Page 44 of Queen
Outside, footsteps scrape softly in the hall—measured, deliberate. Someone is lingering just beyond the door. Listening.
My spine stiffens. My hand smooths down Guido’s back, even as I keep my eyes trained on the sliver of light beneath the door.
I don’t let go of him. Not yet.
I press my lips into his hair, the scent of soap and rain clinging to him, clean and untainted. “We’ll be all right,” I murmur.
The words are a lie, but he nods against me, choosing to believe.
And I know the day is coming when even that small mercy will be ripped from him—when he’ll learn for himself that in this house, love isn’t enough to keep you safe.
The Recording Exists
The room is dim, the only glow coming from the weak halo of the bedside lamp. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the wood grain of the floorboards, letting the day’s venom seep through me.
Guido is asleep in the adjoining room, his soft breathing just audible through the cracked door. That small rhythm is the only thing keeping me from splintering apart.
The door slams open.
Emiliano fills the frame—broad shoulders, fury carved into every line of his body. His eyes are dark enough to swallow thelight, his jaw clenched so tight I imagine hearing the grind of bone.
“What did Santino say to you?” His voice is sharp, demanding—not seeking answers but demanding confessions.
I lift my chin, forcing my face into something cool, detached. “He doesn’t matter.”
The laugh that leaves him isn’t a laugh at all. It’s the ghost of one—humorless, twisted. He crosses the room in three long strides and slams something onto the nightstand. The object skids across polished wood before spinning to a stop.
A USB drive.
“He sent me this,” Emiliano says, his voice low, restrained, more dangerous than a shout. “Said you’d want to watch it before I do.”
The words drop into the room like a loaded gun hitting the floor.
I stare at the drive. It sits there like it’s breathing, pulsing, alive. My fingers twitch against my thigh.
Years. Years I’ve spent locking away truths, burying memories so deep I could almost pretend they didn’t exist. And now—now they’re sitting in front of me, small enough to fit in my palm, impossible to ignore.
“Why?” My voice comes out smaller than I want.
“You tell me.” His eyes narrow, cutting into me.
My hand shakes when I reach for it, though I tell myself it’s from anger, not fear. The metal is cold, but not cold enough to match the chill racing through my veins.
Emiliano doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move. His presence is a storm at my back, silent but too close, too charged. He waits.
I slide the drive into the laptop. The screen stays black for a beat too long, as though deciding whether to reveal what’s inside. Then the image flickers alive.
A voice fills the room.
“Zina.”
My blood freezes.
It’s Giovanni.
His tone is both familiar and foreign—like a song I once loved but can’t hum now without choking. “If you’re hearing this…” The pause stretches, deliberate. “You made the wrong choice.”
My stomach drops, the air sucked from my lungs.
