Page 13 of Queen
"You're still an asshole."
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. "But you came back. And that's all that matters."
You shiver in my arms, your body pressing against mine.
"You're impossible."
I grin, my hand slipping down to cup your ass. "But you love it."
"You're right. I do."
Lips swollen. Body marked by my hands.
She hates herself for it. Hates me more. And still—she didn’t walk away.
I brush damp hair from her face, let my voice sink into her bones.
There’s no going back now.”
3
zina
The Walk of Defiance
The gates creak open like a fucking monster yawning, and every part of me wants to scream at the sound. Instead, I keep my hands folded in my lap, nails digging crescents into my palms. Pain is better than fear. Pain is proof I’m still in control.
The black SUV crawls up the long drive, tires crunching over gravel like bone. Two of Emiliano’s soldiers flank me in the back seat—silent, stone-faced, wedding rings that glint like cheap lies in the dim light. I don’t ask for their names. They’re not men. They’re shadows with guns, trained to bleed on command.
We pass a marble fountain carved into some Roman god with water streaming from his mouth into a basin choked with roses. Excess and arrogance sculpted in stone. And beyond it, the villa rises. White marble. Black iron. Windows that look backat me like a hundred cold eyes. Bigger than I remembered. Or maybe it’s just heavier now that I’m walking back into his world.
The SUV stops. The soldier to my left steps out, opens my door. I don’t thank him. My chin is high when my heels strike black stone, each click sharp as a gunshot. My dress is armor—black silk fitted to my body like a sheath, lips painted blood-red. Over my shoulders, a coat heavy enough to crush pride if I let it. But I won’t. Not here. Not now.
I told myself I wouldn’t look at the house. That I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction. I look anyway.
Balconies stacked like thrones. Iron lanterns dripping with shadow. And there, carved into the double doors, the Rivas crest—serpents strangling roses. Legacy in iron. Warning in art. My stomach knots, but I ignore it. I am not here to feel. I am here to finish what I started the night I left him bleeding in bed.
The doors swing open before I even knock. Of course they do. He’s been waiting.
The foyer swallows me whole. Marble floors so cold they bite through the soles of my shoes. Oil paintings glare down from gilded frames—ancestors, killers, kings. Men whose names are written in ash and blood. Men who never wanted me here. A woman like me doesn’t belong in a place like this.
But I walk like I fucking do.
My heels echo down the corridor, every step a funeral march, every breath measured. I don’t ask where they’re leading me. I already know. His office. The heart of the house. The room where he pulls strings, signs death warrants, writes contracts in the same hand he uses to write love notes.
I inhale through my nose. Leather. Cigar smoke. A darker undercurrent—something that smells like memory and ruin. My pulse kicks against my ribs. Do this for Guido, I remind myself. Not for revenge. Not for closure. And definitely not for him.
The doors open.
And there he is.
Emiliano Rivas stands behind an ancient desk like he owns the fucking world. Because he does. Black shirt, no tie, collar open at the throat. Silver streaks at his temples catch the light like a crown. His consigliere looms beside him—thin, silent, shark-eyed. But I don’t see him.
I only see Emiliano.
My ruin. My addiction. My mistake.
His eyes rake over me like fire, slow and consuming. And I hate myself for the way my body still burns.
