ZAHRA
Men are so dramatic.
Society will spew that it's women who can’t be trusted to lead because they’re too emotional, and yet my afternoon has been filled by one man freaking out because he may have to work with me, and another man deciding to fix his problems with a bullet. Typical. So damn typical.
“Was shooting him really necessary? He’s getting blood all over my rug. It’s going to be such a pain to get out.” I roll my eyes, finally standing from my chair.
“He’s been testing my patience entirely too much today. Maybe now he’ll learn not to run his mouth around me.” Declan shrugs, running his hand through his light brown hair, like his uncle isn’t laid out crying on the floor in front of us. “I’m happy to pay for dry cleaning. Or buy you a new rug. Assuming this is a handwoven Persian rug from Mehraban?”
I blink, trying to maintain my composure. He’s not as cold and calculated as I’d predicted, especially with all the blood on his hands. “Are you really talking to me about rugs right now?”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“Along with the fact that your uncle is bleeding on my floor.” Which some may consider to be a more pressing issue.
“He’ll be fine. I’m sure he’s already alerted our medical staff to be ready upon arrival to mend his knee.” Another shrug.
“You might want to take him to our medical ward instead, with the rate he’s bleeding. Also, I intercepted both of your cellphones, so any calls or texts you send would get routed to me instead. Your staff is definitely unaware of what just happened.” I pause, waiting for Declan to shift from calm and collected to irritated and angered. Men hate being undermined. Especially men with as much power as him.
Instead, a smile forms on his face, probably the same one he uses to throw people off his scent before he strikes. “Is that what you were doing at the beginning of our meeting? When you were typing away on your computer?”
“No. That was a separate issue I was dealing with. I fixed your phones when you were in the hallway.”
His smile widens as he sticks out his hand. “Declan McAlister.”
I shake it, feeling the calluses on his palm and the way his hand engulfs mine. It’s strange finally meeting the man I know so much about. The man who has taken so much from me. “Zahra Ahzimi.”
“Zahra,” he repeats my name as if he’s savoring it. As if he’s been waiting years for this very moment, and finally, it’s arrived.
I suppose for him, there was greater anticipation. Despite keeping my identity a secret from anyone outside the Empire, my father never kept me in the dark about anything that involved his mafia and his allies. He never hesitated to prepare me as his heir. He also just wanted me to live as close to anormal life as possible. My stomach squeezes at the thought of my father. And his death. The squeeze is replaced by a rush of anger as I look Declan in the eyes. Look at the man who murdered my father and his own father in cold blood to gain power.
“Cyrus. Take Lorkan to the medical wing and ensure he receives the best possible care. Everyone else is dismissed. Declan, I would like an extra minute of your time.”
I need Declan alone. Need to see if I can make him crack. If there was any bit of remorse in his body, his guilt should be slowly eating away at him. But I wouldn’t hold my breath. I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by monsters who would do anything to gain power. As the new boss, Declan now has a world of power at his fingertips.
While I trust my inner circle, I know I have to keep my plans to uncover the truth about Declan to myself. Either my inner circle would tell me it was the Italians who killed my father, or they would kill Declan themselves. But I can’t let them. Seeing the life drain from his eyes is my destiny. My duty to my father.
Declan gives me a small nod, curiously keeping his eyes on me. We both wait for the room to clear. Lorkan’s curses and groans continue to fill the room until he’s carried out into the hallway. Cyrus being kind enough to cover up the pool of blood beneath our feet with a tablecloth. Not that it bothers me. I was the daughter of a mafia boss. Forget that. Iama mafia boss. A little bit of blood is never going to get the best of me. Not with all the things I’ve seen. All the things I’ve lived through.
We stand in silence as the room clears. Arman, one of my bodyguards, lingers by the door until I give him a nod to dismiss him. I appreciate his willingness to protect me but I can protect myself. Closed-door meetings are common amongfamilies as bonded as ours, though I doubt Declan has any consideration for family and loyalty. No amount of charm or smoldering smiles would convince me that he was anything other than a poisonous snake.
“I have to admit the suspense is killing me,” Declan teases, his thick Irish accent coming through. According to my father, Declan had spent most of his childhood and teen years in Dublin. Over a decade in the States has done little to assuage his accent.
My body tenses. Here goes nothing. “I’ve been working on a…project. Typically, I prefer to work alone, but in this instance, I don’t think keeping it from you would be fair.”
His eyebrows furrow together. “What kind of project?”
Shoving my hand into the pockets of my pants, I toy with the small pieces of metal inside before placing them on the table. I searched his face for a tell—any tell—that reveals his guilt. Naturally, he, like most who were raised in our line of work, shows no emotion on his face. His entire composure is unshaken. “Is that…”
“The bullets that killed our fathers. I had our surgeon retain them so I could do some further investigation.” I pinch the bullets between my fingers. Such a small piece of metal caused so much destruction. So much pain.
He places his palms on the wooden table in front of him. I do my best to subtly check for my gun that’s tucked into my waist. I have no doubt that he’d try to kill me if he knew my true intentions. “So what’s this project you’re proposing? Are you suggesting a different plan of retaliation?”
While this is the first time Declan and I have spoken in person, we’ve communicated via our respective inner circles on how to best deal with the Italians. Back when I was still naive and assumed it had to be them who murdered my father.
Killing two mob bosses was not something that could betaken lightly and the last thing we need is for anyone to question our authority. I had spent a week with very few hours of sleep, trying to hack into the Italian’s security systems. By day four, I was in, and by day seven, I had transferred every single bit of information to our database. Including the location of the Italian boss, his family, and the security code for all his apartments and mansions.
Declan wanted to immediately kill any major player he could get his hands on, likely because he wanted to move on from the situation as soon as possible. The quicker we got our revenge on our fathers’ killers, the quicker it would appease our two families. By holding the Italians accountable, no one would ask questions. No one would wonder if someone else had killed our fathers. No one but me.
