Page 21 of Queen
Zina doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even look at him. She looks at me. Which is worse. Because that silent challenge scorches hotter than words:What will you do about it?
Arturo smiles wider, emboldened. “Tell me, signora… are you truly off the market?”
The breath in the room changes. Forks pause midair. Even the staff stiffen.
My mask holds for three seconds. Then his hand moves—slow, deliberate—resting on the table beside her chair. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough. Too close.
A provocation.
The knife is in my hand before I think. Steel slams into mahogany with a crack like gunfire, the blade pinning the polished surface a hair’s breadth from his fingers.
The hall freezes.
Every conversation dies. The sound ricochets through the chandeliers like a warning shot.
I lean forward, my voice low but sharp enough to cut. “Touch her again,” I say, every word edged in steel, “and I’ll make you eat your fucking ring.”
The silence is absolute.
Arturo’s smile falters, stiff. But his eyes—bright, curious—betray him. He pulls his hand back slowly, as if calculating the math of his survival.
Good. Let him measure. The sum never works in his favor.
The others shift, coughing out laughter, forcing conversations back into motion. But it’s false. The tone has changed. The air has been branded. They’ve seen it—the moment I drew blood without spilling any.
I sit back, reclaim my wine, and drink slow. Zina hasn’t moved. Her face is carved from stone, but I know her. I know the storm behind her eyes, the fury simmering at my “overreaction.”
She thinks I went too far. I think I went easy.
Arrival and Occupation
The gates open slow, like they know who the fuck they’re letting in. Metal groans against stone, hinges dragging centuries of history into the night air. It isn’t just an entrance—it’s a test, andthe estate behind it waits like a predator ready to measure if the woman I’ve dragged inside belongs here.
My estate sits high in the hills, carved out of rock and blood, stone walls older than most of the men guarding them. Every arch, every steel-reinforced door screams what I’ve built—untouchable, immovable, mine. The kind of fortress kings used to die for. The kind of fortress that bends the world around it until even silence obeys.
The car rolls to a stop in the circular drive. I’m out first. Always first. Gravel crunches under my shoes, sharp and deliberate, as I circle to the other side.
She steps out slow, like she’s walking into a fucking coronation. Zina. Chin high, spine carved from defiance, lips blood-red against skin too pale for her own good. The boy clings to her hand—Guido—his small fingers clenched white around hers. His eyes dart across the facade, taking in the torches and balconies, the guards at their stations. He knows this place isn’t a home. Not yet. Maybe never.
“Inside,” I say. I don’t need to raise my voice. The men hear me. They move like shadows, already unloading the luggage, already falling into the rhythm of obedience this house demands. The weight of the estate pulls her forward whether she wants to move or not.
The doors swing open. The central hall yawns wide—marble floors polished like glass, vaulted ceilings that reach heaven and dare God to look down, chandeliers older than my enemies’ family names. Zina’s heels hit the stone, sharp echoes ricocheting through the space. Defiance dressed up as poise. Every click is a threat disguised as grace.
Staff line the edges—bodyguards in tailored black, the chef in his whites, the maids with their eyes lowered like prayer. And just behind me, Dario—my consigliere—leans on his cane, eyescold, assessing. Watching her the way you watch a new piece on the board, deciding if it’s pawn, queen, or weapon.
“This is Mrs. Maritz,” I announce, my voice filling the room like gunpowder in a closed chamber. “You address her as such. You show her the same respect you show me. More, if you value your fucking teeth.”
Her jaw tightens—I see it in the corner of my eye—but she doesn’t look at me. Smart. She knows the rules of performance. She knows to play queen when the court is watching.
Guido presses closer to her side. He doesn’t say a word, but the grip on her hand is loud enough. Already, he’s reading the air, learning the cost of silence in a room like this.
“Dario will see to your needs,” I tell her.
She cuts me a look, voice sharp as broken glass. “And if I require a way out?”
My smile is slow. Cruel. “Then you’d better get used to disappointment.”
Dario shifts, as if unsure whether to laugh or brace for violence.
