Chapter 25 Zarina
ZARINA
Ihate this dress. It chafes against my skin, the sheer panels sitting wrong on my torso.
I would have never chosen it for myself—short, black, and snug to my body, mesh pieces revealing too much of my skin.
It screams male objectification. And since Marcus chose it, it carries an undercurrent of possession. Like a collar cinched too tight.
But with the most tense rehearsal dinner party that’s transpired since the turn of the century, I opted to wear the cursed thing rather than offend my future abuser. The thought would make me laugh if that reality wasn’t about twenty-four-hours away.
I drain my wine. Who cares about being sober and well-rested for their funeral, anyway?
“Keep drinking like that, and we’ll have to open another vintage.
” Marcus eats a bite of steak off his fork, not looking at me directly as he speaks low under the chatter of the long table.
Windows line the wall of the large dining room, the full darkness of the new moon painting the Gallo estate an inky black. “And you know Ricci can’t afford it.”
I signal to one of the servers along the edge of the room. They step forward, bottle in hand, to refill my glass. Once they step back, I reply out of the corner of my mouth, “I think it’s less to do with the vintage and more to do with the company sharing it.”
Marcus cuts asparagus into a bite-sized piece, unhurried and supposedly unbothered by my sour mood. “You know, we don’t have to be at odds, Zarina. This could be enjoyable for you if you just—”
“Lie back and think of England?”
He shrugs. “Basically.”
I’d rather die than shrink myself to fit into Marcus Accardi’s life as his bitch. Not even his wife, not even his friend. Just a bitch he can mount whenever he pleases until I bear him children. Mount and fuck and break—that’s what I have to look forward to.
It’s a resounding no from me.
Down the table, Danny leans back in his seat and smacks a server’s ass as she leans over the table.
She yelps, almost dropping the dirty plates she’d gathered to clear the table.
Danny laughs as she scurries away, and I meet Father’s gaze where he sits at the head of the table.
Our people would never behave this way, wouldn’t be allowed to.
But all Father does is offer an infinitesimal shake of his head, cautioning me against the rage barely contained within my frame.
“I don’t think my drinking is anything to be worried about considering,” I snipe with a raised brow at the antics unfolding around the room.
Marcus keeps eating, the aura of harassment tinged with the threat of imminent violence normal to him. “It’s a celebration.”
Pigs. They’re all pigs.
I down half my glass. My head is buzzy, my tongue on its way to numb, and even in this handkerchief of a dress, I’m overheated with wine.
Father’s consigliere, Jerry, leans over to speak into his ear. Father nods, placing his silverware across his plate to signal he’s finished eating, and raises his glass. “A toast.”
The room quiets as the servers hurry to make sure each glass is full. I let them top mine off.
Father stands, buttoning his suit jacket. “We’ve had some ups and downs—”
Danny snorts. I shoot him a glare.
“But all good things come through trial and tribulation. And this wedding will be a culmination. Tomorrow, Marcus and Zarina wed. Tonight, we enjoy one final meal as two separate families before we combine as one.”
I hide my gagging behind the rim of my glass.
Father smiles almost too convincingly. “Good health to our lovely couple.”
“And many, fat babies!” Danny yells.
“Salut!” the room cheers, some sipping their wine and some draining it.
I land firmly in the latter. I don’t want to remember tonight, and I can’t wait for tomorrow to come.
I have no idea what will happen—if Tamayo has made her moves, fulfilled my last wish in our fake engagement.
There’s no way for me to find out, especially if she wants to keep it hidden.
But at least, no matter which path I take, this nightmare will be over.
Father sweeps his hand toward the archway into the hall. “Gentlemen, would you please join me in the library for a cigar? Dessert is waiting there should you want some.”
Mother stands, her blonde hair styled into soft waves, like she’s trying to present herself as a benevolent matriarch. All I see are my eyes staring back at me without a hint of warmth or regret for the hell she’s putting me through. “Ladies, please join me in the conservatory.”
Chairs scrape across the huge Persian rug as everyone stands. I endure Marcus’s hand on my arm, tight but not painful, as he presses a peck to my cheek. The wine in my stomach sloshes in a tempest of nausea and disgust. But I don’t vomit, though I really want to. Right onto his designer shoes.
I stop in front of a server, glass out and demanding a refill without a word. Before they can raise the bottle, Mother lays a hand on my arm. “That’s quite enough, Zarina. You need to be sharp for tomorrow.”
“I’m twenty-six years old,” I snap. “I can decide how much is enough, but thanks for your show of concern.”
Mother’s claws dig into my skin, and I know there will be half-moon marks indented there for at least the next hour. “Enough, Zarina.”
I roll my eyes and drop my hand. I know for a fact there will be champagne in the conservatory—Mother must make her own toast, after all—and if I don’t join in, then I’ll be shirking my wifely duties. And if all else fails, I’ll escape to the wine cellar.
The women make our way toward the conservatory in the South wing.
There is a grand total of five of us, lumping in Pat’s non-binary ass—me, Mother, and Marcus’s mother and older sister, Carmela and Giuliana Accardi.
Five compared to the eleven men following Father down the hall toward the library doors thrown open in welcome.
Mother chats with Carmela as if they’re the best of friends.
Giuliana and I are quiet. I don’t know what she thinks of her brother, her family, if she’s even involved in their criminal enterprises or not.
She seems mousy and shy, likely beaten down after years of never being seen, never being enough for her patriarchal obsessed father.
She was born first, but Marcus will inherit the title of don.
And Giuliana will likely be relegated to a marriage of leverage, cast off and forgotten once she leaves home.
“Excuse me, ladies, I need to use the restroom,” I announce. “I’ll meet you in the conservatory.”
“Now, Zarina?” Mother sighs.
I cut her a stony look. “I don’t have control of these things, unfortunately.”
“Fine.” She flicks her hand, like she’s flicking away an annoying pest. “Be quick.”
“Yes, Mother,” I mumble as I slip into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.
I know Pat will stand guard at the door.
Not only because it’s their job, but because the house is more unsafe now with all the Accardi men in it.
I run the faucet, letting the cold water wash over my hands and clear my head just enough.
Pat lets themself into the bathroom, locking the door behind them. “You good?”
“Enough.” I wave off their concern. This situation is what it is, and I have more pressing questions. “She received it, right?”
“Yes.” Pat speaks low, letting the running water cover their words just in case. “I have confirmation from the messenger and from within the family.”
“Within the family?” I frown. “Who?”
They offer a too-casual shrug, and it just makes my eyes narrow further.
“Who,” I demand.
They clear their throat. “Don’t worry about it.”
I cock my head and consider who they wouldn’t want me to know they’re talking to. It can’t be Darius—Pat and he are friendly. That wouldn’t be news. But someone else close to her, someone they might want to keep to themself.
And then it dawns on me, and my head is shaking with a snort. “You dirty little slut.”
“What?” They look at me, eyes wide with fake innocence.
I roll my eyes. “Quit it, it’s so obvious.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” They try for exasperation.
“Oh, really?” I cross my arms. “So you’re not flirting with Angela? You know, short, combat boots, bob so sharp it could cut through bone.”
Pat looks anywhere but at me. “We’ve texted.”
“You’re such a masochist.” I grin at them, indulging in this moment of normal between us, a bubble that will burst the moment we open the door again.
“And she’s a sadist.” They return my grin. “It’s a match made in heaven.”
“Or hell, depending on your morals.”
Pat’s grin turns wicked, and they waggle their brows.
“Gross.” I smack their arm, and we both laugh, though it’s muted to keep our voices contained within these four walls. I glance in the mirror, my inappropriate black dress a glaring reminder of the stakes tonight, tomorrow.
My face drops, and I lean over the counter to check my makeup, anything to keep the fear from rising up and smothering me. “Has Angela said anything about…”
“No.” Pat sobers. “She thinks it’s a betrayal to talk about her like that.”
I wrinkle my nose at that, holding my hand out for my lipstick. “Such self-righteousness for a sadist.”
Pat drops the tube in my palm, their pockets often my purse at these type of events. “Don’t act like you and I wouldn’t do the same for each other.”
“But we’re best friends.” I sweep the color across my lips, painting them scarlet again.
Pat throws me a pointed look through the mirror.
The wrinkle in my nose remains. “Angela doesn’t have friends.”
“Zarina,” Pat chastises.
“Ugh, fine.” Pat can be their friend, or whatever. I’m not threatened one bit. “But I don’t like it.”
“And I don’t care.”
“How are we best friends again?” I grumble.
They shake their head and accept the lipstick again, replacing it in their pocket as I turn off the water, armor replaced and ready to face the gauntlet in the conservatory tonight.
And tomorrow, the final battle that will determine the trajectory of the rest of my life.