Chapter 15 Tamayo
TAMAYO
Ilie on the couch with Zarina between my legs, her head resting on my chest. My stomach is uncomfortably full after Thanksgiving dinner.
Most years, we stay later, playing board games with the kids, drinking wine with Rita in her office.
But after Riccardo’s visit, Zarina was quiet all evening.
Even Mais couldn’t draw her into conversation despite multiple attempts.
And when she didn’t eat a single bite of her Nona’s pie, I knew it was a lost cause.
I still don’t know what they spoke about in the atrium, but I’m content to hold her however long she’ll let me.
I read the daily report from Darius—the gun drop went smoothly this morning—and digitally sign for our next investment property—the Chinese restaurant in which Falcone’s men attempted to assault Darius and me. It’s not where we usually buy, but I’m nothing if not petty.
All the while, Zarina stares blankly at the television playing The Return of the King and fiddles with her necklace. We both changed into comfy clothes when we got back, Zarina stealing a huge hoodie from my dresser without asking. Not that I would have said no.
“Why do you go by Tamayo?” she asks out of nowhere.
I drop my phone beside me and wrap both hands around her. “Why do you ask?”
She shrugs and picks at the breast pocket of my long sleeve shirt. “It just occurred to me.”
I draw mindless patterns on her back and consider the question. No one’s ever thought to ask before, not even Darius. “For a few reasons. Family names are indicative of legacy, especially within the Cardinal Families.”
Her nail catches on the stitching, a thread loosens. “And?”
“It’s more gender neutral.”
Her lips purse, fingers still picking at my shirt. “I’ve heard Darius call you Andy, that’s gender neutral, too.”
“Too familiar. He’s the only one allowed to call me that.”
“No other reason?” Her voice trails off, leading me somewhere.
I squint down at her, but all I can see is the top of her head, the tip of her nose, not her expression. I lift her chin to meet my gaze, my eyes flicking between hers. “What are you trying to ask, princess?”
She affects a nonchalant look and pulls her chin off my finger. Like she wants to avoid my probing gaze. “Just wondering.”
And bears don’t shit in the woods. “Zarina.” My voice is full of censure.
She sighs, nestling back into my chest, and while cute, I suspect it has more to do with not showing me her face than anything else. “I wondered if you changed it to hide from something.”
“Or from someone.” I say the implication out loud.
She shrugs again, the thread she won’t stop picking at almost free of its stitching.
I watch her, the careful avoidance and fake casualness, and tamp down on my annoyance. And confusion. My voice is careful. “Why do you think that?”
“The story about your knee,” she says. Without much thought, like she expected the question.
“You learned about that weeks ago. What’s prompting this now?” I have an idea, given today’s events.
Zarina curls tighter into herself, pulling her hand away from the pocket of my shirt and into the sleeve of her hoodie. “Nothing.”
Caution hardens into frustration. My hands stop their aimless doodling along Zarina’s back and clutch her a bit tighter. “Princess, if you don’t stop lying to me, I might think you’re hiding something.”
She sucks in a breath that expands her whole torso. “Father said something.”
I force my grip to slacken, to bely the cold foreboding sliding down my spine. “What did he say?”
Zarina groans and pushes up to sitting. She rests her legs over my knee, leaning back against the other, and doesn’t look at me. “He said you were a Gallo.”
I throw gratitude out to the universe that she sat up before saying those words.
I don’t know how I would’ve hidden the gallop of my heart or the sweat dewing across my palms. As it is, I’m sure she notices the frozen clench of my muscles and the stiffness of my jaw. But I’m not cold. I’m heating up.
Gemma’s words filter back to me, like a fucking prophecy: She’ll find out, you know. They always do.
Zarina finally dares to look at me, to stop avoiding my gaze and meet it instead. Like she wants to study exactly how I react when she asks, “Was he telling the truth?”
I suck in a breath to deny it, to throw her off this scent. She was never supposed to know about my association to her family. It pushes her too close to the truth. But she’s looking at me like she already knows and is waiting for me to either buck up or fuck up.
I lick my lips and admit facts I never wanted her to know. “Partly. I wasn’t made.”
Zarina’s gaze flits over my face, and it takes the entire force of my willpower to keep my body relaxed, my face open and honest. I count my inhales and exhales and keep my breathing steady. Because she can’t know. It would mean the end of… something. Maybe everything. I don’t know.
And I don’t want to find out.
By some miracle, Zarina’s eyes don’t widen in realization. She doesn’t shove off me like I’ve hurt her. Instead, she nods once. Twice. As if she’s accepting that information and it’s okay. We’re okay.
“When?” she asks.
I reach a single finger to brush her elbow. “I was a kid.”
“Was it before or after your knee?” She doesn’t pull away from me.
“Before.”
“Did you…” She swallows like she can’t stomach the question. “Did you get hurt on the job?”
“You could say that.” My voice is a quiet murmur.
Memories of that day, of my capo and crew cornering me in that alley, of the imperious woman who led me into the trap set for me, swarm my head.
They overtake my senses without my permission, and for a second, I can smell the trash.
I can hear my own bones cracking, their fists thudding.
I can feel the betrayal leaking out of my cuts and blossoming under my skin, red, purple, and blue.
“I left after that.” More like I was forced out, but Zarina doesn’t need to know that. Not yet. Hopefully not ever.
She blinks at her hands resting on the tops of her knees folded to her chest. “And started your own gang.”
“In summary.” It was more convoluted than that.
It was years of liaising with suppliers abroad, forging new ties through old connections, conspiring with Darius and Mateo Russo before the latter left with little explanation other than a glitter-soaked kiss.
But that’s not what Zarina is asking about.
Though I wish she was. It’d be easier. I reach for her arm, tracing the shape of her elbow.
She doesn’t pull away. “So you’re not hiding. You’ve always been Andrea Tamayo.”
“Since I was born.”
“Why leave, then?” She finally meets my gaze, her chin tight like she’s using all her will not to look away.
This part is easily answered. Even if events had unfolded differently, I think I would have ended up with a gang, a family, of my own. “I didn’t want to work for someone else,” I answer. “I wanted more.”
“Do you still want more?” She still doesn’t look away.
I let a corner of my mouth sidle up into a smirk. “Sure.”
“Like what?”
I slide my palm down her forearm to her wrist and pull until she gives in and unfurls. I tuck her head under my chin as her legs stretch the length of the couch and her shoulders relax under the palm of my hand. She nestles into my chest as I pull the blanket to cover us both.
“Like you,” I whisper.
I say it like I mean the moments when we come together, rather than moments like this when we lie fully clothed but bare. Even if all the answers that leave my lips are half-truths shrouded in misdirection.
She smacks my arm lightly. “Be serious.”
“I am.” I chuckle.
“I’m not talking about us. I’m talking about you, your family.” Her fingers twitch toward the loose thread at the pocket of my shirt.
I hug her closer. “I just want them to be safe and taken care of.”
Zarina raises her head to look in my eyes, her hand finding my neck, thumb stroking my cheek. “They are. You know that, right?”
The gold streaks in her irises shine bright as the dawn, warming me from the inside out. I tighten my hold around her waist, cupping her ribs. “Sometimes I do.”
She pecks my cheek, the mole under my left eye. “I’ll remind you.”
“Cute.” I smirk. Because if I let myself smile, I might let myself cry.
She rolls her eyes. “Insufferable.”
“Only way I know, baby.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Ew, do not call me that.”
I kiss her forehead. “Sorry, princess.”
“Better.” She snuggles back down under my chin.
I frown as I brush her hair back from her face.
I don’t know how we got here, how we went from her hating my nickname for her, what it implied, to her preferring it.
How we went from guarding against each other to sinking into each other’s warmth at the end of a difficult day.
She’s Zarina Gallo, heiress to the Southern districts and princess of the family that ruined my life, and I’m holding her in my arms like I need her there.
Like I would lose something important if she left. When did the flip switch? How?
I don’t know, but it scares the shit out of me.