Page 38 of Queen
She shivers, and I feel it travel through her like the first crack in a frozen river. A sound escapes her throat, muffled, half a sob, half a gasp.
When I pull back, my hands stay on her face, holding her still, forcing her to meet my eyes.
“You think this is about him,” I say. “It’s not. It’s about you. About the fact that you still kneel here for a man who would have left you to rot if it kept him on his throne.”
Her chest rises and falls too fast, her hands clenched in the folds of her dress. But she doesn’t deny it.
The wind shifts, carrying the faint scent of roses from the grave behind her, mixing with the smoke of damp leaves.
And in that moment, I know she understands something she’s not ready to say out loud— that her grief doesn’t belong to Giovanni alone anymore.
The Unburied Past
Her hands are trembling. Not wildly—just enough to betray the effort she’s putting into holding herself together. The tremor makes me want to grab them, still them, force them into steadiness under my control.
I strip my coat from my shoulders and place it around her—not to warm her, but to enclose her. To bind her movements. The heavy wool swallows her frame, the scent of my cologne threading into the fabric. It’s not kindness. It’s containment. A reminder that even her body isn’t entirely her own anymore.
“You asked to mourn,” I tell her, my voice low but unyielding. “Mourn. But don’t pretend he was perfect.”
Her chin lifts, that instinctive flash of pride in her eyes. Her lips press together, defiant.
“You forget,” I go on, each word sharper than the last, “I saw what he did to you. To your son.”
She stiffens instantly. “Don’t talk about Guido.”
The edge in her voice is pure steel, but I’ve learned something about steel—it bends before it breaks.
“You think I don’t remember the night you almost left him?” I step forward, close enough that her perfume mixes with the damp scent of earth and stone. My shadow folds over hers. “I was the one who kept you from vanishing with your child. You just never knew it.”
Her breath falters. The way her eyes shift, just slightly, tells me she’s scrambling through memories, trying to find the one I’ve just cracked open.
“What do you mean?”
I could hand her the truth right now. I could tell her about the phone call, the men I sent to make sure her path was blocked, the passport that never reached her hand. But there’s more power in letting her chase the answer than in giving it.
I let the silence stretch. Only the wind moves, curling through the fog and stirring the edges of my coat around her. She’s wrapped in it now—my scent, my weight, my words—whether she wants to be or not.
Finally, I step back, my gaze never leaving hers. “Ask your lawyer.”
Confusion flares across her face, followed by something else—wariness. She’s trying to decide if I’ve just given her a piece of the past… or planted a lie in her head that she’ll bleed herself dry trying to disprove.
Her hands tighten in the coat’s lapels, pulling it closer around herself like armor. But armor only works if it isn’t mine she’s wearing.
“You’re lying,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
“I don’t need to lie to you, Zina.” I let the words hang between us like smoke. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
The fog thickens again, wrapping around the graveyard, muting the world beyond us. She’s shivering now—not from cold, but from the thought that something this big happened in her life… and I’ve been carrying the truth the entire time.
And I’m not finished with her yet.
The Walk Back – Tension Rekindled
We leave the graveyard behind us, the fog curling at our heels like it wants to follow. The silence between us blooms again, but it’s changed. Now it’s loaded, stretched tight over everything I’ve just told her—and everything I’ve refused to.
She walks like her mind’s somewhere else, retracing years she thought she understood and finding holes she didn’t know were there. Her steps aren’t hesitant, but there’s a shift—less defiance, more distraction. I let her keep it. Sometimes distraction is a sharper leash than chains.
Our arms brush once, twice. The wool of my coat still hangs off her shoulders, and the movement is enough to let my hand graze hers. Just enough to remind her I’m here. Close. Always close.
