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When Zander looked at me, it was with resolve and regret weighing him down. He’d lost the game, and he knew it. “They call themselves the Aces. Leader’s name is Cash. I—I’m sorry, Ms. Marcosa.”
“Thank you for your honesty.” I stood, smoothing a hand over my dress before turning to Grey. “I’m going to check on Moore. Take care of this, then we’ll go home. I need you to start looking into this Cash. Check on our shipments too. Something tells me the attempt on my life wasn’t a warning shot, but his version of an introduction.”
I needed to know if we’d been missing clues. If Rey’s death could have been avoided with a little due diligence, I was going to go postal.
Grey nodded, eyes trained on Zander’s slumped form, gun steady. Because club owner or not, I was still the head of the Marcosa family, and when I gave an order, it was carried out.
That didn’t mean I needed to stick around to watch. Especially not when something was obviously going down in my city. Something I needed to get ahead of before it killed someone else I loved.
Mind and heart heavy, I left the room just as the shot rang out.
Chapter Three
Mari
Two days after sending Zander to the afterlife, I was in my own personal brand of hell.
“Stop moving, or I’ll stab ya with a pin,” the seamstress snapped when I readjusted my weight again.
She had thick gray hair wrapped tight in a bun just as stern as the glare she threw at me from where she knelt on the floor. The handful of pins looked more like fangs in her wrinkled mouth than anything else, and the fabled Irish temper was heavy in Gretchen’s personality—though I wouldn’t say either to her face. I might have been the ruler of a crime syndicate, but I didn’t usually go after pain unless it was in the sparring ring, and those pins hurt. “You have to be the worst client we have. Saints preserve us, stop fidgeting.”
Never mind that I’d been standing like a statue for an hour while she pinned and adjusted a dress that, weeks ago, had been perfectly tailored. Grief had taken a toll on my body, and apparently, it constituted a fashion emergency.
You must always look perfect, Marianna. Nothing less will do.
I hated that my father’s voice was still so heavy in my ears when he’d been gone for so long.
One of the many lessons I’d learned at his knee was to use what I had. Men could be manipulated with a soft word and a gentle touch. The same went for ruling an empire in a man’s world. To get what I wanted, I had to walk a tightrope of illusion.
I had to look beautiful and powerful but not too much of either. I had to be strong and ruthless but not psychotic. I had to be alluring but not too sexy. And everything started with my appearance.
There were entire closets in the Marcosa mansion curated by stylists, where every piece was purchased with intention for the mask it represented. Angelic clothes for peace talks and discussing treaties, power suits for political moves, and rows upon rows of tactical clothing for hunting those who came against me. That’s when looking unhinged worked in my favor. Unless I needed to look differently, I had a fresh manicure, light makeup, and silky-smooth waves at all times. It was just another part of the costume I wore to survive.
I shifted again, and Gretchen looked fit to kill. “I swear to Christ, girl. I’ll?—”
“Stab me, and I’ll stab back,” I snarked. Not that I would. We had a tentative truce, Gretchen and I, though sometimes she forgot that. She was also one of the few people in our world who could threaten me and survive, and that was mostly because Greyson was in his own room trying on his tux. We’d learned early that he needed to be separated while Gretchen and I talked.
Someone tsked behind me, and I searched the mirror until I found a halo of short brown curls and sea-glass-green eyes glittering with laughter.
“Be nice to Gretchen, Mari. Not only is she the only one who will work with you anymore, but she’s the only one who can tailor your dress in time. Unless you want to look like shit for your opening?” Ash said it like a question, when we both knew it wasn’t.
“You wouldn’t let me look terrible, regardless, Aislynn. Everyone already knows I tapped you for the design. Besides, I only want the best, even if she does spend half the time damning me to eternal flames.” I threw her a smirk, and we both laughed.
Aislynn O’Bannon was the fashion designer for Seattle’s elite. Everyone clamored to her for charity galas and bespoke suits, frenzied at just the thought of getting on her wait list. She was also a friend and an unwilling occupant of the underbelly of our city, thanks to her father. Sean O’Bannon was head of the Irish mafia in Seattle, and she was his only daughter. Lucky her—or, really, lucky me since I got to count her as one of my people.
Ash tipped a perfectly arched brow and pointed one gold-tipped nail my way. “Maybe I won’t let you go looking like a troll, but I won’t have you harassing my staff either. Play nice.”
“Maybe if she stopped threatening me, I’d behave better.”
Aislynn ignored me, smiling kindly at her employee. “Gretchen, why don’t you go get a coffee while I help put Ms. Marcosa in the right mind-set for alterations.”
Gretchen huffed, glaring again as she left the room, muttering.
“I’m definitely her favorite.” Turning back to my friend, I realized I’d missed something. “I like the hair, by the way. Got sick of the Merida name-calling?”
Ash had received the brunt of her Irish heritage with pale, freckled skin and the bright-red hair of her father’s people, but what had once been long red corkscrews down to her hips was now a bob of brown waves that stopped above her collarbone. It looked great, but the suddenness of the change felt out of character for my slow-adjusting friend.
Aislynn wrapped a brunette strand around her finger and shrugged. “I needed a change.”
