3. Zarina
ZARINA
M y room feels wrong when I enter it, like someone’s rifled through my things and moved each object over half an inch. But everything is just as I left it. It’s me who has shifted. I’ve lived here for all my life. I know it as intimately as the streets of Gallo territory, as my own body.
Which is no longer my own.
I flip the deadbolt locked and rest my forehead against the cold wood. The urge to cry and rage and destroy builds in my chest. The marigold silk draped over my four-poster canopy bed would go first. Then I’d grab the switchblade from my nightstand and rip into the teal chaise lounge. Then I’d fire the handgun that lives beside the knife at the bulletproof glass windows lining the entire south-facing wall. Would they hold at point-blank range? Would they ricochet and take me out and save me from this ludicrous deal?
Death before dishonor .
The Gallo Family words echo as I turn and my head falls back against my door with a soft thump. I grew up learning that hurting a fellow Gallo meant dishonoring the family, but if that were true, my parents wouldn’t ask this of me. They’d let me see how badly we’re fucked rather than sell me off to the debtor.
Thankfully, I don’t need their permission.
I shove off the door and stride across the room, skipping the four steps to the lower level, where the chaise lounge sits in front of the working fireplace. I shove open the en suite bathroom door, ignoring the high-backed clawfoot tub and turning directly into the walk-in-closet. The chandelier and backlit shelves and racks brighten the moment I enter. Velvet, silk, denim, suede, leather, all neatly organized by occasion and then level of impression.
But I’m not here to change. I stand before the wall of shoes, perfectly spaced so as not to touch each other, and pull on a pair of garish, hot-pink heels with gaudy diamonds on the toe—a gift from an aunt with the same fashion taste as Paris Hilton circa 2003, gag . A latch clicks, and the wall swings open just enough for me to grab the edge and pull it wide.
Weapons hang from their hooks—another handgun, a pistol, a nightstick, a taser, brass knuckles in matte black, and even pepper spray. And in the middle, framed by the myriad of deadly tools, sits a safe tucked into the wall.
I twist the dial, around and back and around again, and with each number, my pulse thrums against my wrists. When it unlocks and I open the door, I stare at the three wads of petty cash, at the hardbound notebook, at the external hard drive, and chew my lip.
I snuck into the library a few months ago and plugged the hard drive into Mother’s computer to copy the Gallo Family ledger. But I haven’t had the guts to take it out of my personal safe since then, scared to learn what it said.
I knew something was wrong. I’ve known for months. It was in the small things. The way Mother would ask me to flirt at events more than usual. The way Father didn’t come home before midnight most nights and skipped church on Sundays more often than he attended. The way a couple captains we’d always had, who had been part of the family my entire lifetime, no longer showed up to family dinner on Sundays.
I trace the drive’s edges with my fingers. If I were to run to any of the other Cardinal Families, their rules would demand they return me to my parents, or worse—to Marcus. That can’t happen. There’s nowhere to go that I’ll be truly hidden, no family to call on that will honor my autonomy. But I can’t evade my parents or the Accardis without help.
And there’s only one person who fits the bill.
One person with enough power to keep me safe and enough ambition to defy the Cardinal Families. One person who might sympathize with my situation.
I clear out the rest of the safe and elbow the door shut, twirling the dial to locked and kicking the wall of shoes closed behind me. I can’t have more than fifteen minutes before dinner, before the Accardi family arrives with their son Marcus ready to bend one knee and perform a proposal scene. Nausea swirls in my stomach, and I clench my teeth against the acid rising up my throat.
My parents have gone too far.
I drop the hard drive and notebook on the gold ottoman in the middle of the room and yank a purse and a classic trench coat off their hangers. I have known I am as gay as a double fucking rainbow since I first felt attraction at the ripe age of eleven. My parents accepted that, accepted me, and have never asked me to do more than wield my feminine wiles as a weapon against misogynistic sons of rival families.
Until now.
But this is impossible.
I will not spread my legs and think of the Gallos. Not if there’s any other option available to me. And the foggy idea that’s been solidifying into a tangible and real solution at the back of my brain is far more palatable than a marriage to a man who is known for beating his own family.
A knock echoes through my bedroom and into the closet. “Zarina?”
It’s Father.
I don’t answer. I stuff the hard drive into the inside pocket of my purse and throw in the petty cash and notebook, too. I wish I had my laptop, but I left it in the solarium earlier, and I only have about ten minutes now. There’s no time to waste.
I grab my most comfortable nude heels that go with anything and slip out of the closet.
Father knocks again. “Zarina, dear. I know this isn’t what you want.”
I pause, one hand carrying my heels, the other on the handle of the French door leading out to my private terrace.
“I am sorry about it,” he says. “I feel as if…as if we failed you. Failed the family.”
My throat thickens, and I squeeze my eyes shut. The Gallo ruby hanging at my neck shackles me to the spot.
“I wish we could do better for you,” he says.
“I do, too,” I say, just loud enough that I know he hears me. To give myself the cover of being heard minutes before dinner.
“Please trust us?” he asks.
And I can’t answer that. Not with anything that will ease his guilt. They’ve broken years of carefully nurtured love and duty with the handshake of a single deal. We betray a lot of people, step on most anyone we must to get what we want, but never family. Never a Gallo.
Until now.
I open my terrace door as Father speaks again.
“Please.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, too low to carry. And then I step outside and shut the door behind me with the softest click, ready to sneak out of the compound like I have a hundred times. Up the trellis, across the roof to the western wing that shares a wall with the garage with the openable skylight that Pat always makes sure has the expandable ladder propped beneath it, like that’s where it should be stored. Inconspicuous.
“I figured you’d run.”
I just barely bite down on a yelp, clutching my chest against my racing heart. “God damn it.” I snap. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”
Pat sits in one of the chairs at the small bistro table, long, blonde hair pulled back in their signature perfectly smooth low-bun that somehow never frizzes, never comes undone, never moves . They sit with an ankle resting on their knee, their Kevlar chest binder poking out from under their crisp white collar, nude colored and doubling as a bullet-proof layer.
“Like I said, I knew you’d run.” And they would know, having been my best friend since they showed me how to play cat’s cradle when we were six.
I smooth my hand down my coat, not meeting their eyes in case their answer is as poor as my parents’. “Can you blame me?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see them study me closely, leaning forward to rest their elbows on their knees. “Not really, no.”
“Will you stop me?” I ask.
Pat is loyal to the Gallos, serves as house security and specifically as my personal detail. They’re sworn to keep me safe, to keep my parents safe, to serve the family no matter what, when, where. We might be best friends, but Pat spoke their oath with the intent to keep it.
They rise and place a hand on each of my shoulders, leaning down to look into my eyes. “Z, you’re a Gallo. You’re my Gallo. Like fuck am I gonna keep you here for this. ”
For the first time tonight, the tears pricking behind my eyes flood to the front and threaten to spill.
Pat pushes my hair away from my face and brushes my cheek before they clap their hands. “Besides, who of all the Gallo Family would best understand how fucked up this is, even putting aside the whole feminist, bodily autonomy, free-will perspective?”
I let out a soft, sad laugh that threatens to morph into a sob. “You.”
“Duh.” They squeeze my cheeks together until my lips purse comically. It does the trick to stop the burn of tears.
I pull in a steadying breath. “Then why did you ambush me?”
Pat plucks my heels out of my hand. “To make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”
“I can protect myself,” I grumble.
They push me toward the trellis. “You usually have better jokes.”
“Fuck off, Pat.” I aim a kick at their shin, but they deftly avoid the strike. Stupid reflex training.
“Yeah, yeah.” They smack my ass to get me moving. “We have five minutes before the Accardis arrive.”
I climb up without another word.