Page 8 of Queen
I set it aside and pick up the next.
“You don’t look at me like he does.” “You don’t see a wife. You see a weapon.” “Part of me wants that.”
The paper creases as my grip tightens.
She wanted me. Even then. Even when she wore his ring, bore his son, carried his name like shackles. She wanted me.
And Giovanni knew it. That’s why he kept her locked down. That’s why he kept her under his thumb. Because the only man who ever saw her clearly—was standing in the dark.
Me.
I smooth the pages, press them flat, as though I can erase the years she wasted. As though I can undo time.
I’ll give her what he never could. My name. My empire. My bed.
And she’ll take it. Because she already has.
My voice drops to a whisper, my eyes on the looping curve of her handwriting.
“You belong to me,” I murmur. “Even your secrets.”
The fire flickers higher, like it understands.
I gather the bundle, press it once to my chest, then tuck it back into the drawer. Locked away. Waiting.
One day she’ll read them again. One day she’ll remember.
And by then? It’ll be too fucking late.
Terms of Ownership: The Marriage Deal
The fire has burned down to dying embers—just a red whisper of heat, no flame left to distract me. It suits me. I don’t need light. I don’t need warmth. Only the slow, steady reminder that something once burned, and now only I control whether it dies or flares alive again.
I pull open the drawer once more. Her letter lies inside—creased, taped, worn from my hands. I’ve smoothed those edges more times than I can count. Touched them until the paper felt like skin. Reverent. Obsessive. A relic in a world that doesn’t believe in saints anymore.
I slide it out, press it flat on the desk beside my laptop, let my fingertips linger on the ink.Zina.The name itself is a blade, carved into me.
This is how you start a war and call it love.
I open the encrypted channel. No greetings. No flowers of language. Just the truth, clean and brutal. The only kind that matters.
Marriage.Full surrender.No secrets.No escape.
The words glow against the screen, cold and merciless. I let them sit, taste the power in them, then press send.
My jaw flexes. I reach for the bourbon again, the ice melted down to a shard. I tip it back. Let the burn cut a line straight through my chest.
She won’t argue. Not this time.
Zina’s too smart. She knows the fucking stakes. Without me, she’s a dead woman dressed in silk, bleeding slow while Giovanni’s sons sharpen their knives. They’ll carve her crown off her head and dance in the mess.
With me… she gets to rule. Not clean. Not free. But royally.
And she knows it.
I lean into the desk, elbows braced, fingers steepled like I’m already at the altar. I don’t see the dying fire anymore. I see her. The mouth that can spit venom or beg with the same lips. Those eyes that cut through marble but hide the trembling underneath. The walk, all elegance, but built on rage and survival.
I remember the first time—Palermo. She was seventeen. Giovanni’s shadow, too silent, too polished. I couldn’t look away. She felt me staring, every fucking time, and still she played the good little wife-to-be. Pretended not to notice how my gaze stripped her down to truth.
