"Sit," he orders.
Defiance fills my bones, but it's not enough to overpower my need for the explanation I have a feeling he’s about to give. How did I end up here? And why? Sitting down, hands tied behind my back, I subtly assess the chair’s frame and, finding a loose screw, I start to toy with.
"Sweet, courageous, little Zahra. I knew you were going to be nothing but trouble from the moment you were born. Of course, back then, I was still convinced I could change your father's mind. Get him to see that his plan for the future was nothing but a fool's wish." Cyrus sighs, reaching down to grab the water bottle he brought in.
My throat clenches at the sight, reminding me how dehydrated I am. I press my lips together. I refuse to beg for anything. He would not get that from me.
"Oh, where are my manners? You probably want some water, don't you?" he chuckles. I gasp as water splashes all over my face and the top of my shirt. Being soaked only makes the chill in my bones worse.
"Bastard," I growl, spitting at his feet.
"Now, now, little Zahra. I won't answer any of your questions if you disrespect me."
My lips curl back in a sneer as he calls melittle Zahra. What was once a term of endearment, my father called me as a child, has now been sullied by Cyrus.
"I suppose it's best to start at the beginning. As you know, your father and I immigrated to this country together, with hopes and dreams of starting a new life. We experienced many highs and lows the first few years. The start of our new tea and coffee business, a market crash that rendered that shop futile, and the rise of a new endeavor - surveillance and hacking." Cyrus' tone is oddly fond, especially for a man who killed his best friend.
"Once your father aligned with Cillian, we were golden. With the protection of the Irish mafia and the eventual rise of our own, we were untouchable. And everything was worth it. The ridicule of our parents saying we would never make it in America. The sneers from our so-called neighbors who would cross the street whenever they saw us, or yell at us to go back to our home country. None of that mattered anymore because we ruled the city. But, as you know, once you're at the top of the mountain, everyone else wants to push you off it."
Cyrus pauses, running his hands through his salt and pepper hair, and rolling up his sleeves. "The Italians were the first to take a hit at us?—"
"For thwarting their drug routes," I guess.
Cyrus smirks. "For talking to their biggest supplier about adding our own routes. Though I can see Naser never told you the full truth on where our decades-long feud with the Italians started."
"You're lying, my father asked Cillian to pull out of the drug trade. He would never get involved in it on his own accord!"
"Your father," Cyrus laughs, "was a very, very different manbefore you came along. Everything changed after that. Even though he’d deny it at first, I saw the look in his eyes the first time he held you. Nothing else mattered to him but you. He would give up anything—his power, his expansive wealth, the organization he had built with me from the ground up—all of it. He would give it up foryou."
Tears prick my eyes, and my heart physically aches as I think of my father and how he was ripped from me. I can’t process what Cyrus is saying. "My father loved everyone who worked for him, he would never abandon his mafia."
"Naser was an idealist who thought he could have it all. The second you were born, he became infatuated with the idea of turning the Persian Empire into an organization that only engages in more...legal operations. I entertained his dreams early on. What did I care if he restarted his tea business and marginally increased our income by trading various spices and goods? But then he started to talk about slowly phasing out the gun trade and living a simple life. Once your mother was killed, he was dead set on his plan to abandon any mafia ties. No matter the cost."
Killed?What the hell is Cyrus on about? "My mother wasn't killed...she died of a heart attack."
Cyrus clicks his tongue. "A half-truth Naser told to protect his little Zahra. She did indeed die of a heart attack, one that was caused by an unspecified poison they found in her drink at a restaurant your father burned to the ground after her death. Whether he was the true intended target or not remains unknown. But as far as he was concerned, he was the one who killed her. Him and his position as Don."
My entire body starts to shake. It was hard enough to wrap my brain around Cyrus betraying me; now, everything I knew about my mother was a lie, too? My head spins and my stomach turns, nausea rolling through me.Focus, Zahra. Focus.
With all of Cyrus’ monologuing, I’d been able to remove the loose screw from my chair and start to chip away at the rope binding my hands. I just hoped by the time I was free, Cyrus would still be in the room so I could choke him with my own bare hands. I wanted to be the one who saw the life drain from his eyes. Slowly. Painfully.
Cyrus continues, "Once his obsession with abandoning the crime life formed, he couldn't be swayed. I had hoped everyone would look at him like a madman, riddled with delusion, but instead...he was met with support. Cillian was a little skeptical at first, but he could see how much this lifestyle was weighing down on Aidan, even from a young age. Lorkan took minimal convincing as well. This lifestyle had taken a lot from him."
A week ago, I would have laughed if anyone had told me Lorkan was anything but bloodthirsty for power, but given I’d just been kidnapped and chained by a man whom I had once considered to be a second father, I was willing to accept that everything else I thought I knew was a lie.
"Your father had it all figured out. The day he died?—"
"You mean the day you killed him!" I screech, thrashing in my chains with rage.
He waves his hand. "Semantics. The day he died, he was meeting with Cillian to discuss an official shift in organization priorities. You and Declan would be brought in soon to hear about their three-year plan for phasing out the gun trade and any other mafia-related endeavors. At the end of the three years, you and Declan would be phased in as the new bosses or, I guess, CEOs. Whatever is more palatable for civilians. Your rise was supposed to be a beacon for prosperity and happiness. Like that of the Homa, a native vulture to Iran."
"A vulture?" My eyes widen. "Like the one all the men who have tried to kill me had tattooed on their chest?"
The sinister smile on Cyrus' face doubles in size. He’s enjoying this.
"The vulture tattoos you know are near replicas of the images they were inspired by." Cyrus reaches into his pocket and pulls out a series of images.
The first one I'd seen already from Aleksander—Lorkan with his chest emblazoned with a black vulture. Cyrus tosses the image to the floor to reveal one of Cillian sitting inside a tattoo parlor, a fresh vulture tattoo on the skull of his head. One that would be easily hidden, once his hair grew out. The final picture has tears streaming down my face. My father, sitting on the floor playing with me when I was likely no bigger than a year old. At first, I don't even notice what Cyrus wanted me to look at, too caught up in seeing my dad so happy, until I scan the entire image. Tattooed on my father's right foot is a vulture identical to Lorkan and Cillian's.
