Page 60 of Sapphires and Snakes

Father watches Pat exit, Danny behind them, waiting until the door is shut before striding further into the room. I toss my book onto the end of the sofa, standing and meeting Father at the sideboard.

“So?” My voice is just above a whisper.

Father pours two generous glasses of scotch, one on the rocks, which I garnish with a freshly peeled orange twist. He sips his own drink, poured straight and neat, before he digs into his inner breast pocket.

And pulls out a small vial of white powder.

I pluck it from his hand, holding it up to the cold, winter light shining through the windows. It’s comparable to cocaine, but a bit fluffier, less grainy. And unlike blow, this won’t result in a short-term high. Rather a long-term death.

Father doesn’t look at me, at the poison. “Don’t tell me your plans.”

I hum in agreement.

“But…” He studies his drink as if it might hold more than liquid courage. “Promise me it’s not for you.”

I don’t say a word.

“Zarina.” His voice is strained, closer to begging than I’ve ever heard it.

For the first time in a long time, I feel a seed of guilt wedge its way between my ribs and burrow toward my heart. I shouldn’t. Not when this all started with his and Mother’s choice. I tried to stop it another way. I tried to play the game and come out unscathed. But there are things, people, I will not sacrifice.

And I am not one of them.

I close my hand around the vial. “I can’t promise that.”

“Yes, you can.” His voice breaks despite the gruffness of it.

“No, I can’t.” I tuck the poison in my bra. There are at least three doses inside, allowing me contingency plans. I pick up my drink and walk to the desk, forcing distance between us. Between my determination and the supplication clear in Father’s eyes, his hands, his voice. “It’s my fate either way. Youknowthat. If you stop clinging to denial, you know that.”

He rests a hip against the sideboard and sweeps his gaze over me. His hair is more gray than the last time we stood here, whenhe demanded I marry Marcus Accardi. The lines around his eyes and mouth seem deeper, like the last several months have aged him into an early tomb. As he considers me, I can see him grapple with the reality of exactly what he’s pushed his daughter to do.

“It’s done, Father.” I cross my arms and gulp scotch like it’s water, trying to shield against his guilt and pity and the absolutenothinghe can do about any of it. “There’s no going back.”

He sighs and downs the rest of his drink, placing the tumbler on the sideboard. “How’d you figure it out, anyway? You never said.”

This is safer territory, less emotional. I let my arms fall. “The ledgers. And then…” I lick my lips, realizing I can’t reveal Tamayo’s part, not with my plan in motion. Nor do I want to share my deal with the Birdwatcher. So I lie. “Marcus. He told me.”

Father’s brown eyes darken, their shade already so close to black that the outrage pushes past the edge of manic. “He agreed not to.”

“Well, he’s a pig.” I shrug, finishing off my drink. “What did you expect?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a sigh. When his hand falls, his face has, too. Defeat and resignation sit heavy on his cheekbones. “I can bribe a server.”

“Great.” The vial sits uncomfortably between the underwire of my bra and my ribs, a deathly reminder of what exactly we’re discussing. “And if they fail, I’ll have insurance.”

Father nods once, blinks at me and then the window, and nods again. He pushes off the sideboard. “I never wanted this, Zarina.”

“Too late for regret, Father.” Much too late.

TAMAYO

Christmas is in four days. Which means Zarina’s wedding is in four days. Any time I think about it, nausea coats my mouth in a film. I run my tongue over my teeth to disperse it, but it doesn’t help. It only spreads further, slipping down the back of my throat, into my stomach, churning and roiling before it crawls back up again.

Four days to get her out. Four days to stake my claim. Four days to see years of scheming come to fruition. All thanks to Zarina.

And the reason I’m at Casa Nostra on a Tuesday evening, acting like I lost the love of my life. I swirl my third vodka Collins since I arrived an hour ago and watch a woman at the other end of the bar. Never mind I’ve only actually drank one glass total. Never mind the cold sweat that clings to my skin whenever I think about touching someone else. I’m playing a part.

No one can know the real reason I’m here. Not yet.