Page 5

One person with enough power to keep me safe and enough ambition to defy the Cardinal Families. One person who might sympathize with my situation.
I clear out the rest of the safe and elbow the door shut, twirling the dial to locked and kicking the wall of shoes closed behind me. I can’t have more than fifteen minutes before dinner, before the Accardi family arrives with their son Marcus ready to bend one knee and perform a proposal scene. Nausea swirls in my stomach, and I clench my teeth against the acid rising up my throat.
My parents have gone too far.
I drop the hard drive and notebook on the gold ottoman in the middle of the room and yank a purse and a classic trench coat off their hangers. I have known I am as gay as a double fucking rainbow since I first felt attraction at the ripe age of eleven. My parents accepted that, accepted me, and have never asked me to do more than wield my feminine wiles as a weapon against misogynistic sons of rival families.
Until now.
But this is impossible.
I will not spread my legs and think of the Gallos. Not if there’s any other option available to me. And the foggy idea that’s been solidifying into a tangible and real solution at theback of my brain is far more palatable than a marriage to a man who is known for beating his own family.
A knock echoes through my bedroom and into the closet. “Zarina?”
It’s Father.
I don’t answer. I stuff the hard drive into the inside pocket of my purse and throw in the petty cash and notebook, too. I wish I had my laptop, but I left it in the solarium earlier, and I only have about ten minutes now. There’s no time to waste.
I grab my most comfortable nude heels that go with anything and slip out of the closet.
Father knocks again. “Zarina, dear. I know this isn’t what you want.”
I pause, one hand carrying my heels, the other on the handle of the French door leading out to my private terrace.
“I am sorry about it,” he says. “I feel as if…as if we failed you. Failed the family.”
My throat thickens, and I squeeze my eyes shut. The Gallo ruby hanging at my neck shackles me to the spot.
“I wish we could do better for you,” he says.
“I do, too,” I say, just loud enough that I know he hears me. To give myself the cover of being heard minutes before dinner.
“Please trust us?” he asks.
And I can’t answer that. Not with anything that will ease his guilt. They’ve broken years of carefully nurtured love and duty with the handshake of a single deal. We betray a lot of people, step on most anyone we must to get what we want, but never family. Never a Gallo.
Until now.
I open my terrace door as Father speaks again.
“Please.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, too low to carry. And then I step outside and shut the door behind me with the softestclick, ready to sneak out of the compound like I have a hundred times. Up the trellis, across the roof to the western wing that shares a wall with the garage with the openable skylight that Pat always makes sure has the expandable ladder propped beneath it, like that’s where it should be stored. Inconspicuous.
“I figured you’d run.”
I just barely bite down on a yelp, clutching my chest against my racing heart. “God damn it.” I snap. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”
Pat sits in one of the chairs at the small bistro table, long, blonde hair pulled back in their signature perfectly smooth low-bun that somehow never frizzes, never comes undone, nevermoves. They sit with an ankle resting on their knee, their Kevlar chest binder poking out from under their crisp white collar, nude colored and doubling as a bullet-proof layer.
“Like I said, I knew you’d run.” And they would know, having been my best friend since they showed me how to play cat’s cradle when we were six.
I smooth my hand down my coat, not meeting their eyes in case their answer is as poor as my parents’. “Can you blame me?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see them study me closely, leaning forward to rest their elbows on their knees. “Not really, no.”
“Will you stop me?” I ask.