Chapter 22 Tamayo
TAMAYO
Irest my knuckles against the cold glass, easing the tight ache of the healing scabs there.
Darius tried to offer me gauze and an ice pack, but I refused.
I don’t want to soothe the pain. Not when each pang diverts my focus from the internal purgatory burning up my insides.
Not when my fingers are bare of rings and rubies.
Darius clears his throat behind me in signal.
The District Attorney has arrived. He called this morning and asked me to join him for an early lunch at a restaurant near his office.
I agreed. There was no other answer to give, really.
Now he’s smiling at the host as I switch my grip to raise my drink of club soda and lime to my lips.
The thought of liquor sets my teeth on edge, but I refuse to appear less than fine. Hence, the fake cocktail.
“Good morning, Tamayo.” Logan Anderson sinks into the chair beside me. He signals the server, ordering before he pulls out a stack of papers and drops them onto the table between us. “Thank you for meeting me here.”
“I was surprised to hear from you.” I frown at the papers, confused. I don’t have any business with Logan, not recently. “Has Angela been taking good care of you at the Den?”
“Yes, thank you.” He sets his briefcase on the floor and accepts his drink from the waiter, taking a sip before he relaxes back into his armchair. “It’s early, but damn, I needed this.”
My curiosity grows with each moment he doesn’t explain. “Everything all right?”
“Sure, sure. Busy week is all.” Logan savors the amber liquor, eyes closed, and does not clarify.
My brain is filling in the blanks—the Accardis are suing me. The Council is brokering a deal to push me out of town. I’m being served for criminal activity. But outside, I hold myself still in my seat, keep my face relaxed, my grip on my glass loose.
I nod to the table. “Anything to do with the mountain between us?”
Logan chuckles. “Now that you mention it—go ahead and take a look.”
I almost don’t want to, but I shove that instinct away.
The stack is separated by binder clips holding a bunch each.
I lift the first few off the pile and lay them in my lap, flipping through the first couple pages before skipping to the next.
And the next. And the next. I grab a couple more, my brow furrowing deeper with each one.
My glass almost slips out of my grip before I catch it.
My brain could have never imagined this.
“What is this?” Disbelief colors my words, barely louder than a breath. Because this can’t be what I think it is. It simply can’t.
Zarina wouldn’t.
Logan settles deeper into his chair. “A young woman dropped them off at my office last week, included with clear instructions from Miss Gallo. All I was told is this should be enough.”
I frown at the contract on my lap, the smallest inkling of realization stirring in my toes. “Enough for what?”
He shrugs. “I asked the same, but the woman was adamant you would know what Miss Gallo meant.”
I stare at the stack of papers, calculating in my head. There’s no way I’m correct. It would mean her losing everything. Everything.
Except her life.
“It’s all in order.” Logan taps the pile where the majority still sits on the table. “All they need is your counter signature.”
I almost laugh, but I realize that would color me crazy. Is Zarina? We made a deal, but it was never fulfilled. Not on my end. In fact, I failed so spectacularly that I practically pushed her into the villain’s arms. She owes me nothing. Not after I already took so much.
“There was this, too.” Logan slides an envelope across the small pile of contracts on my lap. It appears harmless and yet it trips dread in my chest. There’s a slight shimmer to the paper, an undertone of gold. Before I even touch it, I know what it will be.
I set my glass on the table and pick up the envelope.
The fresh scabs on my knuckles throb, their pink-yellow especially vulgar in contrast to the fine stationery.
Behind me, I can feel Darius lean forward on his toes to see.
I wish I could elbow him in the gut for it, but I keep my face impassive, keep my arm where it rests on the chair, and slip my finger under the flap to rip it upward, pulling the cardstock out.
It’s the same paper as the envelope with hand-lettered black calligraphy scrolling across the face.
Marcus Alonso Accardi and Zarina Giovanna Gallo invite you to join us in celebrating the joining of two families, one love, this Christmas Day at five p.m. at the Gallo Family estate.
The ink runs in my vision as if it’s freshly penned. Bile climbs up my throat. I flip the invitation over, unwilling to see its words any longer. Unwilling to imagine her in white, walking down the aisle toward the monster she tried so hard to escape. The one I pushed her toward.
And find a scrawled message: Option 3. You have until the wedding.
I stare at her note. Option three. I don’t have to struggle to recall our last conversation, not when I relive it every day, multiple times a day.
Any moment of quiet and Zarina’s voice strikes my ear drums as if she’s right beside me, whispering, screaming, sobbing.
The only other option I see is you selling Gallo territory back to me. Which I didn’t do.
But she did.
Each contract Logan’s brought is a deed transferring ownership of Gallo property over to me. Each one brings me a step closer to my end goal. And each one rips power away from Zarina Gallo, my mafia princess.
This should be enough.
Dear god, what has she done? And what will I do?
It’s the last piece in the puzzle, but the cost is so high.
I’ve already paid part of it, already lost Zarina and any chance at making things right.
Part of me wants to refuse to sign, to find another way to get what I want, to get her out of this marriage.
But I don’t see another path. I never have.
And to ignore Zarina’s obvious wishes would be another slap in her face.
I think I’ve insulted her enough for a lifetime.
So I’ll do what she’s asked of me. It’s all I can do. I hold my hand out to Logan. “Got a pen?”