Page 31 of Sapphires and Snakes

We pile into the elevator, heading for the top floor with a series of creaks and groans. Gemma winces. “Couldn’t have bought me a nicer spot?”

I chuckle. “You know how it works.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs. “We snatch up whatever’s available and affordable.”

I hum in confirmation.

She stares at the floor indicator as I continue to drink my coffee. Her brows are furrowed, like she’s deep in thought, until she asks, “Does she know?”

I don’t ask who or what she means, because there’s only one interpretation. My expression shutters closed, replaced with my gangster persona. The floors climb slowly, and I don’t reply. Which is an answer in itself. Because no, Zarina Gallo doesn’t know, and I would like to keep it that way.

“She’ll find out, you know.” Gemma tests the boundaries of my patience and understanding. I like her, she’s a good capo and a good person. But she’s not my friend. “They always do.”

The last part is murmured like maybe it’s not meant for me. Like maybe Gemma has her own experience with explosive secrets that could wreck everything I have and everything I hope for. Even if I never let myself speak, let alone think, of the things I hope for.

I cock my head to the side and stare at her, increasing the vibration of the violence always sitting under my skin until I’m practically humming. “Brave, today, hm?” I ask, my voice a low, warning rumble.

Gemma straightens her spine and averts her gaze. “It’s none of my business.”

“No. It’s not.” I let my gaze roll over her like she’s beneath my notice. Like she didn’t rattle me.

She clears her throat. “Sorry, boss.”

I mentally shake myself off, ignoring the discomfort emanating from Gemma in this small metal box. The elevator dings. “Let’s tour your new problem child.”

“Yes, boss.”

I step out onto the top floor, Gemma behind me, and spend the next hour stuffing the urge to shred soft skin under the weight of my knuckles back inside the confines of my body. We end back outside on the sidewalk, the salon now open and the sun shining bright and cold. I don’t say anything as I duck into my car. Gemma shuts my door for me, still trying to make up for her overstep, but it only serves to annoy me. I peel off before she’s fully out of the way, almost side-swiping her.

My knuckles whiten on the gear shift. Fuck. I can’t go to the mediation like this, can’t let Marcus and Alonso shove me into violence. It’d take one snide remark right now, one wrong look, and I’d finally let loose the improper gangster they want me tobe. It’s been too long since I bled, since I made someone else bleed. I haven’t felt the need, not since taking Zarina to bed.

I wish she was in the passenger seat right now.

I’d slide my hand up her thigh. Make her spread them wide. I’d dig my fingers into her skin, over her pants—whatever she’s wearing. I’d make her sit still while I played with her, lest she distract me from the road. She’d huff in annoyance, and I’d smirk in satisfaction. She’d try to get me to blink—to grind the gears, to miss a traffic sign, to pull over—and I’d chuckle at her failure.

I groan and hit the steering wheel.

Zarina isn’t here, and I’m minutes away from Casa Nostra to meet the man who wants to cage her. And rather than being focused on our next battle of wits and idiotic posturing, all I can think about are Gemma’s words:She’ll find out, you know. They always do.

ZARINA

“You know I catered in, right?” Tamayo leans against the metal prep table with her arms crossed, sleeves pushed up to show off her tattoos. She let me choose her outfit this morning, and I feel like I played myself. The olive-green sweater rumpled over a soft, collared shirt with the front tucked into a pair of light-wash jeans screams soft-boi-friend, and I have to continuously remind myself we’re surrounded by children.

Except right now. In the kitchen of Alphabet House. The kids are entertaining themselves while the caterers set up in the dining hall and Rita supervises. Darius was literally dragged away by three teenagers the moment he entered the building to do god knows what, and Pat made a point of challenging the reigning champion to a round ofMortal Kombat.

Which left us alone in the kitchen.

I swallow down my impulses and ignore Tamayo as I wipe the chopped basil off the sides of my knife into the filling for my blueberry, basil, goat cheese pies. It’s bougie, but it’s my favorite Thanksgiving dessert, and I used to make it every year with my grandmother. After she passed, I made it alone while the family cooks bustled around the kitchen. Mother refused to doanything that made her seem like more of a traditional woman, and Father was not to be trusted near a stove. And I wanted Nona’s pie.

I pop a blueberry in my mouth. “The caterers don’t have Nona’s recipe.”

“She taught you?” Tamayo closes the small distance between us, pressing her chest to my back but keeping her hands in her pockets.

I nod, juicing a couple lemons. “She used to make the whole meal. Refused to let the staff work on Thanksgiving.”

“And you helped.”

I half-smile. “With the pie.”