Page 40 of Queen
Her head snaps toward me.
The fog thickens, swallowing the space around us. My men shift in the distance, their postures changing, waiting for a signal they know might mean trouble.
I reach out, take the card from her hand without asking. The paper is still warm from her skin, the ink dark and clean—fresh. Too fresh.
My jaw tightens. “This ends now.”
She doesn’t ask what I mean. She knows.
I toss the card into my coat pocket and guide her back toward the car, my hand on her lower back—not gentle, not rough, just enough to remind her that hesitation is a luxury she doesn’t get today.
The door shuts behind her with a solid, final thud.
As I move around to my side, the truth sits heavy in my chest: Santino just turned Giovanni’s grave into a battlefield. And he did it knowing Zina was watching.
That means he’s not just sending me a message.
He’s sending one to her.
9
zina
Return to the Lion’s Den
The car idles at the gates like it’s unsure whether to deliver me or devour me. Slate clouds roll low over the sky, heavy with rain, the kind that seeps into your bones before you even know you’re cold. Fat drops hit the windshield in uneven rhythm—tap, tap, tap—like a warning I should have listened to years ago.
The wrought iron gates groan open, slow and deliberate, as if the house itself is deciding whether I’m worth letting in. I stare past them, to the mansion crouched in the distance. It’s not just stone and glass—it’s breathing. Watching. Waiting.
Beside me, Emiliano doesn’t move. He’s all stillness, the kind that’s more dangerous than rage. His profile is carved from shadows, his jaw set like a loaded gun.
“You wanted to see your ghosts,” he says, voice flat, almost bored. But there’s a thread of cold steel under it. “I’ll give you time to haunt them back.”
He doesn’t get out. Doesn’t offer his hand. Just stays in the driver’s seat, like this is my battle and he’s content to watch from the sidelines. Maybe he is.
The doors open in unison—two guards stepping in, their hands loose near the pistols they don’t bother to hide. No one says my name. No one needs to.
I slide out of the car, the air slicing cold against the back of my neck. One guard takes the lead, the other falls in behind, a silent escort through the gates and up the long stretch of driveway. Each step is a countdown, the gravel crunching under my heels like a metronome of dread.
The front doors loom ahead, double-height and black as confession. They open before I reach them, and the familiar hit of scent slams into me—Giovanni’s cologne. Sharp, dark, expensive. It’s been months, but the air still wears him like a shroud.
The foyer hasn’t changed. Of course it hasn’t. The marble floor still gleams, the crystal chandelier still drips light like melting ice. And above it all, dominating the far wall, is his portrait. Giovanni in one of his tailored three-piece suits, eyes sharp enough to cut, mouth locked in that permanent curve of disapproval.
I stop at the base of the stairs. His gaze follows me—at least, it feels like it does. Same as it always did when I lived here, when I passed through this space and felt judged down to the marrow.
I’m not welcome here. And everyone knows it.
The guard at my back shifts, impatient. “Upstairs?” he asks. It’s not a question—it’s an order wrapped in politeness so thin it’s almost mocking.
I let my gaze drift over the space one more time. The house is exactly as I left it, and yet every inch of it feels altered, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for me to fuck up. The walls remember everything—every argument, every kiss, every betrayal.
I square my shoulders and start forward, my heels clicking sharp against the marble. If this place wants me to feel small, it’s going to have to try harder.
Sons of the King
The air inside is thick enough to choke on. Every breath tastes like dust, old money, and the aftershave Giovanni wore when he wanted to seduce and intimidate in the same breath.
They’re waiting for me.
