Page 44 of Sapphires and Snakes

I pull out the next—C-22. It’s another inventory ledger. I discard it.

I pull out the next—DOI-23. It’s a sales report for the fiscal year. I discard it.

I pull out the next—D3-23. I discard it. And the next—O-22. Discard. The next—G-24. Discard. Over and over and over untilthe shelf is empty and a pile of binders lies on the countertop below it. None of them track real estate, and the numbers appear to be the fiscal year. And I don’t fucking care.

I shuffle over to the next shelf. It holds paper scrolls in crisscrossed slots. I yank a handful out at random, unrolling each just enough to ascertain what it shows. Blueprints for a warehouse. A map of the district around Den of Inequity. A technical drawing of an Uzi. A map of Louredo broken up by territory.

But it looks wrong.

I drop the other scrolls, half of them rolling across the hardwood floor. I snatch up a couple paperweights and roll the map open on the conference table. Lying spread out and mostly flat, it shows Louredo with each family’s territory sketched out in their own assigned color. Blue for the Accardis in the West, green for the Falcones in the East, yellow for the Capones in the North, purple for the fractured properties owned by the fallen Russo’s sole surviving heir, gray for the Tamayos, and finally, red for the Gallos in the South.

Where all that’s left is a narrow triangle of shaded red. The base sits in the heart of the city and bleeds south, narrowing into nothing.

Dread rolls heavy down my throat to sink into my gut. I stare at the map, brow furrowed and sweat dewing my temple, my palms, the backs of my knees. This can’t be a reflection of reality. It can’t. Mother and Father wouldn’t sell off that much, and especially not to a rival. It’d be suicidal. The Cardinal Families aren’t chosen through democratic processes. Each don owns at least eighteen percent of the city. Less is not allowed.

The sliver of red chokes between smoky gray. The color for Tamayo’s family.

My knees give out, and I almost collapse to the floor before grabbing a chair and yanking it under me.

This can’t be real.

I stare. I should get up and keep searching. I should put this map back and leave the office. I should prove myself wrong. But I don’t move, my body stuck to this chair like exposed skin to icy metal. If I pull too hard, something will rip away from me. Something bigger than I gave it permission to be.

I watch the sunlight change direction as time passes. Its rays brighten until they’re falling across the table and the map atop it. As if I need help reading it. I don’t.

With each breath, it sinks in further. The part of me that hopes all of this is still a plan rather than a reality shrinks down until it’s barely there. My previous search results—results I hoped were coincidental—project across my vision: Taylor Capital, Inc, owned by D.W. Taylor, established seven years ago. Pollard Properties Corp., owned by R.J. Pollard, established six years ago. AGH Corp., owned by Angela Greene, established six years ago. All of them under an umbrella company named Andys Holdings Corp, established ten years ago.

Owned by A.M. Tamayo.

TAMAYO

Iknew the moment Zarina entered my office.

My phone buzzed with a notification:Movement detected in Office. I watched as she yanked ledgers off the wall—weapons, cocaine, Den of Inequity, district three, gambling—and discarded them. I watched as she unfurled scroll after scroll. I watched as she studied the map until her knees buckled.

That’s when I had to stop watching.

I couldn’t forego today’s agenda. Not with the delivery to Capone. I tucked my phone away and stared absently as my people loaded up the truck. I shook the don’s hand and laughed at his bad jokes. I felt the weight of my secret grow and grow until it threatened to flatten me.

She’ll find out, you know. They always do.

When I pull into the garage, I sit in my car for too long. The moment I step inside the house, there’s only one path forward—up the stairs, down the hall, to the office. Zarina’s still there, unmoved since the morning. It’s late afternoon now, and I can’t put this off any longer.

I open the car door. I step out and close it behind me. I button my jacket, stuff my hands in my trouser pockets, force one foot in front of the other.

She’ll find out eventually.

I was hoping eventually would mean after our deal, when Zarina was no longer in my house, in my bed. We had a predetermined end, our fling never meant to last. But it’s twenty-something days before our three months is up, and she’s found out.

I stand outside the office door. Zarina has my key inside, and Darius has the spare. He’s the last person I want to see right now. Zarina a close second. And yet my fist rises to rap against heavy wood. Fucking masochist.

An hour or seconds or minutes pass before the door swings open. And Zarina’s there. Hair tied back in a low bun, frame swallowed by one of my too-large hoodies, legs wrapped in leggings, and face blank. Her eyes travel from my hands in my pockets to my shoulders to my face, her own remaining void of any hint of knowing.

“Cameras?” she asks.

I nod.

She presses her tongue into her cheek for a long moment. And then she turns toward the conference table. I whip my hand up to stop the door from smacking me in the face and follow her. The lock turns automatically behind me.