Page 19 of Queen
The corner of my mouth lifts, slow. Not for her benefit. For mine. “Then you’d better get used to disappointment.”
Dario shifts behind me, his weight moving like he’s not sure if he should laugh or brace for the fallout. He doesn’t know her like I do. Doesn’t know that she’ll keep pressing, keep fighting, even when the walls close in.
We move again, deeper into the house. The ceilings arch high overhead, frescoes painted centuries ago staring down like saints who turned their backs on salvation. The walls don’t just hold heat—they hold secrets. Blood in the mortar. Deals sealed in whispers. Bodies buried under marble.
This is my world. My fortress. My kingdom.
And now—she’s in it.
She thinks she’s walking into a prison. I’m watching a queen step into her throne room. Finally.
Trophies and Territory
I don’t ask her where she wants to stay. That choice was never hers to make.
Her wing is already prepared—the east side of the estate. Three bedrooms, a private bath, a sitting room with windows opening over the hills. Sounds generous on paper, but every inch of it is calculated the way I design my deals: dressed like a gift while cutting off every exit.
The maids move fast, silent. Her dresses are already unpacked, hung by color in the closet. Shoes lined like soldiers at attention. The vanity—stocked with cosmetics she hasn’t touched in years, brands imported from Milan because I know what she wore when Giovanni first paraded her around. The closet isn’t new. It’s been waiting for her. For years.
Because I made sure of it.
There’s no key for the bedroom door. No lock. Not for her. She can close herself in if she wants—but only as much as I allow.
She scans the room with careful detachment. Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t touch anything for long. But I see the way hereyes flick to the corners. The way her hand lingers on the closet handle, counting exits that don’t exist.
Good. Let her feel it. Let her realize she’s exactly where I’ve wanted her all along.
I lean against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes on her like I’ve got all the time in the world. She moves with deliberate restraint—fingers trailing over the polished wood of the vanity, the drape of the curtains, the leather-bound books lining the shelves. She doesn’t linger. She doesn’t claim. She’s resisting even the act of breathing my air.
“This is yours now,” I say. My voice doesn’t need volume—it fills the space anyway. “Everything in it. Everything beyond it. You’ve got the kingdom you were always meant for.”
Her laugh cuts sharp, bitter. “A kingdom with invisible bars.”
I smile because she’s wrong. “Not invisible. Permanent.”
She turns her back on me, hiding the expression she doesn’t want me to see. That’s fine. I’ve already memorized every look she doesn’t give me.
Guido wanders in, quiet steps carrying him across the threshold. His eyes roam the room with that mix of awe and unease only a child can manage. He lingers at the window, then looks up at me, his face unreadable for a moment. Then:
“Are you my new dad?”
The words hit harder than a bullet. Sharp. Unexpected. For half a second, I don’t answer. The room goes still. Zina’s body stiffens like she’s been struck.
I crouch down to Guido’s height, the weight of his stare heavier than any enemy’s. “Not yet,” I tell him, voice low, even. “But you’ll understand in time.”
His brow furrows, caught between confusion and suspicion. He doesn’t know if it’s a promise or a threat.
It’s both.
The Dinner Setup
The invitation list is short, but the stakes are fucking massive. Tonight’s table isn’t just dinner—it’s the crucible where reputations live or die. Every man sitting across from me will measure my strength not just by the steel in my hand, but by the woman at my side.
And I intend to make them choke on the view.
I find her in her wing, standing at the vanity with her back to me. Candlelight glows across her bare shoulders, hair falling in dark waves like a curtain she could hide behind if she were anyone else. But Zina isn’t hiding. She’s staring at herself in the mirror, lips parted just slightly, as if bracing for war.
She’s in a silk slip. Nothing else. Like she’s daring me to decide for her.
