Page 7 of Queen
My eyes shut. I tilt my head toward the fire, breathing in the smoke and oak, the scent of leather that clings to this room like a second skin. The taste of victory settles heavy on my tongue.
She said it. She’s mine.
The edge of a smile threatens, but I don’t let it rise. Not yet. Power isn’t taken with grins—it’s held in restraint. I let the weight of her words stretch between us until the silence is unbearable. Then I break it, low, clipped.
“You’re sure?”
Her voice doesn’t shake. “Yes.”
God. That sound. I’ve memorized it for twenty years. I’ve heard it curse me. Heard it scream his name, not mine. Heard it break like glass.
Now? It bends.
And nothing is more beautiful.
“I’ll send the driver at noon. Same place.”
That’s all. No promises. No comfort. No lie of love. And then I end the call.
The silence that follows isn’t peace—it’s hunger. I reach for the bourbon, take a slow sip. The heat burns my throat, coils in my chest like a flare.
This is what I’ve been waiting for. Years of watching her walk beside him, her fire dampened. Years of swallowing the need to rip her out of his hands. Years of blood, silence, and strategy.
She always belonged to me. Giovanni just borrowed her.
I plant a hand flat on the mahogany, grounding myself before I lose control. I don’t trust this victory yet. Too clean. Too simple. But the difference now—
She called me.
Not for love. Not for safety. For survival. The most honest kind of surrender.
I flip the folder open. The photo on top: Sicily. She’s laughing, hair in the wind, his ring on her finger. A perfect lie.
My jaw clenches. My eyes burn.Fucking waste.
I trace the edge of her face with a fingertip.
You’ll wear mine soon. And this time, there will be no walking away.
Reading the Letters – Her Hidden Heart
The drawer clicks open with a sound too sharp for a room this quiet. Reverent, almost ritual.
Inside—bundled in twine, edges yellowed, fragile as dried petals—are her words.
Words she never meant me to see. But I saw them anyway. And I kept them.
The first letter is worn soft where my thumb has rubbed it over the years, stained in places from sweat. I unfold it carefully, like a priest handling relics. The paper exhales with a sigh, like it remembers.
“Sometimes I think I made the wrong choice.” “Sometimes… when you look at me, I forget who I’m supposed to love.” “You scare me. Not because you’d hurt me. But because I know I’d let you.”
I read them aloud. Each word low, deliberate. A prayer said into flames.
She never signed these. Never addressed them. She wrote in the margins of sketchbooks, on hotel stationery, the backs of receipts when Giovanni wasn’t watching. She thought they were safe. Hidden.
But nothing escapes me.
She thought she loved him. But love doesn’t sound like this. This is doubt. This is ache. This is obsession, pressed into scraps of paper and hidden like contraband.
