Page 92 of Queen
Inside me, something shatters.
My reflection stares back—hollow eyes, jaw locked, hands clenched white at my sides. A king in black velvet and gold cufflinks, but the throne feels empty without her. What’s a crown worth without a Queen to sharpen it against?
“I let her go to save her,” I whisper, voice hoarse, cracked down the middle. My men would call it weakness. Maybe it is. But in this life, weakness and love are the same thing.
The rage coils up to fill the hollow space. God help the man who thinks she belongs to the world now. She belongs to me. Always has. Always will.
I watch until the last flicker of headlights disappears beyond the gates. Until silence presses into this house like a tomb. The walls feel stripped bare, the air thick as smoke.
They think tonight was her exile. They’re wrong. Tonight was a vow. If she returns, it won’t be because I chained her here. It’ll be because her fire matches mine, because she burns for me as much as I burn for her.
And if she doesn’t? Then the world itself will be ash.
I turn from the window, fists trembling, pulse hammering at my throat. For the first time in years, I wonder if the one thing I cannot conquer is the woman who carries my soul in her silence.
The Throne Without a Queen
The war room feels like a mausoleum tonight. Heavy iron chandeliers drip wax over the long oak table, crimson candles bleeding slow as if the walls themselves are mourning. Maps sprawl across the surface. Pistols and knives glint under firelight. Men fill every seat—capos, lieutenants, soldiers with blood still drying on their boots. Their voices grind together, a low chorus of vengeance, fire-for-blood.
Noise. Just noise. Empty. Hollow. Because she’s gone.
I sit at the head of the table, leather groaning under my weight. A king with his council, yes—but a king without his Queen is just a man haunted by ghosts. Every word they spit sounds like cowardice. None of them understands what’s already been lost. What I’ve already let walk out those gates.
Romeo leans forward, sharper than the rest, younger but not blind. His voice cuts clean. “She didn’t leave you,” he says flatly. “She left for him.”
The room freezes like he pulled a trigger.
My gaze snaps to him. “There’s no difference.” But the truth gnaws. He means Guido. We all know it. She didn’t walk away from me—she walked away for blood. For our boy. Still, her absence is a blade under my ribs, twisting every time I breathe.
“Boss,” one consigliere starts, oily and cautious, “if she’s gone, maybe we should—”
“Shut the fuck up.” My voice detonates. Flames jump in the candles. Half the men recoil like whipped dogs.
I rise, the scrape of the chair against stone loud as a shot. My fists clench so tight the scar on my palm splits open, bleeding fresh down my wrist.
“She’s not gone,” I growl. “She’s mine. Every breath she takes, every step she makes, belongs to me—even if she doesn’t fucking see it yet.”
The men shift uneasily. They fear me—but more than that, they fear what obsession does to a man like me.
I slam my hand down on the table, blood streaking across the map of territories. “Full surveillance on Zina. On the boy. I want eyes at the coast. No one goes near her—not rival, not ally, not family. Not even you, Romeo.”
Romeo stiffens. His mouth twitches like he wants to argue, but he swallows it. Not here. Not with every capo watching.
I lean forward, glare scorching the entire table. “If anyone disobeys that order, I’ll cut their tongue out and nail it right here.” My bloody hand spreads over the map. “Do I make myself clear?”
A ragged chorus of “Yes, boss” shakes the air. Enough to satisfy me. For now.
I sink back into my chair, chest heaving. Silence stretches like a noose. My men return to their notes, their mutters, their hollow strategies.
But I don’t hear them. All I hear is her silence. All I see is her back as she walked away. And all I know is this—whatever war is coming, it’s mine to command.
But the only battlefield that matters is the one between her heart and mine. And I’ll burn every city to ash before I lose it.
Memory Is a Weapon
The study is dark except for the faint glow of the desk lamp, its weak light bleeding across the shelves of ledgers and books that haven’t been touched in years. This room has always been where I plot wars, shift territories, play God with lives and empires. But tonight, it feels like a tomb. My tomb.
I pull the drawer open. Slow. Deliberate. As if rushing will shatter what little control I’ve got left.
