Page 64 of Queen
“Then kneel,” I whisper.
The silence after is absolute.
The Exchange Site
The name Matteo gasped through bloodied lips lodges in my skull like a blade. A rundown orphanage on the edge of Emiliano’s territory—forgotten by everyone except the kind of men who prey on shadows.
We drive in silence. The black car hums low across cracked streets, headlights slicing through the dying night. The city feelslike it’s holding its breath, as if even the air knows something is about to break.
I sit rigid, my hands clenched in my lap, the knight piece digging into my palm—a reminder of both vow and wound. Beside me, Emiliano is carved from stone, his profile all hard edges, unyielding.
Halfway there, his hand shifts. Just the faintest brush—his fingers sliding against mine in the dim space between us. Not a command. Not possession. Just… touch.
For a breath, my chest aches with the temptation to let it anchor me. But I pull away, my voice sharp enough to cut the silence. “You don’t get to comfort me. Not yet.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just nods once, like my rejection is exactly what he expected. His hand returns to the wheel, steady, and the car keeps moving.
We arrive as dawn begins to bleed across the sky. The orphanage squats like a corpse—brick hollowed out, windows broken and black. Rusted gates creak when the guards force them open.
Inside, the air is thick with mildew and dust. Every step echoes too loudly. Cameras blink red from the corners, small eyes recording every move. Emiliano signals his men to spread out, weapons drawn, the weight of war pressing down on all of us.
Then I see him.
Guido.
He’s sitting on the floor of what used to be a common room, his small body dwarfed by peeling wallpaper and collapsed furniture. His clothes are clean. He’s been fed. His hair is combed. No bruises mar his skin.
But he doesn’t move.
He doesn’t run to me. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t shout my name. He flinches when I take a step forward, like I’m just another shadow come to hurt him.
My knees almost give. My heart splinters into pieces so sharp I can barely breathe. “Guido…” My voice cracks, softer than a whisper.
His eyes flick toward me, wide and wet, but he doesn’t come. His little hands tremble against the edge of something on the floor. A chessboard. The pieces scattered, smeared with streaks of dried blood.
At the center, that fucking pawn again.
I drop to my knees, every instinct screaming to pull him into my arms, to shield him, to promise it’s over. But he recoils.
His voice is so faint I almost miss it. “They made me play…”
The words slice deeper than any blade.
I reach for him, tears burning, but my son—my bright, laughing boy—flinches away.
Behind me, Emiliano curses under his breath. His men shift uneasily, scanning the walls, the cameras, the silent message etched into my child’s fear.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. All I see are Guido’s trembling lips, the way his small shoulders curl inward—as though he’s already learned the lesson Matteo never had to spell out: mercy is weakness.
And whoever orchestrated this knows it.
The Aftermath: Fire and Fury
Guido doesn’t move when the guards try to lift him. Doesn’t speak when Emiliano gestures for his men to step forward. He’s a statue carved from silence and terror, too fragile to be touched by anyone but me.
So I do it myself.
I crouch down, ignoring the sting in my knees against the dusty floor, and slip my arms beneath him. His body is light—too light, all angles and trembling bones. He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t cling. He just folds into me like something already broken. My chest aches at the weight—or the lack of it.
