Page 38 of Merciless Queen

Will do. Thanks.

I plug my phone in, roll over, and channel my anger into something productive: sleep.

But all the while, I stare out the window at the bright moon and make a single promise to Zeno.

You will not be shown mercy.

By the time dawn comes,I managed maybe a solid three hours of sleep. So when I get out of bed, my body is heavy and exhausted, but still, I dress in my usual sports bra, workout tank, and leggings for my daily morning run.

What used to be a way to train after Papa’s death became a routine I haven’t once missed in seven hundred and thirty days, and I don’t plan on starting now. If anything, this run is needed to clear my mind and refocus on a direction as to how to handle the Italians. Since my shower and tossing and turning in bed half the night certainly didn’t provide answers.

First, I head down to the large dining room where, if I know my Elite, Anastasia and Lev will be.

And sure enough, they are. Anastasia’s nursing a coffee while munching on a muffin and scrolling on her phone while Lev’s clacking away at a laptop on the table in front of him, bowl of oatmeal abandoned to the side.

“Anything?” My voice jerks them both out of their tasks.

Lev’s grimace tells me what I need to know. He barely spares a glance to respond before ducking right back into research. “The men returned after an hour of searching and couldn’t find him. They think he managed to escape. If his plan was premeditated, he could have had a car nearby. As for my research…can’t find anyone named Zeno linked to the Cosa Nostra. I’d say it might not be his real name, but as usual, there’s not much whatsoever about the Cosa Nostra coming up. They clearly have people working to scrub them off the internet.” I gain another quick glance for him to ask, “Dimitri tell you anything?”

“Nothing useful.” I sigh, flicking my ponytail over my shoulder as I turn away. “I’m going for my run. See you both soon.”

Outside, the morning air is crisp. Fresh. Nature at its basest. It’s one of many reasons why I’m pleased my ancestors made this place the home of the Bratva. Reason one million and ten I’d be miserable if Papa had his way and my name would currently be Mrs. Rossi. Being inside a city—New York at that—would make me want to kill myself every morning having to run through smog.

I step off the mansion’s front steps until reaching the cement driveway, where I stretch and pace toward the grass, which is where my runs always begin. My jog starts slow as I head toward the farthest visible section before the grass mingles with the forest. It’s there my speed picks up to a more comfortable pace that’ll work my lungs and muscles.

I stick about five feet away from the tree line, running in the centre of two different views. One, the forest with the morning sun seeping through the trunks, and two, the grassy yard to my right, the dew glinting off the light.

A few blissful and quiet moments pass. I never run with music, preferring the sound of birds’ wings flapping, their cheeps, the squeaks of squirrels, the balmy morning breeze, and the crunch of twigs and grass beneath my feet.

It’s familiar, welcoming, and peaceful—opposite of how last night ended.

That is, until a new sound cuts through, this one not at all natural. Not from the land, not from an animal, but something entirely man-made.

A groan.

My run slows to a stop, eyes scanning the nearby tree line, seeking anything amiss. Even tired, Iknowmy brain didn’tmake that sound up, so I walk a few feet closer to the trees, just in time for another soft groan to greet me.

I follow the noise, keeping my steps slow and light, fists ready and available since I have no weapons. The sun shifts when I do, and nestled between three tree trunks, I discover the noise’s source.

A man propped up on one with his leg stretched out in front of him. His head is tipped backward against the trunk, and his eyes are clamped shut in what appears to be pain.

Zeno.

This whole time he’s been here, in sight of my bedroom at that. Clearly, my soldiers didn’t check around well, since he wasn’t that hard to find after all; something that’ll certainly be talked about later on.

I approach. He hasn’t looked my way, or given any indication of knowing I’m here. Based on his red-stained hands, the blood darkening his jeans, and his obvious pain, he isn’t coherent.

“You stupid fool,” I murmur, crouching. “You should have run far.”

My voice seems to jolt him, and his clenched eyes open, landing on me instantly. They’re bold in the morning sun; more than when I met him last night. A mossy green reminding me of my lands at twilight, right before the sun completely dips down and the bright colour becomes a duller version of itself.

And then he whispers,“Il mio angelo custode.”

My motheronce told me that the deserving always have a guardian angel, anangelo custode, watching over them to keep them on the path of righteousness. Of peace and love and light and all that.

She was once a very religious woman but after her life took a turn for the worst, Madre fell into despair, a lack of sanity and control, believing her angel abandoned her during the darkest point of her life. It was heartbreaking to witness the woman who lived by her faith as she managed a life by Padre’s side lose it all. God was no longer her saviour; her peace within the chaos. She stopped believing, attending church, and ended our nightly prayers when her brain finished rationalizing the recent events. God was no longer a coping mechanism for life’s struggles but a reminder of what never was.

“He didn’t listen to me beg when I needed him most. Why would he grant me well-wishes now?”To this day, her reasoning echoes through my ears.

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