Chapter 17 Zarina
ZARINA
Nausea sits heavy in my gut.
I stare at the key in my palm, its jagged edges harmless against my skin. Tamayo’s jewelry drawer filled with silver rings and chain necklaces and tie clips sits open beneath it. All of it innocuous.
Except me.
I’m malicious and full of intent. Last night, I made sure Tamayo didn’t go anywhere without me after her meeting with Angela and the other capo.
I intercepted her outside her office, tempted her to spend the rest of the night with me, seduced her into bed after we arrived home.
I made sure she would have to store her key when I was there to witness it.
I made sure she didn’t suspect anything amiss as I let her use my body to find both our pleasure.
Hence the nausea.
I haven’t done anything yet. I could put it back and walk away.
I could revisit the Gallo ledgers for the gazillionth time and hope a strike of genius hits me and I find the information that will save me, save my family.
But it’s been two months and nothing. And when I received the Birdwatcher’s encrypted message last week, I knew I’d run out of time and options.
The early bird gets the worm, Miss Gallo. On December 1, there’ll be none left at all.
It’s December 2, and I sent my reply to the Birdwatcher days ago. It’s December 2, and I’m holding Tamayo’s office key. It’s December 2, and my stomach is roiling with the implications of finding the answers I’ve been searching for in that room.
I press the back of my hand against my mouth and swallow down acid. Fuck.
“I’m Zarina Giovanna Gallo,” I whisper to myself. “And I will do this.”
Right?
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I close my fist around the key and close the drawer with my hip, shuffling back into the room. I check the encrypted message from Pat: D’s gone.
“I can do this,” I say. And it’s as convincing as a toddler insisting they can carry a gallon of milk themselves.
So, not at all. Despite that, I put one foot in front of the other until I’m outside Tamayo’s room, socked feet sliding down the hall until I stop in front of the office door with that damned key still clutched in my hand.
“I have to do this,” I mutter to myself.
And really, I have no other options now. Not after Father refused to help. Not after Mother resorted to aiding and abetting my kidnapping. Not after the Birdwatcher spilled one secret in exchange for three.
The Gallo territory is dwindling, and three shell companies are buying up majority of the properties: AGH Corp, Taylor Capital, Inc, and Pollard Properties Corp.
Which confirmed a couple things I had already suspected. First, that my parents didn’t stop the liquidation of their assets after selling the international properties. And second, if they’re desperate to the point of merging with the Accardis, then the Gallos must be on the brink of annihilation.
And whoever owns these shell companies is reaping the benefits.
I’m hoping the twenty minutes of research I did on them is erroneous, a coincidence that is pointing me in the wrong direction.
Taylor is a common surname. Pollard less-so, but still.
AGH isn’t owned by the Angela Greene who was in Tamayo’s office yesterday. It can’t be.
I really do have to do this. If I leave this stone unturned, then I’ve gone too soft to be a don’s daughter. I struck this deal with Tamayo to buy time, not fuck around. I can’t stop now.
I grit my teeth and shove the key into the lock, turning until it clicks. The door slides open a few inches. No alarms sound that I can hear. No one comes racing up the stairs or down the hall. Nothing prevents me from pushing the door open wider and slipping inside.
It falls shut behind me, and I rest my back against it, taking stock of the room.
It’s large but not grand. Floor-to-ceiling windows make up the opposite wall, dark wood shelves line either side of the room, and in front of me sits a small conference table and chairs.
Beyond that sits Tamayo’s desk, two stuffed chairs before it.
The whole space is modern, clean lines and blue accents.
I rush to the computer first. As soon as I move the mouse, it asks for a password.
And while I could hack in, I don’t trust I’ll have time.
Instead, I ignore it in favor of the binders lining the shelves, reaching for the lowest and furthest right.
The cover page says W-22 and the inner pages show inventory for something I don’t care about.
I pull out the next—C-22. It’s another inventory ledger. I discard it.
I pull out the next—DOI-23. It’s a sales report for the fiscal year. I discard it.
I pull out the next—D3-23. I discard it. And the next—O-22. Discard. The next—G-24. Discard. Over and over and over until the shelf is empty and a pile of binders lies on the countertop below it. None of them track real estate, and the numbers appear to be the fiscal year. And I don’t fucking care.
I shuffle over to the next shelf. It holds paper scrolls in crisscrossed slots.
I yank a handful out at random, unrolling each just enough to ascertain what it shows.
Blueprints for a warehouse. A map of the district around Den of Inequity.
A technical drawing of an Uzi. A map of Louredo broken up by territory.
But it looks wrong.
I drop the other scrolls, half of them rolling across the hardwood floor.
I snatch up a couple paperweights and roll the map open on the conference table.
Lying spread out and mostly flat, it shows Louredo with each family’s territory sketched out in their own assigned color.
Blue for the Accardis in the West, green for the Falcones in the East, yellow for the Capones in the North, purple for the fractured properties owned by the fallen Russo’s sole surviving heir, gray for the Tamayos, and finally, red for the Gallos in the South.
Where all that’s left is a narrow triangle of shaded red. The base sits in the heart of the city and bleeds south, narrowing into nothing.
Dread rolls heavy down my throat to sink into my gut.
I stare at the map, brow furrowed and sweat dewing my temple, my palms, the backs of my knees.
This can’t be a reflection of reality. It can’t.
Mother and Father wouldn’t sell off that much, and especially not to a rival.
It’d be suicidal. The Cardinal Families aren’t chosen through democratic processes.
Each don owns at least eighteen percent of the city. Less is not allowed.
The sliver of red chokes between smoky gray. The color for Tamayo’s family.
My knees give out, and I almost collapse to the floor before grabbing a chair and yanking it under me.
This can’t be real.
I stare. I should get up and keep searching.
I should put this map back and leave the office.
I should prove myself wrong. But I don’t move, my body stuck to this chair like exposed skin to icy metal.
If I pull too hard, something will rip away from me.
Something bigger than I gave it permission to be.
I watch the sunlight change direction as time passes. Its rays brighten until they’re falling across the table and the map atop it. As if I need help reading it. I don’t.
With each breath, it sinks in further. The part of me that hopes all of this is still a plan rather than a reality shrinks down until it’s barely there.
My previous search results—results I hoped were coincidental—project across my vision: Taylor Capital, Inc, owned by D.W.
Taylor, established seven years ago. Pollard Properties Corp.
, owned by R.J. Pollard, established six years ago.
AGH Corp., owned by Angela Greene, established six years ago.
All of them under an umbrella company named Andys Holdings Corp, established ten years ago.
Owned by A.M. Tamayo.