. With Logan in a position of leadership, you can operate his strings, my little puppet master. You can make him do everything for you.”
That wasn’t good enough for me. It was a fucking excuse.
“I am your blood,” I said flatly.
“And you’re a woman,” he said. “I can’t break a tradition that’s gone on for centuries.
I won’t be that director. When Logan takes my place, you can inquire with him.
He may not be the revolutionary type, but he’d do anything for you.
Or,” he paused, clicking his tongue, “perhaps you can finally give him a son.”
The idea that I was literally a walking womb for these people made my blood boil.
I bared my teeth, forcing a smile, but it came out sour.
There was no chance that I would get pregnant; I had made sure of that.
My father mouthed something to me, but ringing crashed in my ears.
I nodded, pretended like I was listening, but I couldn’t hear a thing.
I needed to dig my way out of this mess.
After one of the late board members had planned to overthrow my father, it was obvious why he wanted a more compliant board surrounding him. Logan was a bit of a pushover. A man like him wasn’t a threat.
Like my father said, it was up to me to be a puppet master.
But I needed that confirmation straight from Logan’s mouth.
I spun around, but I couldn’t find his head of blond hair. Where was he?
There were two separate corridors to the sides of the ballroom.
During the Masquerades, one side was used for socializing and private business conversations, while the other was used as a space to torture the sacrifices—the dungeon, if you will.
But now, both corridors had rooms that were furnished as if they were simply extra spaces in a ballroom.
Tufted sofas. Bookshelves. Espresso bars.
Vanities for makeup and dressing. Fully stocked liquor cabinets.