Page 22 of Queen
We move again, deeper into the house. Every hallway hums with history. Blood in the foundation. Deals sealed in whispers. Bodies buried where no one dares look. She feels it—I know she does. The walls press in, demanding submission.
This is my fortress. My kingdom. My empire.
And now, she’s in it.
She thinks it’s a prison. I’m watching a queen step into her throne room.
Finally.
Trophies and Territory
I don’t bother asking her where she wants to stay. That choice was never hers.
Her wing sits on the east side of the estate—three bedrooms, a private bath, a sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the hills. Sounds generous. Sounds like freedom. But every inch is designed the same way I design my deals: to look like a gift while cutting off every exit.
The maids unpack her things before she even sets her bag down. Dresses hung by color. Shoes lined in perfect rows. A closet already stocked in her size—waiting like it’s been expecting her for years. Because it has. I made sure of it.
There’s no key for the bedroom door. No lock. Not for her. She can close herself in, but only as much as I allow.
She walks through the space like it’s a museum she didn’t buy a ticket for. Touching nothing for long. Fingertips grazing surfaces but pulling back quick, as though she refuses to leave fingerprints on something she doesn’t want to claim. Her eyes flick to corners, to windows, to the door handle. Calculating escape routes that don’t exist.
Good. Let her realize she’s exactly where I want her.
I lean against the doorframe, arms folded, watching her. “This is yours now,” I tell her. My voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. It fills the room anyway. “Everything in it. Everything beyond it. You’ve got the kingdom you were always meant for.”
Her laugh is short, sharp, bitter. “A kingdom with invisible bars.”
I smile because she’s wrong. “Not invisible. Permanent.”
She turns her back to me, staring at the window as if the hills will part and give her an escape. She won’t find one.
I’ve waited twenty years for this—for her under my roof, her name tied to mine in whispers, in business deals, in threats whispered across the city. She doesn’t see it yet. She thinks she’s my hostage. She doesn’t realize she’s my victory.
Guido wanders in from the hall, eyes wide as he scans the room. He’s quiet, but kids see more than adults think. He studies me with the same sharpness as his mother.
Then he asks it. The question I wasn’t expecting. “Are you my new dad?”
It hits like a blade. Sharp. Deep. Right where I thought I’d walled myself off. For a moment, I don’t answer. I crouch down so we’re eye level, forcing myself steady.
“Not yet,” I tell him, low and measured. “But you’ll understand in time.”
His brow furrows, like he’s not sure if that’s a promise or a threat.
It’s both.
5
zina
The Golden Cage
Iwake in a bed big enough to drown in. The sheets smell faintly of roses and starch, the pillowcase cool against my cheek. For a second, I let myself believe I’m somewhere else—somewhere that doesn’t carry his scent in the walls.
Then I open my eyes.
The ceiling above me is painted with gold-leaf vines, curling across plaster like serpents pretending to be flowers. The kind of detail you’d see in a museum, not a home. Not mine.
The room is beautiful. Too beautiful. The bed carved from dark mahogany, canopy draped in silk that catches the light like spiderwebs. Curtains that whisper when the air shifts. A vanity that looks like it’s been stolen from a French queen. Every surface glitters. Every corner gleams.
