Page 24 of Queen
His next words gut me. “Is Emiliano my dad now?”
I go still.
The question isn’t new. He asked it once before—just days ago, back when we still had the chance to run. I gave him the same answer then. And it still tastes like ash in my mouth.
“No,” I say, too fast, too sharp. “He’s just… someone we know.”
Guido blinks slowly. The curtain slips from his fingers. “But he’s always around.”
I glance toward the door, half expecting to see a shadow pass by, proof that Emiliano is, in fact, always fucking around. “That doesn’t make him your father,” I say, quieter now.
Guido studies me like he’s deciding whether to push the subject. He doesn’t. But the little furrow between his brows says enough—he doesn’t believe me. Not fully.
Even at five, he understands something I don’t want to admit: the danger here isn’t the guns, the guards, or the gates. It’s the slow rot that happens when you start adapting to a place like this. When you start calling it home because it’s easier than fighting every second.
I tuck his hair back, my fingers lingering a second longer than they should. “Go find the playroom,” I tell him. “I’ll be there soon.”
He nods, but it’s the kind of nod a soldier gives when retreating, not surrendering. His footsteps fade down the hall, and the silence he leaves behind is heavier than before.
I turn back to the gates.
A gilded cage might keep the monsters out. But it can also keep them in—with you.
Clash of Wills
The glass garden room feels like a lie someone tried to make beautiful. Orchids climb the walls, roses bloom too perfect,sunlight streams through windows scrubbed too clean to belong in a world like mine. Beauty twisted into a mask, meant to soothe, meant to distract.
I sit in a wrought-iron chair, tracing the rim of an untouched teacup with one finger, because there’s nothing else to do but pretend I’m not trapped.
I hear him before I see him. His steps—slow, deliberate—drag against the tile like a countdown. A chair scrapes against stone, pulled back across from me.
“Coffee?” Emiliano’s voice is silk over steel. He sets the porcelain cup on the table between us, a gesture so polite it makes me want to laugh.
I stare at the cup, then at him. My silence is deliberate.
“I didn’t agree to play house,” I say finally, each word cut clean, sharp enough to bleed him if I could.
His mouth tilts—not quite a smile. “And yet here you are, in my house.”
“Not yours.” I push the cup toward him with one finger, slow, steady. “None of this is yours. You’re dressing me in another man’s wealth like I’m some doll you get to parade around.”
He leans back, relaxed, unbothered, as if my defiance is nothing more than background noise. “And what would you prefer? Rags? Poverty? A life where you’re begging for scraps from men who would rather put a bullet in your head?”
I stand, my chair screeching against the floor. “I’d prefer a life where my worth isn’t tied to the size of a man’s fucking bank account.”
His eyes follow me as I move, a predator tracking prey. “Idealism,” he says softly, like it’s a curse. “You think you can survive this world without a monster at your side?”
“I survived Giovanni.”
“Barely.”
The word lands hard, like a slap. My chest tightens, heat flooding my cheeks. I take a step closer, then another, until only the table separates us.
“You think you’re better than him?”
His eyes glint—dark, sharp, knowing. “No, Zina. I’m worse. And that’s why you’ll survive me.”
Something inside me snaps. My hand flies before I think, aiming for his face.
