18. Tamayo
TAMAYO
I would like to throw my phone into the ocean.
Unfortunately, the largest body of water beside me is my fucking toilet. I could fill the tub in the hopes that the plop-sink would satisfy the depths of my frustration in this moment, but I think only the blue-black waters of the Bend River would be enough. The damned thing vibrates in my hand, Angie’s name on the screen, and I don’t have to answer it to know what kind of news waits for me on the other end.
Assault. Robbery. Vandalism. Narcs and moles. Take your fucking pick.
It’s been four days since we left the Council meeting, since Marcus laid hands on Zarina, since I had her in my lap, and I have never had so many fires to put out. Homophobic slurs were spray painted across the Den on Sunday. A slew of small businesses that lease from the Tamayos in Sallay were hit Monday and Tuesday. And if my capos hadn’t swept the fucking area before unloading the weapons shipment, we would have walked right into a goddamn police raid.
I almost don’t answer the phone. Soldiers have been instructed to tighten ranks, halt recruitment, and keep all street activity legal, but we can’t play shield for much longer without revealing a chink in the armor.
I swipe my wet hair out of my face and finally answer. “Angie.” I can’t summon an even tone.
Neither can she. “We’ve got thugs harassing the line.”
“Fuck.” It’s not even ten at night on a Wednesday.
“This is out of fucking hand, Tamayo.” Angie is one of the few people who’s earned the right to talk to me like this. And it’s mostly because she’s right more often than not.
“No fucking shit,” I mutter.
“We can’t operate like this,” she says.
“I know that, Angie.” I yank a brush through my hair with more force than necessary, glaring at my reflection.
“I think we should shut down.”
“Absolutely not.” I throw the brush at the tile, and it clatters across the floor without breaking. I wish it was my phone. Or Marcus Accardi’s skull.
“They’re slinging slurs, Tamayo.” She breathes heavy as if she’s running around the club, trying to put out fires she didn’t start. “Customers are walking away, and they’re for fucking sure telling others to stay away.”
“We can’t shut down.” I pick up the brush.
“Then what the fuck are you gonna do about this?” she snaps.
My voice lowers in warning. “Angela.”
“Don’t take that tone with me,” she scolds, like she’s my fucking mother, not three years my junior and reporting to me. “The paint over those tags is barely fucking dry, and now this? The Den is supposed to be a place for our people to be themselves, to feel safe . It’s theirs as much as it is yours.”
“I know that.” I spit the words through grinding teeth.
“So take it the fuck back,” she says.
A pause as long as the distance between me in my compound and Angela in Den of Inequity stretches out in silence. I know she’s worried. I know she’s right. I didn’t open the Den just to sell drugs or launder money, though those are added benefits. I established it for the exact reason she said—safety in queerness. Whether they’re part of the Tamayo Family or not, any queer is welcome in the Den.
No one should be punished for who they are.
I close my eyes and breathe in deep. “Okay. Get everyone inside quickly—no cover tonight. I’ll send a team to remove the delinquents and keep a rotation out there to escort patrons when they exit. If news is spreading, I’m not worried about capacity, but if it becomes a problem, call me.”
She doesn’t speak for a long moment. “That’s barely enough.”
I glance to the suit hanging on the door, waiting for me to step into it and out the door to Casa Nostra, where the most powerful people in the city gather each night. “I’m working on more.”
“Fine. But I will shut our doors to protect our people and the Den if I see fit.”
I release a heavy breath. “Fine.”
“Fine.” She hangs up.
“God damn it.” I immediately dial the capo in Sallay and instruct her to take her most trusted to the Den to remove the Accardi pests. They won’t be Accardi soldiers, though. Not even Gallo soldiers. None of the attacks have been directly linked to either family, most of the assailants are desperate people who were likely paid inadequate sums to harass the Tamayo Family into submission.
As if some run-of-the-mill harassment is enough to scare me, us. I’ve spent my life functioning in a shitstorm to the point that clear, sunny days are abnormal. And my family is made up of people like me. People who deal with inconvenience bordering on violence every goddamn day. Church protestors spent months picketing outside the Den of Inequity when it opened. Slurs have been painted, stamped, and carved across Tamayo Family businesses since their inceptions. It will take a whole lot more than this to intimidate us.
But the frequency is beginning to piss me the fuck off.
I rub across my fade, the texture soothing me. The Tamayo Family crow tattoo on my back carries a noose in its beak, the ink and its obligation heavy on my shoulders. As soon as I’m ready, Darius and I will leave for Casa Nostra. Which is hopefully where the “more” I promised Angie—and myself and my family—will finally come into play.
I apply pomade to my hair, towel tied around my hips, bathroom choked in steam from my shower, as my brain flips through strategy for tonight. Part of me wishes Zarina were coming, too. This is her world more than mine, much as I loathe to admit it. She knows the players, understands the game in a way I don’t yet.
But I can’t afford the distraction that is her, and Darius had a point on Sunday. Zarina will know too much by the time our deal is up. Anything I can do to limit that knowledge is in the best interest of myself and my family. I swipe mascara over my lashes and dab a bit of concealer under my eyes to hide the puffiness from a lack of sleep. I pull on my briefs then my gray suit and button it up until it feels like I’m dressed in chainmail.
I stride out of my bathroom, slip on my Doc oxfords, and stuff my gun into my waistband before taking the stairs two at a time.
Darius stands at the garage door. “Angie called.”
Of course she did. “It’s taken care of.”
“For now,” he says, like I need a reminder.
I sigh. “For now.”
We push into the garage, the lights already on. “Ready for tonight?” he asks.
“Ready as I can be.”
“Reassuring,” he deadpans.
Energy skitters through me, and I wish I could dispel it by throwing a punch. Move my body in a way that will ground me inside it, keep my mind from racing and my worry from growing. Casa Nostra is more than an opportunity to schmooze the créme de la créme of the city, it’s the only real chance to protect my family through this fabricated storm.
Darius rests a hand on my shoulder, large and warm. “Hey.” He gently pulls me to face him, and his dark-brown eyes hold mine. “You’ve got this. We’re all behind you.”
I find his hand and squeeze it hard. “Thanks.”
“Now get in the damn car.” He play-shoves me toward the sedan, opening the door, and I chuckle as I slip into the leather seat.
“Good evening,” a voice purrs beside me.
The same voice I last heard in this exact spot, but much breathier, much whinier, and much, much more welcome.
Zarina Gallo.
In the corner of the garage, Pat darts out from behind a tall shelf. Darius jerks toward them as if he has a chance at stopping them. Pat winks, already leaning against the passenger door with the grace of a barely-restrained tiger. Darius huffs.
My smile sours as I consider Zarina in her emerald-green dress and crimson lips with her brown-black hair falling in waves. “Where are you going?”
“With you, wifey.” She smiles sweetly.
The nickname churns my stomach, and I’d much prefer to get to the fucking point. “Where do you think we’re going?”
She smooths her hands down her body, ruching the fabric under her fingers like she’s trying to direct my attention. “Into the belly of the beast.”
I don’t take the bait. “Zarina.”
“Hm?” she plays innocent.
“Get out of the car,” I growl.
She simply settles further into her seat, the threat in my voice barely registering. “No, thank you. ”
“You cannot come with me.” My hands slide to rest on the outside of my thighs, and I have to force my gaze to remain on her face.
She picks invisible lint off the silk of her dress. “Do you think you garnered an invite into the most exclusive criminal gentleman’s club by virtue of anything other than my name and my audacity?”
My fingers twitch again, and the urge to gnash my teeth grows. And I know why. It’s not because she’s doubting me or insulting my pride. It’s that she’s right. She’s one thousand fucking percent correct and it kills me.
“I’m coming with you.” She tilts her head, coy and pretty, as if she didn’t just slap me with the truth. “Whether we present ourselves as united in power or separated in turmoil is up to you.”
I study her. She’s dressed to slay a man in his seat without a single cut to his person. Casa Nostra is exclusive, but its patrons are the same people she and her family have known and entertained her whole life. What does tonight mean for her that she must attend? I mimic her, cocking my head. “What are you up to?”
Her gaze smolders with anger. “I won’t be relegated to the shadows simply because I’m fake marrying you.”
I hum, unconvinced. “Shadows are the least of your worries. No one will be able to take their eyes off you.”
“If by no one, you mean yourself, then I believe it.”
I keep my tone light. “I could forcibly remove you.”
“You could try.” She lifts a single brow, as if in challenge.
We stare at each other, two boulders unwilling to give way against the current. Zarina needs something at Casa Nostra, something that will likely help her along in annulling our fake engagement and therefore demoting my status from Cardinal Family member’s fiancée back down to notorious queer gangster with a target on her back .
How badly do I want to stop her?
I dart for her wrist, drawing my gun with my other hand, but Zarina’s quicker. She snatches my arm and pulls me close. Sharp, cold steel rests against my jugular as the edge of her knife threatens to slice me open. Goose bumps shiver down my spine.
A devilish grin unfurls across my lips. “Wouldn’t have thought you were into knife play.”
“When the occasion calls for it.” Her hand is steady, no hint of a tremor, of hesitation.
“What are you gonna do, princess?” I lean into it, the blade an ounce of pressure away from breaking my skin. “Cut me?”
She smirks slow as honey. “I’ll let you choose where.”
“You forgot about my other hand, hm.” I aim my gun for her gut, my fist resting on my knee.
She laughs, bright and short. “Death before dishonor, Tamayo.” She winks. “Whether you like it or not, I’m worth far more to you alive than dead. You, on the other hand…” Her eyes rake over me, down and up, and come back as if she’s found me wanting. “You, I can spare.”
I reach out with the fingers of my captive hand and brush the green silk of her dress, right above her navel. She presses her eyes closed a second too long to be a simple blink, and her smirk loses its shape.
I sigh and replace my gun in my waistband. “All right, princess. You can come.”
She stares at me without removing the knife from my throat or her hand from my wrist, like she’s unwilling to believe my words. I get it. I’m not sure why I’m agreeing either. Path of least resistance? Devilish curiosity? All I know is I don’t have time to lollygag.
“Try to behave, hm?” My gaze slinks down her dress, to the seam of her thighs, to her hands around my wrist. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’ve been ruined by a gangster. ”
Zarina holds completely still, like she might topple if she gives a single inch. I wish she were closer. Wish her shoulders would loosen and her posture would melt back into the leather seat. Wish it was Saturday again and the space between us would vanish.
“Darius, let’s go.” I don’t move my gaze from hers as I speak or as Darius grumbles, pushing the door shut with more force the necessary. My knuckles draw patterns like hurricane paths over her dress as Darius and Pat slide into the front seats. His words the other night hang between the front and back of the car. There’s nothing to keep her from crossing us. Zarina adjusts her grip, and it nearly nicks my neck.
“Unless you’re planning to use it, can you sheathe the knife, princess?” My voice is soft and rumbly.
She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “There’s always a possibility.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”