Roma Queen (Roma Royals Duet Book 2)

by Callie Hart

  God, this is fucking painful to listen to. Her meaning is becoming less and less veiled as she blathers on: Pasha’s never wanted this responsibility. Pasha’s been gone. At the helm, guiding this ship, I am the one who has lined your pockets with money and ensured that there’s food on your tables every single night when you’ve sat down to eat.

  “We know it’s cold, and it’s starting to snow again, so we’ll make this quick. You all know how this works,” Shelta says, spreading her arms wide, as if she’s embracing each and every single member of the crowd. “Anyone who wishes to be considered for the role of clan leader will bring their bowl and place it before the fire. All who remain will take a stone and cast it into the bo—”

  “She’s right. I never wanted to step into the shoes that were placed before me,” I say, moving a stride closer to the fire. Shelta continues to speak, ignoring me, telling people they should cast their stones into the bowl of the person they wish to vote for, but my voice, always so deep and resonant, a sometimes blessing and a sometimes curse, demands the attention of the people huddled together against the bitter wind.

  One by one, faces turn to me, blank, angry, hopeful, irritated, and a burst of panic spears me through, all the way down to my boots.

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I don’t know how to do this.

  I don’t know if I can do this.

  I feel the presence at my back, though, and I know I have to. For her. Zara, the gadje I’m breaking all the rules for. She hasn’t stepped forward with me—she obviously knows that I have to stand apart for this. On my own two feet, proud and strong—but I feel her by my side all the same, ever-present and constant, the same way she has been in my dreams for such a long time.

  Shelta sighs wearily. “Pasha, we all know our options here. Why don’t we try and get everyone inside before we all freeze to death?”

  It’s my turn to ignore her now. “A lot of people I see before me here tonight share a family name with me. Shireen Rivin. Cleo Rivin. Boyd Rivin. Clara and Delia Rivin. Paige Rivin. Leo Rivin. But there are many of you with other family names. Among you, I see Tanners, Whites, Yancers, Birches and Youngs. It’s not our names that have brought us together to form this clan. It’s not even our blood, though most of us share at least a drop or two with one another. Once upon a time, we joined together out of necessity, for survival, to make sure we could withstand the challenges of race, creed and faith that seemed determined to crush us at every turn. We formed this strong family group because there was strength in numbers, and it was the easiest way to make sure our children grew up unafraid.”

  Voices blur together as a rumble of agreement travels through the crowd. Shelta smiles. Just as Shireen’s did earlier, my mother’s eyes are shining brightly with emotion. “Thank the heavens. I’m so glad, Pasha. I am so glad to hear you say this, finally. Ever since Patrin told me you refused to come home and you wanted nothing more to do with us, I’ve been hoping and praying that you—”

  “This clan has always been strong,” I call out. “Its members have always stood by one another, supporting one another. That’s what has united us and given the Rivin Clan backbone. But…” Finally, I lock eyes with Shelta. She’s tried to rob me of my voice since she came out here dressed in her regalia for two reasons. One: she doesn’t want to give me the opportunity to say something that might rally people to my side. Two: she doesn’t want to give me the opportunity to tell them what she’s fucking done. I will not be robbed of either of those opportunities. They’re my right, and there’s nothing Shelta can legitimately do to rob me of them.

  Raising my voice, I glare at her as I project my words across the silent, wintery glen. “Three years ago, I was shamed in the clan’s eyes. I took another clan member’s life. Even though that man took something far more important from a number of our own children, my mother demanded I be sent away for three years to pay for my crime. This week, I found out that the man I was punished for murdering didn’t actually die. Shelta protected him. Had him cared for and nursed back to health. I was banished, and Lazlo went free, and all because my mother couldn’t bear the thought of giving up her position here with the clan.

  “It was convenient for her that I be cast as a murderer in your eyes. An untrustworthy, loose cannon, who hurt and killed another member of the clan without evidence of any wrong doing. There was evidence, though. Plenty of it. Shelta refused to allow the affected members of the clan to speak at the kris because she claimed they were all too young. Well, they’re not too young now.”

  Angry murmurs flow through the crowd like rushing water over a rocky river bed. Shelta’s feigned compassion and benevolence slips as she claps her hands together, calling for everyone’s attention. “That matter was dealt with a long time ago, as you know all too well. You were sentenced, you were banished, and you served out your time here in Washington, fighting and scrawling on people with tattoo gun instead of doing something productive. That’s the end of it. We’ll not waste time dragging this nonsense out again just to satisfy your pride, Pasha. I will not allow it.”

  A voice goes up, loud and harsh. A man, somewhere near the back of the crowd. “Did you help him, Shelta? Did you give Lazlo help and save him?”

  Someone else adds their voice, along with another question. “Did you stand against Pasha at the kris and have him banished? Knowing Lazlo was alive?”

  Relief hits me hard in the gut. I’ve been dreading this. As a whole, Rivin Clan members can be stubborn and a little deaf when they hear something they don’t particularly like. They’re asking questions, though, the right questions, and Shelta has to answer them, come hell or high water. If she lies now and she’s found out, her punishment will be equal to, if not worse than the one she doled out to me.

  Shelta’s dark eyes are seething with fire as she pins me to the spot, baring her teeth. She knows she’s fucked. She can’t deny her actions if she’s been directly called out on them. She can’t obfuscate the truth or talk her way out of this one. I know it, and she knows it. Setting her chin, she raises her head defiantly, looking around at the gathered clan members.

  “Sometimes, a leader has to make tough calls in order to protect her people. Sometimes it’s necessary to do something unsavory in order to maintain the peace. Yes, I knew Lazlo wasn’t dead. Yes, I helped him after he was found in the morning, dying of blood loss. I had him treated at a small hospital, where they gave him a blood transfusion and a series of surgeries to repair the considerable tearing to his large intestines and bowel. Injuries that my own son inflicted. I considered it my duty to atone for Pasha’s sins in whatever way I could, so I saved Lazlo’s life. To keep his blood from my son’s hands. To save him from the guilt of such a heinous crime. And now he’s trying to crucify me for looking out for his best interests? I won’t allow it. This conversation is over, Pasha. If you don’t stop talking, there’s going to be conse—”

  “Did he rape those boys?” a woman cries from the back of the crowd. “You told us he was innocent. We all believed you.”

  Shelta’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, gasping for air. “The boys were too young to stand at the kris, that’s true,” she says. “It was hard to know whether the children were telling the truth or making up fairytales to support Pasha’s claims—a man who they looked up to and admired.”

  God damn her. How can she stand up there and say that, knowing that those kids were brutally assaulted by the man? How can she defend the idea that Lazlo might be innocent even now, when she knows that Lazlo’s recently murdered a little boy? God, what kind of monster is she?

  I can’t contain my disgust any longer. I feel it spreading through my veins like a poison. “Shelta’s right. I did turn my back on you after my banishment ended. I didn’t want to come back here. Not because I didn’t love you all. I didn’t want to come back here because of the countless lies and manipulations we’ve all endured at Shelta’s hands. She is not a true Rivin. She doesn’t embody the unit
y and solidarity that makes this clan strong. She’d willingly sacrifice any one of you on the altar of power if she thought it’d earn her favor or help her achieve her goals. Her own sister is Lazlo’s captive, because Shelta cast her out, too. Shelta’s own sins against this family are legion…and they are unforgivable.”

  As I take a deep breath, preparing myself for what I’m about to say next, a strange sense of relief washes over me. I know the words burning on the end of my tongue are true. Life would be infinitely easier if they weren’t, but I feel it in my bones, and there’s no way of denying it. It’s as though I’ve had a steel-cast yoke around my neck for as long as I can remember, and finally the damn thing is crumbling to dust and drifting away on the breeze, freeing me to breathe properly for the very first time.

  “I don’t expect any of you to vote for me to help Kezia. Even though it’s what we Rivins do—we look out for one another. I don’t expect any of you to vote for me because Cleo foresaw me sitting on the Roma throne thirteen years ago. I don’t expect any of you to vote for me for any reason. I hope you’ll vote for me tonight, because I’m trying to do what’s right, and because I’m sorry. I should have come back to you sooner. I shouldn’t have been so selfish. I should have been braver. I should have claimed the crown a long, long time ago and made sure you were all safe.”

  My pulse is throbbing in my ears; the urgent thrum, thrum, thrum of my blood surging around my body is all I can hear. No one speaks. Forty Rivin Clan members all stare at me, the flickering reflection of the bonfire dancing in their eyes, and I can’t read a single one of them. I could have lied to them. Fabricated some elaborate story about why I didn’t come back as soon as the banishment was up. I could also have called Shelta a liar and claimed that I’ve always wanted to be crowned their king, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my mother, it’s that lying only poisons the well. You might be able to persuade people to drink from that well, but they will always be able to taste the deceit, and they’ll always suffer the consequences of slaking their thirst on half-truths and falsehoods.

  I have no idea if telling the truth will be good enough to earn me the crown, but I know I’ve done the right thing. These people have been coerced, influenced and controlled for far too long now; it’s time they make a decision for themselves based on the bare, honest facts.

  A sharp, cruel snap of laughter breaks the silence. “Well, you heard it for yourselves,” Shelta announces. “My son. Your would-be king. He just admitted that, up until today, he didn’t want to be here. How he expects any of you to put your trust in him is just bewildering. He talks the good talk, but he doesn’t respect this clan. If he did, he wouldn’t still have that gadje here, intruding on our rituals and polluting our home.”

  A figure emerges from the shadows, stepping into the light of the fire. It’s Cleo, bundled up in a coat, leaning heavily against her tall staff. “You lied to us all about your sister. Kezia was my friend, Shelta. She went out into the world, thinking I didn’t care about her.”

  My mother’s scowl is bitter and vile. “What of it? She deserved no sympathy. She broke our laws.”

  “What law did she break?” Cleo asks, her voice deadly calm.

  “The same law my son is breaking now. She fell in love with a gadje. She wanted to sully our bloodline with an outsider. I gave her the choice. If she wanted the outsider so badly, she could become one herself. Or she could remain true to the clan and marry someone more appropriate.”

  Cleo shakes her head, dismayed. “You told us all she drowned. We’ve all been mourning her for thirty fucking years. You took her from us, because…because she fell in love? Where’s your heart, woman?”

  My mother seems to realize all of a sudden that she’s doing herself no favors by arguing this point with Cleo. She pulls herself together, reconstructing her calm, controlled exterior in one smooth, practiced maneuver; all it takes is a second, and all of the anger and vitriol that was wicking off her like heat from a flame vanishes.

  “Kezia didn’t want to stay here with any of you. She chose her lot in life and she didn’t look back. Not once. When I told you all she was dead, I was simply trying to spare you knowledge that she’d rejected you. That’s all. In my mind, I thought of it as an act of kindness, but I can see now that maybe I was wrong. I should have told you the truth, even though it was ugly, and would have caused you even more pain.”

  “ENOUGH!” The crowd gives way, and Archie pushes his way forward. Sharp, angular shadows fall across his face, making him look like a gargoyle as he dumps a beaten silver pail on the ground, a foot away from the fire. “We’ve all chosen our master already, one way or another. There’s no point all this bickering and sniping. Anyone who wants to be fucking royalty, come and put your damn bowl down on the table. Everyone else, get your rock and cast your vote.”

  Shelta’s eyes are narrowed into vicious slits, aimed at Archie’s head. She says nothing, though. Stooping down, she collects a shining silver bowl from her feet, beautifully engraved with swirling grapevines and blossoming flowers. She sets it on top of the table that’s been placed a safe distance from the fire, and then steps aside.

  This is when I realize that I’ve made a critical fucking error. For Christ’s sake. I’ve been to two of these things already. You’d have thought that I’d have the procedure memorized by now, but it turns out that, in the rush of it all, I’ve forgotten one of the most crucial components of the vote: I haven’t brought a fucking bowl with me.

  The cold seems to have found its way beneath my jacket and the three layers beneath that too, and is slicing into me as I slowly walk around the fire. When I reach the table, I face Archie and I shrug. “Sorry,” I tell him sheepishly, as I hold my hands out and cup them together. Archie doesn’t seem impressed by my improvisation. Shelta sends me a pitying smirk at the sight of my cupped hands next to her beautiful, shining silver bowl.

  Patrin…

  I see him for the first time, standing amongst the crowd, his hands resting on his son’s shoulders, and I think he’s going to send me the same disparaging look as my mother. He doesn’t, though. He nods and smiles softly, a weird show of approval, as if this is actually how it’s supposed to be after all.

  Slowly, one at a time, the members of the clan all bend to collect a rock out of Archie’s dented, rusting pail, and then they begin to form a line, snaking its way around the fire and off into the dark.

  “Don’t worry, Pasha.” My mother folds her arms across her chest, cocking an eyebrow at me. “You’ll be happier once you get back to your empty glass box. Things will be much safer for your gadje there.”

  Outwardly, I don’t react to her mocking comment. Inside, I’m ready to fucking kill the woman. If she makes one more veiled threat against Zara, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. Quickly, I risk a glance at my Firefly, and my heart lodges itself in my throat. She hasn’t moved an inch since I left her side. She stands alone, tall and proud, by the fire. Her hood has fallen down, and her hair, flowing in thick waves down over her shoulders, seems to burn even brighter than the flames. Our eyes meet, and so much passes between us:

  I’m proud of you.

  I’m amazed by you.

  I’m here for you.

  I will never fucking leave you.

  The sound of a metallic ting rips my attention away from her. I look down, and there, in the bottom of Shelta’s bowl, lies a rock. A vote.

  Otis Yancey, a man I’ve known my entire life, shrugs as he walks away. “Sorry, Pash. You know I like you and all. No hard feelings.” The next person steps forward—Anya Rivin, this time. A girl, a young woman now, who I used to swing around by the wrists when she was tiny. She casts her stone in Shelta’s bowl.

  “My mother says what you’re doing with that girl is wrong.” She sniffs. It looks like she’s been crying. “You should have picked one of us. That would have been the right thing to do.”

  Three more people step forward, and each of them casting their votes for Shelt
a. I’m given an apologetic, “Sorry,” every time a metallic ting signals another stone hitting the bottom of Shelta’s bowl, and I begin to think that I’ve screwed myself over big time. It’s one thing to have every member of the clan vote for Shelta over me. It’s another thing entirely to have to stand here with outstretched, empty hands as each one of them walks by me and casts their vote elsewhere, though. Talk about humiliating.

  I don’t dare look at my mother. The smug bitch is probably doing the Running Man. Instead, I keep my eyes locked front and center, my chin held high, as three more people cast their stones into Shelta’s bowl.

  And then Shireen is standing in front of me, a small, teasing smile twitching at the corners of her mouth as she places her stone into Evelyn’s hands and says, “Go on, then. What do you think? Do we want him or not?”

  Evelyn nods firmly, reaches out and places the rock into the center of my left palm. “Remember,” she whispers in a tiny voice. “Pancakes.”

  I want to grin at the little girl, to laugh with her and share a secret smile, but I find that I can’t. There’s a lump the size of a fucking watermelon in my throat, and I can’t seem to shift it. “I’ll remember,” I choke out.

  Shireen takes my hand and closes it around the rock, then squeezes it tight. “Remember the other stuff, too,” she says quickly. And then she’s walking away, hurrying off toward the gathering hall, and Evelyn is waving goodbye to me over her shoulder for the second time tonight.

  Before I have chance to turn back to the line, another rock falls into my hands. Connie Rivin stands before me, as old as the hills, her wizened face even more lined than it was last time I saw her. Her hair is barely more than the suggestion of a white cloud on the top of her head. Completely at odds with the rest of her, she has the eyes of a mischievous fourteen-year-old. “I’ve been waiting to finally stick one to your mother before I died. I guess I can go now without a fight. Unless you plan on coming to eat one final meal with me. I suppose I can hang around a bit longer if I need to.”