Page 11 of The Queen
“Hello, what’s this?” I mutter, clearing the dirt away with swift, determined strokes. My nails are caked with earth, butI don’t care. There’s a trapdoor hidden beneath the ground of academia and what was once perfectly manicured grass.
Grasping the cold metal ring set into the wooden trapdoor is like touching a piece of another world, and the thrill seeker in me will not let go of anything.
I yank hard, my muscles flexing, and the trapdoor groans before giving way. It’s heavier than expected, and the darkness below gapes open, inviting or threatening—maybe both.
“Time to find out which.”
This could be a trap, could be a test, could be the key to… something.
The adrenaline kicks in, a familiar friend in the chaos of my life. It surges through me, setting my heart on a wild rhythm. I lower myself into the void, feeling for the rungs of a ladder with my feet. They meet metal, and I start to descend, each step a thud echoing in the silent space that swallows light and sound.
As I go deeper, the air shifts around me, cooler and damp. I’m blind in the blackness, even as my eyes adjust.
Hitting solid ground, the darkness closes in like a shroud. I’m at the bottom, the musty stink of old earth filling my nostrils. The silence is thick, each breath sounding too loud in my ears. A chill skates down my spine at what I might find down here, lost and forgotten.
I fumble for my phone, stashed in my bra, the smooth surface a cold comfort. Flicking the flashlight on, light slices through the black, offering me just enough to take a step forward and see exactly what I’m stepping on.
The light from the phone reveals a fairly wide tunnel, and I follow it, my hand brushing against stone that is worn rough by time.
Rounding a bend, the beam of my torch catches something—a break in the monotony of stone. An alcove. My heart leaps into my throat, pounding a fierce staccato at what I might find.
Flashing the light around, it skitters over a switch on the wall near my head. It’s old and rusted, but it’s a promise of light. I flick it up, holding my breath. The bulb above sputters to life, coughing out a weak glow that battles the shadows clinging to the edges of the space.
“Come on, you old piece of crap,” I coax, tapping the wall beside the switch until the light steadies.
Beneath the yellowish tinge, there is a large round table and, in the middle, an old book, its leather cover cracked with age. Symbols, crests, and signs of history and power are etched into its surface.
“Fuck me,” I breathe out, reverence mixed with a hardened edge of excitement. I reach out to trace the contours of the crests, to pry open the spine and dive into the depths of whatever wisdom or warnings it holds. The Hughes emblem stares back at me, alongside the Blackthornes, the Carvers, and the Sterlings. The four biggest families, whose money and power are legendary and, have built the foundation that this University sits on, metaphorically speaking, of course. But there is one more I don’t recognise. My pulse quickens as I lean in, holding the still-glowing phone torch over the cover. I trace the name at the bottom of the crest, written in oldy worldy type.
“Gannon.” I purse my lips. “Gannon. As in Robert. Tarq did say they were influential, but why are they not part of this Four Families alliance thing? Or, rather, theywere,it seems, but for some reason, are no longer. It was once Five Families, but what happened?”
I realise I’m talking out loud to myself, but there is no one else here to discuss this with.
My fingers brush over the cover, feeling the pulse of history beneath them. The air feels charged, heavy with the scent of old paper and secrets. I flip the cover open, the creak of the spine breaking the silence, and I wince, hoping it’s not damaged.
“Okay, let’s see what you’ve got for me.” I squint at the first page, taking in the elegant script, the symbols that seem to dance before my eyes. The writing is old, and the language is arcane, but I can piece it together. It seems that the mafia has been around for a while. A long-assed while. Perhaps not always as it is now, but there all the same.
Page by page, I turn, absorbing the words as if they’re oxygen, gleaning the change as the centuries wore on. Names leap out at me—ancestors, agreements, secrets buried deep within the fabric of religious sects turned to organised crime.
“Christ,” I murmur. This is awesome in every way you can fathom. Such history, such knowledge. I mean, history is my jam, I live for it. Medieval History is my major, for fuck’s sake, and here I have before me something that dates back several centuries.
But the names have changed, and the families have changed. I flip back to the cover and stare at it hard. It’s newer than the rest of the book. Maybe a century in age, maybe more, could be less.
As quickly as I dare, I flick forward and then stop dead.
Gannon. There is that name again, but this time attached to a name that is all too familiar.
Diane.
My mother’s name.
My fingers tap the smudged page, the ink bleeding into the paper as if resisting the tale it tells. A story of power and alliances.
Damon Hughes and Diane Gannon, married to align two families. But why have I never heard of the Gannons outside of yesterday? Why did I never know my mother was one of them? Lila. Her last name is Foster. Maybe it was my grandmother’s maiden name. Maybe she rebelled against the system. It would stand to reason why she is so gung-ho about taking out all thingsmafia. Are my grandparents dead, as my mother had told me once, not long before she died? Or are they still alive and want nothing to do with me?
“Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck.” My brain is about to explode with all these questions.
Lifting the book, I clutch it tight against me. Lila tore open the earth above this tunnel and knew exactly what she was doing. She wanted this found. But how did she know I would be the one to find it? Or does it not matter who finds it? She just wants whatever secrets it holds out in the world.
