Chapter 23 Zarina
ZARINA
Grandfather’s eyes keep following me. His portrait hangs above the mantel, his face set in an eternal scowl as he watches me pretend to read. My book lies open on my lap, but the page is a blur. I chew my bottom lip and fail to focus on the rise and fall of the Roman empire. Or is it the British?
Pat stands stiff beside the fireplace, back to the shelves and half-angled toward Danny, who sits near the door playing solitaire or one-man poker. Because god fucking forbid I enter, exit, or be allowed a fucking guest. Even Sally is barred entry unless it’s for a fitting.
I turn the page, just to make it appear as if I’m digesting a single word, and rest my chin on my knuckles.
It’s been almost ten days since I shoved a stack of papers into Sally’s hands and begged for her help.
I have no idea if she was able to deliver the contracts.
I have no idea if the district attorney was able to finalize the transfer of ownership.
I have no idea if Tamayo signed.
And there’s no way to find out. Not without endangering myself or revealing my scheme.
I can only wait, stuck in this house that used to feel so big I could get lost. Now it’s closing in, eyes on me every moment of every day.
Even Grandfather’s doing his best impression of a watchdog. Whose side is he on, anyway?
A knock rattles the door a moment before it opens. “Zarina?” Father steps inside.
I hum, as if engrossed in my book and not in my anxiety.
“Give us the room.” Father strides in, door left open.
In my peripheral, Danny purses his lips and studies Father then me then Father again. “I’d rather not.”
Father’s face hardens. “You are allowed to stay here by my grace, Daniel. I don’t care who you are, I will have you removed from my home.”
Danny snorts, understanding the threat for what it is—empty. “And you know what will happen if you do.”
“The Accardis do not rule here.” If Father had hackles, they’d be raised.
Danny’s face splits in a smirk, saying plenty without speaking a word—In due time.
“We must be allowed our privacy, Danny.” I speak as if already bored with the topic, with Father’s interruption. “The Gallos are still a Cardinal Family, are they not?”
“Fine.” Danny throws down his cards. “No one in or out. And she comes with me.”
I stiffen, knowing he means Pat and knowing he’s misgendered them on purpose. They don’t show a reaction to the disrespect, but I know it affects them. I know it’s not as simple as ignoring it. Not when Danny does this all day, every day.
“Fine.” I force my voice to remain unbothered.
Father watches Pat exit, Danny behind them, waiting until the door is shut before striding further into the room. I toss my book onto the end of the sofa, standing and meeting Father at the sideboard.
“So?” My voice is just above a whisper.
Father pours two generous glasses of scotch, one on the rocks, which I garnish with a freshly peeled orange twist. He sips his own drink, poured straight and neat, before he digs into his inner breast pocket.
And pulls out a small vial of white powder.
I pluck it from his hand, holding it up to the cold, winter light shining through the windows. It’s comparable to cocaine, but a bit fluffier, less grainy. And unlike blow, this won’t result in a short-term high. Rather a long-term death.
Father doesn’t look at me, at the poison. “Don’t tell me your plans.”
I hum in agreement.
“But…” He studies his drink as if it might hold more than liquid courage. “Promise me it’s not for you.”
I don’t say a word.
“Zarina.” His voice is strained, closer to begging than I’ve ever heard it.
For the first time in a long time, I feel a seed of guilt wedge its way between my ribs and burrow toward my heart.
I shouldn’t. Not when this all started with his and Mother’s choice.
I tried to stop it another way. I tried to play the game and come out unscathed.
But there are things, people, I will not sacrifice.
And I am not one of them.
I close my hand around the vial. “I can’t promise that.”
“Yes, you can.” His voice breaks despite the gruffness of it.
“No, I can’t.” I tuck the poison in my bra.
There are at least three doses inside, allowing me contingency plans.
I pick up my drink and walk to the desk, forcing distance between us.
Between my determination and the supplication clear in Father’s eyes, his hands, his voice.
“It’s my fate either way. You know that.
If you stop clinging to denial, you know that. ”
He rests a hip against the sideboard and sweeps his gaze over me.
His hair is more gray than the last time we stood here, when he demanded I marry Marcus Accardi.
The lines around his eyes and mouth seem deeper, like the last several months have aged him into an early tomb.
As he considers me, I can see him grapple with the reality of exactly what he’s pushed his daughter to do.
“It’s done, Father.” I cross my arms and gulp scotch like it’s water, trying to shield against his guilt and pity and the absolute nothing he can do about any of it. “There’s no going back.”
He sighs and downs the rest of his drink, placing the tumbler on the sideboard. “How’d you figure it out, anyway? You never said.”
This is safer territory, less emotional. I let my arms fall. “The ledgers. And then…” I lick my lips, realizing I can’t reveal Tamayo’s part, not with my plan in motion. Nor do I want to share my deal with the Birdwatcher. So I lie. “Marcus. He told me.”
Father’s brown eyes darken, their shade already so close to black that the outrage pushes past the edge of manic. “He agreed not to.”
“Well, he’s a pig.” I shrug, finishing off my drink. “What did you expect?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a sigh. When his hand falls, his face has, too. Defeat and resignation sit heavy on his cheekbones. “I can bribe a server.”
“Great.” The vial sits uncomfortably between the underwire of my bra and my ribs, a deathly reminder of what exactly we’re discussing. “And if they fail, I’ll have insurance.”
Father nods once, blinks at me and then the window, and nods again. He pushes off the sideboard. “I never wanted this, Zarina.”
“Too late for regret, Father.” Much too late.