17. Zarina
ZARINA
I refuse to attend mass. Not after last night, standing before the Council where they sat in Saint Christophers’s pews, reigning judgment. Not after having Marcus’s hands on my neck, on my chin. Not after Tamayo’s touch pushing me over the edge. I can imagine the confessional now: Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. And I refuse to repent.
I sink lower in the bathtub, bubbles up to my neck and body submerged. The shower I escaped into last night didn’t do a thing to scrub away the feeling of Tamayo’s touch, the sound of her voice in my ear. And this bath isn’t helping either. Especially not when each brush of water feels like more.
My bedroom door clicks shut, and I glare at my unlockable bathroom door.
“Z?” Pat calls.
I sigh, shoulders easing. “In here!”
They step inside, checking the room as if someone might be hiding under the bubbles with me, and close the door behind them. They lean against the vanity with their hands stuffed in their pockets, the mirror reflecting their perfectly coiffed bun as they peer down at me with bright-blue eyes that may as well have X-ray vision. “So we’re hiding.”
“I’m soaking.” I lift my hands out of the water with a pointed duh look.
Pat snorts. “You took an hour-long shower last night. Not clean enough?”
“Not after sharing a bed with your nasty ass.”
They cross their arms with a squint. “Mmhm.”
“Shut up.” I slide down until my chin touches water.
“My mouth was closed.”
“And yet sound still escapes,” I grumble.
They take in a calming breath, like I’m the annoying one. “You’ve had twelve hours.”
“For what?” I ask.
“To process. Now, explain.”
I wish I had wine, but it’s ten in the morning and I refuse to leave my room until Tamayo leaves the house. “Explain what?”
They blink without amusement. “Zarina Giovanna Gallo.”
My full name? “Jesus.”
“He’s at church,” they quip. “And I assume we’re not meeting him there.”
“Fine! Fuck, just—” I stand without decorum, bathwater sloshing onto the tiles and bubbles clinging to my skin. I can’t be so exposed for this conversation. Pat hands me the towel off the hook before I can reach for it, and I murmur thanks as I wipe myself mostly dry before slipping into a fluffy robe.
“Start with the easy part—the Council.” They hug their waist, opposite elbow resting on their wrist and knuckles under their chin. Their blonde hair is bright in the gray sunlight, and I focus on that rather than meet their gaze.
I snort. “Sure, the easy part.”
They arch a brow, their lips twitching. “We can start with the end, if you prefer.”
“I do not prefer.” The mere mention of the end of last night sends a shiver straight to my core. I let my hair down from its messy bun, finger-brushing through the strands, and ignore my body’s inability to control itself.
“The Council, then,” Pat prompts.
“Four stodgy old men with more power than sense.” I shake my head and explain what happened—how Marcus Accardi was overconfident, how David Capone was a sexist dipshit with a bad tailor, how my own fucking father wouldn’t even look at me until I pulled out Tamayo’s engagement ring. The same ring that made me invisible to every man in that godforsaken church the moment it was slipped onto my finger.
None of them see me as anything other than a pawn to be owned. Not even Father.
“And Marcus?” Their voice is soft, like the utterance of his name is a trigger.
I pick through the basket on the vanity stocked with high-end face lotions, serums, body butter, and even genderless body spray. I pull out what I need. “He’s never seen me as more than an object.”
They watch me in the mirror. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” I ghost my fingers over the light-red bruises dotting my chin. Pat doesn’t move, doesn’t reach to comfort me. There’s no need. The void lined with greedy teeth inside me has already gobbled up all the pain, and all that’s left is cold, calculating rage. I drop my hand to the counter and turn away from my reflection to grab the body lotion. “He’s the same barbarian he’s always been. Not much to tell.”
They wait as I open the body butter and moisturize my feet, my calves, my knees. But I don’t continue. I move up my body, feel each inch and remember it’s mine. Only mine.
“Are you okay?” Their voice is quiet, but it still bounces off the walls, reverberates in my ears.
“I’m fine, Pat. Really.” And I am. The unfortunate reality of being a woman, especially a mafia princess, is getting used to unwanted advances and gendered trauma. And finding ways to cope, whether healthy or not. Exhibit A: last night in the backseat of the car.
They sigh. “Okay. I’ll drop it.”
“Thanks.” I swipe toner across my face.
They hum. “Tamayo will need to be vigilant.”
“What about you and me?”
Pat grabs my wet towel off the floor and hangs it up to dry. “What can we do other than rely on Tamayo and her gang to protect us? That’s the whole deal.” They don’t say it, but all I can hear are the unspoken words, the deal you made , ringing through the room.
“I’m not holing up in this house and never leaving.” I rub serum into my cheeks, my fake engagement ring bright red like blood.
Pat leans against the wall behind me with a smirk. “Even if Tamayo fucks you dizzy?”
“Patrizia Ann Marino!” I shoot them a glare through the mirror.
They snort. “You think partitions are fucking soundproof?”
I cover my face with both hands.
“It’s not like it’s the first time,” they needle.
My head hangs heavy, and I mutter to myself, “This isn’t happening. Nope. No one heard anything. No one at all?—”
“You were a lot more whiney this time, though?—”
“Pat!” I turn and smack them in the gut. They don’t even grunt, let alone shut up .
“Usually you’re the one taking control.”
“Oh my god, how do you know this?” I snap.
They roll their eyes. “I have ears, Z, come on.”
“Ew.” I wrinkle my nose and squeeze a small dollop of sunscreen onto my fingers .
“So”—they waggle their brows—“was the top finally topped?”
I shudder. To Pat, it probably looks like disgust, my currently wrinkled nose adding to the effect. Except it’s not. Because the question only reminded me of Tamayo’s hands maneuvering me where she wanted, of those damnable words she whispered to me: Good girl .
“We’re not having this conversation,” I snap.
“Tamayo,” they draw her name out, whiny and long and mocking. “Please, help me,” they beg nasally.
I punch their arm. “I don’t sound like that!”
“Similar, though.”
I shake my head, rubbing the sunscreen in with far more pressure than necessary. Pat is right. Which is the problem. In the past, I’ve always led the tryst, always demanded what I wanted and gotten exactly that. No one’s ever treated me like Tamayo did.
“Are you a bottom now?” Pat asks.
“No.” I sniff. “I was having a moment.”
They snort. “That’s called an orgasm.”
I replace the products in the basket and narrow my eyes at them, chin lifted haughtily. “How would you know, seeing as you and orgasms are distant acquaintances?”
Their mouth gapes in open offense. “Cheap shot, Z!”
“Whatever gets you to shut up ,” I grumble.
Pat giggles, high and breathy, and it makes a smile pull at the corners of my lips. They never laughed much at home, even if we were alone. The other soldiers and capos used anything they could as evidence of Pat’s weakness. Evidence that they didn’t belong because of their anatomical gender. Every day was a struggle to earn their place among them. And I don’t think they ever really did.
Pat shakes themself and steps up to the vanity beside me. “It didn’t mean anything right? ”
“No,” I say. Because it can’t. Like Pat said, this is the deal I made. A deal to give me time and space to figure out just how fucked the Gallo Family finances really are and why my parents were willing to sell off their only daughter to fix it. A deal I agreed to in part to prove that I can be a better don than my father, than my mother who uses him as her puppet. A deal that doesn’t allow for more than passing lust for Andrea Tamayo. “No, it didn’t mean anything.”
They study me as if they can see straight through me. “Don’t catch feelings, Z. We’re not u-hauling with a gangster.”
“Ew, I could never.” I fake gag.
“Good. One more thing”—they lean over and swing the bathroom door almost fully closed, lowering their voice—“I overheard something interesting.”
I turn on the faucet and let the water run.
Pat nods, still speaking low. “Tamayo secured an invite to Casa Nostra.”
My body stills. Casa Nostra is the mafia gentleman’s club and another neutral zone. Where Saint Christopher’s is the overwrought, dramatic setting of Council meetings, the dizzying arches meant to prop up the Cardinal Families as if they wield benevolent power from its pews, Casa Nostra is the seedy underbelly of Louredo dressed in polished mahogany and steeped in cigar smoke. The most powerful men loiter in its lounge, negotiating law, business, and criminal deals over poker and whisky.
And of course, besides paid escorts, only a select few powerful women are invited inside its sacred walls. Which now seems to include Tamayo.
“Who invited her?” My voice is as low as Pat’s.
They shake their head. “Not sure, but she’s going on Wednesday.”
Three days from now .
Pat leans in closer, as if they don’t want to allow the smallest chance of anyone overhearing their next words. “Doesn’t the Birdwatcher spend most nights at the poker table?”
A slow, conniving smirk spreads across my lips. “Yes. Yes, they do.”