While I had already begun collecting small pieces of evidence that proved the Italians had been framed for this assassination, I didn’t have enough information to confirm that it was Declan who killed them. At least not for now. In order to buy myself some time to gather the evidence I needed, I played along. With respect to revenge on the Italians, I suggested a more psychological approach. First, we pick off their allies, then the closest members of their circle, ones that would rip their hearts out. And finally, we would come for them. From what Cyrus told me, Declan took some initial convincing, but once he was able to see how much damage my plot would cause, he was on board.
“I still believe the plan is our best path forward, so long as you still agree.” I pause, waiting for confirmation, which Declan gives me in the form of a nod. My grip on my gun tightens. “What I’m not sure about is our target. I don’t think the Italians were responsible for killing our fathers.”
I hold my breath for his response.
Everyone who’s involved with mobs has trust issues. Mytrust issues are just exacerbated by the fact that I’m constantly scrutinized for simply existing in a space that traditionally hasn’t welcomed women, and especially not women of color. I hoped Declan would view my curiosity as justified suspicion, not a direct accusation.
Declan’s eyes close, his hands balling into fists.
I wait patiently as Declan takes a series of deep breaths. He manages to regain his composure much quicker than I expected, though I refuse to let my guard down.
“What do you mean it wasn’t the Italians?” he asks through gritted teeth.
I’ve spent the last few days debating how much I should reveal. How much I could say to demonstrate I was suspiciousbroadly, but not necessarily suspicious of him. I need him uneasy enough that he feels drawn to keep me close to him, but not so uneasy that he feels the need to take me out because I threaten his very existence. I need him to think I’m smart enough to be an ally worth saving, but not so smart that he can’t control and manipulate me. Should be an easy enough task to accomplish, given that most mafia men would rather eat a bullet than admit a woman could outsmart them.
My eyes are locked with Declan’s as I continue, “All of the Italian’s best shooters were already in custody by the time our fathers were….targeted. They wouldn’t send any amateur to get the job done. It would be too risky. There was no sign of forced entry into the room, indicating my father must have let the killer in. The sigil in the wall had been drawn in a bright red ink instead of the typical maroon the Italians use.”
There were more details I had uncovered. Like my father’s final words on the hospital bed. Words I never got to hear myself, as I was away on a business trip. Words that Cyrus, my father’s second in command, repeated back to me. A name my father said over and over again as he faded.
Declan’s name.
The man in front of me finally speaks, “They were killed by lead bullets. That’s the Italian’s signature.” Declan picks up the bullet closest to him and brings it closer to his eyes, inspecting it just like I had when I discovered its secret.
To my annoyance, my heart starts racing with each tick of the clock. Would he lie and claim not to see what I so obviously did? How long can I stand being in a room with him before I finally snap and listen to that voice in the back of my head that tells me to kill him here and be done with it? Sending a bullet to the back of his head would no doubt end with one in mine not too long after. It’s too early to seek my revenge on him. I have to be patient. But what if I wasn’t able to break Declan? What if I never found any other evidence than what was left?You can achieve anything you set your mind to.My father’s words replay in my head. He always believed in me. And that’s all that matters.
I will avenge him. No matter the cost.
The longer we stand in silence, the more unnerved I become. Silence used to be a solace for me, used to carry a level of peace. But now my thoughts unravel in it. Memories of my father’s life fading from his eyes replay over and over in my head, tormenting me. My racing heart serves as a reminder of how much I’ve been affected by the events of the past few weeks. I pick at the seams of my blouse, desperate for a distraction. Any distraction.
When toying with my sleeves doesn't bring me solace, I shift to staring at Declan’s and how they’re pushed up to his elbows. His arms are covered in what I assume are traditional, and incredibly intricate, Celtic tattoos. I get lost in the series of intricate knots that start at his wrist, trail up the inside of his arm, and disappear under the rest of his dress shirt. By the time Declan cuts the silence, my heart has come back down toits normal pace. If he noticed my momentary discomfort, he doesn’t show it.
“The bullet looks like lead to me,” Declan starts, and I feel a twinge of hope leave my body.
So he’s going the route of denial. Typical.
Before I can respond, he continues, “But I assume there’s something I am missing?”
I blink, not expecting the open curiosity that’s in his eyes. As if he genuinely doesn’t know the truth. I have to give it to him. His poker face is next level.
“The bullet’scoatedin lead. But the base is copper. Solid lead bullets are heavier than the one in your hand. That was my first giveaway that something was off. I had my lab confirm my suspicions.”
Declan tosses the bullet in the air, over and over again. He stops suddenly, his fingers curled into a fist around the metal as if he could disintegrate it with his hand. I bet he wishes he could. Get rid of one of the few remainders of that night. “You’re right. Dammit,” he snaps with rage.
I wait for more, screaming internally for him to confess and do us both the favor of ending his act, but he stays silent. And so I continue to push, “It’s pretty deceiving. Hell, neither of our staff members who combed through the scene of the hit noticed it. But noticing the small details and differences was always a strong suit of mine. It comes in extremely handy with coding computers. One extra space in a line of code can cause it to crash, leaving you going crazy trying to find why it’s not working.”
Good, Zahra. Give him reasons to keep you as an ally.
“I have no idea how you do all of that. I can't even send a text without making a typo. Or figure out new settings on my phone. You must have the patience of a saint.” He gives me asmall smile. One I’m sure has led to a long string of broken hearts.
“It’s predictable. And controllable. Two things we don’t get a lot of in our world. It keeps me centered.”
“Well, it’s impressive nonetheless. The amount of destruction you can cause just by a few taps of your fingertips.”
I can’t tell if he means it as a compliment or an acknowledgment of the threat I pose. I bring us back to the task at hand. “The destruction I cause can be reversed. Can’t say the same for a bullet.”
All I get is a small nod in response. “The British are fans of copper. Lord knows they’ve hated us for centuries?—”
Of course he would just blame it on another one of our rivals. I suppose this could be a good thing. If I can convince him that all my attention is now on the British, he’ll be less likely to suspect that he’s my true target. “Dammit, you’re right. You can never underestimate the colonizers,” I spit, which brings a smirk out from Declan.
