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Pat is loyal to the Gallos, serves as house security and specifically as my personal detail. They’re sworn to keep me safe, to keep my parents safe, to serve the family no matter what, when, where. We might be best friends, but Pat spoke their oath with the intent to keep it.
They rise and place a hand on each of my shoulders, leaning down to look into my eyes. “Z, you’re a Gallo. You’remyGallo. Like fuck am I gonna keep you here for this.”
For the first time tonight, the tears pricking behind my eyes flood to the front and threaten to spill.
Pat pushes my hair away from my face and brushes my cheek before they clap their hands. “Besides, who of all the Gallo Family would best understand how fucked up this is, even putting aside the whole feminist, bodily autonomy, free-will perspective?”
I let out a soft, sad laugh that threatens to morph into a sob. “You.”
“Duh.” They squeeze my cheeks together until my lips purse comically. It does the trick to stop the burn of tears.
I pull in a steadying breath. “Then why did you ambush me?”
Pat plucks my heels out of my hand. “To make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”
“I can protect myself,” I grumble.
They push me toward the trellis. “You usually have better jokes.”
“Fuck off, Pat.” I aim a kick at their shin, but they deftly avoid the strike. Stupid reflex training.
“Yeah, yeah.” They smack my ass to get me moving. “We have five minutes before the Accardis arrive.”
I climb up without another word.
TAMAYO
Darius guides the car into another alley. There’s no dumpster, no stench of piss or garbage. It’s three brick walls with exactly one door and one gated entryway, to which three people have the code. Darius, me, and Den of Inequity’s manager.
The club’s muffled music thumps through the steel door and into the cab of the car. My neck relaxes, the muscles easing as the gate rolls shut behind us. I’m back in Tamayo territory, with my people around me; the closest thing to safety we have. I don’t wait for Darius to open the door, too impatient and unceremonious. I’m not a fucking princess.
He rushes past me and jabs me with his elbow. I nick his ankles with my boot in retaliation. But he beats me to the club door, which was his goal anyway. I allow him to open it for me, only so I can box his ears.
“Oh, you little—” Darius aims to flick my forehead, and I duck to slap his right nipple. Hard. He hisses and makes to wrap his way-too-big arm around my neck, but I dance out of reach with a laugh.
Directly into Angie.
She stands almost an entire head shorter than me in all her grunge glory—fishnets under ripped jeans with a cropped Nirvana tee that is definitely vintage. Her brown hair hangs in an asymmetrical bob, makeup applied with exacting perfection, and currently, one of her shaped brows arched at us in annoyed amusement. Her scarlet-painted lips twitch. “If you two are finished?”
“Sorry, Angie,” Darius and I chorus with two wide grins and not an ounce of genuine remorse.
Angie rolls her eyes and shoves a wet cloth into my hands. It foams against my skin. “As requested.”
“Thanks.” I immediately crouch down and clean my boot as best I can.
She offers me another damp cloth to wipe off the soapy, dirty water left behind. “How’d it go?” she asks, raising both brows and not moving when I try to give her back the used towels.
“It didn’t.” I sigh and wrap the cleaner around the dirtier one, resigning to carrying them myself.
The stone walls keep the club’s noise muffled, but the dance floor still vibrates down the bones of the building as we navigate through the basement. It’s stark white down here, light reflecting bright over the interconnecting, overlapping, sometimes dead-ending maze of hallways. A protection tactic taken from a past kingdom and a past family.
“What’s that mean?” she asks.
“It means Antoni broke tradition.” Tradition I suppose he thought he didn’t owe me, a lowly gang leader. I crack my neck. For nigh on a decade, I’ve brokered and smuggled and violently carved out a piece of this city in pursuit of one goal: become a Cardinal Family. They own the dirt Louredo is built on, commanding districts like fiefdoms. There has never been a space for me or people like me. It’s high time they made us a seat at the goddamn table.
I make a left and then an immediate right, my boots clunking with each step. “It means the Falcones have a week to make it right.”
“Fuck,” Angie mutters.