Page 39 of Queen
I don’t take her hand. I don’t push further. There’s more power in letting her simmer—in letting the questions gnaw at her while I stay quiet.
My thoughts spiral inward. I’ve given her everything but the truth. And now I want the one thing she still won’t give—her forgiveness.
Not her trust. Trust is fragile, conditional. Forgiveness—that’s the currency that binds a person to you for life. And I’ve never been the kind of man who plays for anything less than permanent.
We pass the last row of stones, the gravel path widening toward the gates. My men stand where I left them, watching but not interfering. They know better than to cut into this moment.
The car waits like a sentinel, black paint drinking in the weak morning light. The cold bites sharper here in the open, the wind tugging at the edges of my coat still wrapped around her.
When we reach the car, I circle ahead, open the rear door for her. A gentleman’s gesture. A monster’s timing.
“You mourned him,” I say. My voice is quiet, but there’s no softness in it. “Now forget him.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and for a second, I catch the flicker of heat there—anger, grief, maybe both. Her lips part like she wants to speak, then close again, the words trapped.
“You belong to me.”
The words hang in the space between us, heavier than the morning fog. She doesn’t step forward immediately. I watch her, patient, letting the weight of the statement sink in. I want her to hear the vow in it, the threat, the inevitability.
Finally, she slides into the back seat, the velvet of her dress whispering against the leather. I close the door, the sound final and sharp, like a gavel dropping.
As I walk around to my side, the thought hits me again—she’ll either break under the truth I’ve kept from her… or she’ll find a way to use it against me.
Either way, she’s not walking away. Not now. Not ever.
A Name from the Grave
Her hand is on the door handle when she stops.
At first, I think it’s hesitation—another little act of defiance to stretch the moment between us. But then she turns her head, back toward the grave. The fog curls low over the grass, and from here, I can just make out the flowers lying at the base of Giovanni’s headstone.
They’re not the ones I left.
Zina steps away from the car, slow, deliberate, like she’s walking into a thought she hasn’t fully formed yet. I follow her gaze to the bouquet—white lilies, fresh, their stems still wet. Tucked beneath them, a small cream-colored card catches the breeze.
I feel the change in her before she touches it. Her shoulders stiffen, her breathing shifts. She crouches, fingers brushing the petals before sliding the card free.
The wind carries the faint scrape of paper as she opens it. Her eyes lock on the inside for a heartbeat too long.
Then she says it. A single name.
“Santino.”
The sound of it is enough to still the air in my lungs.
My entire body goes rigid. The cold around us is nothing compared to the one that coils through me now.
She looks at me, then back to the grave, then at me again. Her voice is barely a whisper, but it lands like a fucking gunshot.
“He knows.”
Every instinct I have sharpens in an instant. This isn’t about flowers. This isn’t about mourning. This is about lines being crossed, territories being tested. Santino being here isn’t a coincidence—it’s a message. And if he’s leaving his name like this, it means he’s ready for me to know he’s watching.
I close the distance between us in two steps, my voice low and clipped. “Get in the car. Now.”
She doesn’t move right away. Her eyes are still on the card, her grip tight like it’s the last thread tying her to the moment.
“Zina.”
