Page 25 of The Queen
I tuckmyself behind the heavy velvet drapes, peeking into the room where my father holds court. The air is thick with cigar smoke and the clink of whiskey glasses. I’m a ghost here, silent and unseen, learning the ways of our hidden world. My father sits at the head of the large mahogany table, a king among men who would be kings themselves. They speak in hushed tones that carry weight, each word measured, each pause filled with intent.
“Pay attention to their eyes,” my father once whispered to me, his voice as steady as the hand he laid on my shoulder. “Eyes can’t lie like lips can.”
Now, I watch those eyes—the way they narrow, flicker with greed or fear, reveal the thoughts that words try to mask. The men talk territories and trades, but I see the dance of power playing out. I want it, the command my father wields, the respect he commands. It’s more than just wanting; it’s knowing deep in my bones that one day I will sit where he sits, make the decisions he makes.
Then I’m older, sitting across from my father in his study, the room where strategy becomes our religion. He lays outmaps and photographs, tokens in a game too deadly for the uninitiated.
“Eliza,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the gravity in his voice, “in this life, every single move must be premeditated. You don’t just react; you plan ten steps ahead.”
He shows me the chessboard on his desk, the pieces carved from ivory and ebony. His finger taps a bishop. “See here? It moves diagonally, cutting across the board. It has power, yes, but its path is predictable. Be the player, not the piece.”
I lean in, absorbing every lesson. He talks of alliances, of feints and bluffs, how sometimes the most powerful move is the one you don’t play. I drink it all in because I know that knowledge is power in our world, and if I’m to lead, if I’m to protect what’s ours, I need that power.
“Your mind, Eliza,” my father continues, “is your greatest weapon. Sharpen it. Use it. With it, you’ll outmanoeuvre them all.”
I believe him.
Suddenly, I’m surrounded by people again, this time, I’m in the room, noticed but ignored.
They’re figures from a shadowy world where the stakes are life and death. My father sits at the head, his face drawn tight as he listens to the reports from his lieutenants. There’s a tension here that I can taste.
“An attack,” one of them says, a man with a scar running down his cheek. “It’s imminent.”
Father nods, his eyes hard. He stands, paces. I hold my breath. This is it, the moment when he must decide between bad and worse.
“Kill them all.”
I see myself lying in bed, I clutch my teddy bear, but I’m not really a child anymore, am I? Not after witnessing that.Sacrifice isn’t just a word; it’s blood and tears. It’s doing what must be done, even when your soul screams no.
Blinking, the years rush by, and I’m sixteen, standing in the gym with Vince, Dad’s trusted enforcer. He’s a mountain of a man, all muscle and grizzled beard, but his eyes are kind when they meet mine.
“Ready?” he asks, tossing me a pair of gloves.
“Always.” My response is quick, automatic. I pull the gloves on, feeling the leather mould in my hands. Vince teaches me how to throw a punch, how to take a hit, how to keep standing when every fibre in your body wants to collapse.
“Focus on your opponent’s chest, not their eyes,” he instructs. “It tells you where they’ll move next.”
My body moves with a grace born of necessity, each block and counter a dance with danger. I revel in the sweat and the burn of my muscles, because this is power—the ability to defend, to fight, to survive.
“Good,” Vince grunts as I dodge a particularly swift jab. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
I smirk, panting, feeling the fierce joy of exertion. “Getting? I think I’ve already got it.”
Vince chuckles, shaking his head. “Never cocky, Eliza. Overconfidence gets you killed.”
I nod, sobering. He’s right, of course. In our world, the line between life and death is razor-thin, and I walk it daily with the balance of a tightrope artist. Every skill, every lesson from Vince is a knot in the safety net I weave for myself and my family.
“Again,” Vince says, and I come at him, fists flying, heart pounding, and when I think it’s all over and I can collapse on the ground for a week, my dad takes over.
“Fists up, Eliza. Hughes’s don’t break.”
Blood soaks the front steps of our estate, a grim picture laid out for any who dare approach. I stand behind the heavy oak door, peering through the diamond-patterned glass, breath caught in my throat. Once, this house stood as an unbreachable fortress, but betrayal has eroded its foundations.
“Eliza, upstairs. Now.” My father’s voice is a whip-crack of authority, and I obey without question. He follows me, his footsteps heavy with the weight of impending loss. We pause at the top of the grand staircase, overlooking the foyer, where blood mixes with shattered crystal.
“Look at me,” he commands, and I do. “One day, all of this will be yours,” he says.
“I know.”
