Chapter 8
Emily
“Ineed to bring a final item to order.”
Lucia’s voice is so much stronger than the last time I saw her in person, at Charlie and Gwen’s wedding. She smiles wider, laughs easier, allows her scars to be seen.
But there’s an exhaustion in her eyes we’ve all been pretending doesn’t exist.
“With the engagement of my eldest daughter, the time has come to pass the Matriarchy of The Syndicate of Fate to the next generation,” Lucia says, tension visibly dissipating from her shoulders as she says the words.
“Clara has been training for years for this, and with her partner by her side, she will be an unstoppable force in carrying out our mission.”
I have no idea how much the current Matriarch knows about the circumstances of her daughter’s engagement, but I doubt she has the full picture.
Even Charlie, Gwen, Bea, and I have a limited understanding of the manipulation and mayhem that resulted in the vision before us—Clara and Deniz, seated side by side, her hand wrapped in his and displaying the stunning engagement ring that once belonged to Deniz’s mother.
For a while I believed that I was the most in the know, considering I dug up the information Clara used to blackmail Deniz into this marriage.
But the events of this spring, and Deniz’s surprise connection to Konstantin, have made me certain of only one thing—Clara will never tell any of us the full story.
It’s enough to know that Konstantin is the reason Lucia has those scars.
His attempt on her life in Istanbul over two years ago started the chain reaction of lies, vengeance, retribution that led us to this moment.
Each of us may be going about it a different way, but we all have the same goals—take over for our parents by assuming our formal roles in The Syndicate of Fate, kill Konstantin and anyone else who believes they can attack our family without consequence, and remind the evil in this world that there is always someone out there hunting them.
Welcome to the Costa family.
“The official transition will be finalized after Clara and Deniz’s wedding this winter, but we will be transferring internal coordination over in the meantime,” Lucia continues, Aurelio’s arm slipping over her shoulder. “We look forward to the success of your reign, Clara.”
It’s barely perceptible, but there's a slight wobble in Clara’s serene smile as she thanks her mother.
I can’t say I blame her. She’s starting off her oversight of The Syndicate in less than ideal circumstances, barely surviving a shootout a few months ago and still chasing an invisible mole in our ranks.
None of us feel comfortable, especially knowing the world can see a weakness in The Syndicate of Fate.
We all worry they’ll take advantage of the vulnerability that Konstantin has shined a harsh light on.
Lucia closes the meeting, but I stay logged in to the encrypted video platform, waiting for the familiar notification to light up the screen. It doesn’t take long.
I connect to the meeting to find my parents sitting side by side, their postures much more relaxed. I can hear the sounds of the city outside their windows, Buenos Aires already well into its day while the Pacific coast is still tucked in bed.
“Mi zorroito,” my father greets brightly, using my nickname from childhood, gifted to me by Lucia.
Sveglio come una volpe, she would whisper to my parents as I excelled in logic and reasoning, even more so than Clara.
My father hasn’t stopped calling me a fox ever since, even though we all know the rest of our world considers me more of a snake. “?Cómo te va la investigación?”
I cringe internally at the double entendre.
My parents believe I’m in western Oregon for my PhD research only.
While I’m sure they assume we haven’t dropped the investigation into Lucia’s attack, as far as I’m aware, they know nothing about Lev or Clara’s near-death experience or that Alisa Zakharov is still alive.
“Lento,” I admit, nervously dragging my hands through my hair. “The nettles are hard to find, so understanding how their shifting habitat affects their toxicity to prey is going to take a long time. I’ll be surprised if I even locate them by the end of the grant period.”
Dr. Devenigh will likely murder me if that’s the case, but we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.
“Paralytics aren’t usually your area of focus,” my mother says lightly, as if her tone will hide the trap in her words. “Did Dr. Devenigh provide any reasoning for such a change?”
In moments like these, it’s obvious that my mother was raised a Costa, while my father only married into this life of subterfuge and hidden meanings.
Unlike her sisters, who agreed to semi-arranged marriages with men from other criminal enterprises, my mother fell in love with a longshoreman and artist from Rosario.
He accepted her and The Syndicate in every way to be able to spend his life with her, but he still has an artist’s soul.
“You know how these things go, Mama,” I reply just as casually, flipping through my notebooks on the desk beside me. “Grant funding changed, the deans shifted administrative focus. I need to graduate, I don’t ask too many questions.”
She knows I’m lying, and my father likely does too, but they don’t push. We lie to each other all the time, it’s inevitable in this life. In fact, my mother was the one who taught me to be strategic about the truth, to understand the value and vulnerability in honesty.
We catch up like we do after every Syndicate council session, only bringing up topics we can be honest about.
They tell me about the work they’re doing in Buenos Aires to garner more support from the local government in reducing trafficking.
I tell them how jealous I am that they went home without me.
I was born in Bari, as all Costa descendents are.
But I spent a lot of my upbringing traveling around Argentina with my father.
It was the counterpoint to my strict, scheduled, and callous education in Italy, which was filled with everything from longitudinal algebra to torture lessons.
But in Argentina, my father reminded me of the world my mother’s family wanted to protect.
Architecture tours in Córdoba, history lessons in San Miguel de Tucumán, penguin spotting in Punta Tombo, and once I was old enough, wine tastings in San Juan and Mendoza.
We’d watch artists paint and listen to singers croon on the streets of Buenos Aires, and it stretched muscles that became stagnant under the tutelage of the Costas.
I haven’t been back as often as I’d like in my adulthood. As the youngest of my generation of Costas, I’ve always felt like I was catching up to my cousins, leaving little room for walks down memory lane. Plus, being in school basically my entire adult life keeps one quite busy.
“Two Costa weddings in less than a year,” my mother muses suddenly, her eyebrow arched.
I’ve always been sad I didn’t inherit the tight curls of the Costa women, especially now as they flow around my mother’s shoulders like twisting little rivers.
“Perhaps it’s time you started looking for a partner yourself. ”
The suggestion catches me off guard. My parents have never pushed for me to get married.
There’s no pressure to do so—I’m fourth in line for the seat of power in The Syndicate, and while Clara and Charlie have to marry to take their official roles as Matriarch and Hand, advisors like Bea and I do not.
“I haven’t exactly had time to date,” I hedge, looking to my father for support, who has his lips pressed into a straight line. I’m not sure if he’s trying to hold back a laugh or not.
“You’re around dozens of highly intelligent women every day, there has to be someone who has piqued your interest.”
Unbidden, the image of Alice steering the boat, her baseball cap shading her eyes and a pink-streaked ponytail whipping in the wind flashes through my mind. I’m saved from having to respond by my father muttering Alessia under his breath.
“What, Mauricio? She is nearly thirty years old, it’s time for her to think about this.”
“First of all, I’m twenty-eight. That’s not nearly thirty.
” My mother rolls her eyes, which is unfortunately fair, since my twenty-ninth birthday is in a few short weeks.
“Second, I am currently in a town of four-hundred people, most of whom have at least fifteen years on me. Maybe this is something we should approach when I’m back in civilization. ”
Alice’s reluctant grin flashes in my mind again, and I shake it from my head as my mother clicks her nails on the table beneath her laptop, the sound reverberating unpleasantly.
“That Rariny sharpshooter is single, isn’t she? What’s her name Mauricio?”
“Soa, I think,” he answers, shooting me an apologetic glance through the screen.
“That’s right, Soa. She’s made quite a name for herself lately. You’d be a good match.”
“I’m sorry, are you playing matchmaker now?
” I ask, completely bewildered. For all their flaws, all three daughters of The Syndicate—my mother, Lucia, and Gia—agreed to allow their children to find partners of their own, a privilege they were mostly denied.
My mother had to fight tooth and nail to marry my father, and it was only really allowed because she was the spare, second in line to the Matriarchy. “Of all people…”
“We’re not playing matchmaker, mi zorrito,” my father placates, even as my mother huffs next to him. “We know your mind has been elsewhere, and thought we could help push you in the right direction.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to ask what the right direction would be, exactly. But I take a few deep breaths and try to remember that they love me.
“If I promise to think about seriously dating when I finish my dissertation, can we stop talking about this?” I beg, donning my most pleading smile and aiming at my father. He’s always been easier to sway. I love him so much.
“Fine,” my mother relents, her tone dulling as my father rubs small circles on her back. “We only pry because we know how hard this world is on one’s own. Clara and Charlie have found people they can rely on. People they can tell the whole truth to without fear. You deserve that too.”
Once more against my will, freckled cheeks and bright blue eyes flash in my mind, and I hate myself for it. Because Alice is the last person in the world I can be completely truthful with. And that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does
-
“You’re in a weird mood today.”
Alice’s voice snaps me out of the spiral that was distracting me from even the horrors of the deep.
We’re bobbing gently on the ocean's surface, endless nothingness reflected on the ROV monitor as it always is. I’ve been staring off into space, trying to imagine myself married to Soa Raokoto.
She’s more a colleague than a friend, but we’ve gotten along well enough when we’ve crossed paths, and the Rariny share a similar moral compass to The Syndicate of Fate, if not more localized.
My mother wasn’t wrong when she said she’s made a name for herself.
No one alive can hit a target at the distances she can.
Her kills have been publicly attributed to military drones.
She’s also, of course, exceptionally pretty, with bright eyes and a smile like a siren.
Of course my parents would think her a good match for me.
By all reasoning, I should consider her.
My mother wasn’t wrong—this life is hard alone.
Knowing that everything you hear, and even some things you see with your own eyes, may be a trick, lie, or manipulation really takes a toll on someone.
You need a person to confide in, who helps you parse fiction from reality.
The problem is that every time I try to imagine Soa or some other faceless woman sitting next to me, my mind wanders to the woman I’m sharing a boat with.
I thought I was past this. The simple bubble of a childhood crush popped on day one, and I was able to see Alice as nothing more than a tool or pawn.
Then why does her face keep appearing in my mind when I think of confessions in the dark?
It has to be because of the situation we’re in.
Between my need to drag the truth out of her and our mutual lying and manipulation, wires have likely gotten crossed.
I need her confession for utility's sake, to unearth something we can use against Konstantin, but with heightened emotions in play, it’s natural that my desire for her to trust me has been mistaken by my heart for something more.
“Emily?”
When I turn to Alice, she actually looks concerned, which shouldn't be surprising. I probably seem halfway to catatonic.
“Sorry, just stressed,” I say, harkening back to our conversation last week. At least that isn’t a lie—I am stressed. More than I ever have been, if we’re being honest.
“About the jellies?” she asks, reminding me that I should probably be watching the monitor more closely. “What happens if you don’t locate them up here?”
“I probably will relocate a little further south and see if the warmer waters make them easier to find,” I admit, wondering how long my dissertation process will take if that’s the case.
Identifying the location on the nettles is only the first step in this process.
Then the actual research around the environmental impacts to toxicity begins.
“Oh.” The broken and delusional part of my brain that’s been picturing Alice as my trusted confidant imagines disappointment in that little word. “Well, you should see more while you’re here. Live a little.”
I raise my eyebrow at her, feeling painfully like my mother while I do it.
“See more of Nesika Beach? I think we can see it all standing in front of the discount store.”
She deadpans, and I’m disappointed my joke didn’t crack her exterior. I’ve started thinking about Alice like Crème Br?lée, so convinced that there’s something sweet and delightful under that little shell.
“Well we certainly don’t have all the trappings of a big university town, I’d think you’d be surprised what adventure you can find here.”
I know I’m imagining the undertone to her words. She didn’t say them so they’d skate along my skin, leaving escalofríos and a buzzing sensation in their wake. Her expression gives away nothing.
“You going to take me on an adventure, Pecas?”
And finally, I get a smile.