Page 67 of Queen
Zina doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak.
But out of the corner of my eye, I see her lips part, the faintest tremor of breath slipping out—like she heard the vow, like it lodged itself in her ribs whether she wanted it there or not.
The car eats the last mile of road. Gravel crunches beneath the tires as the trees split open to reveal the clearing ahead. My grip tightens one final time on the wheel.
The King’s grave waits.
Deeper Than Blood
The forest is a cathedral of shadows. Moonlight bleeds through bare branches, carving silver bars across moss and stone. Every breath tastes of earth and rot, thick, like the dead themselves are waiting to witness what we’re about to do.
The old grave is nothing more than a crumbling slab of stone, Giovanni’s name carved by a hand that once thought eternity belonged to him. No flowers. No offerings. Just the cold, raw truth of soil and time. I stare at it, and the weight of years crashes down, chains across my shoulders.
Every empire has its altar. This one, I realize, has always been mine.
I strip off my jacket, then my shirt, down to the sweat-soaked undershirt clinging to my back. The cold bites, sharp as teeth, but I welcome it. Pain sharpens me. Reminds me what’s at stake. I dig with my hands, then with the old spade hauled from the trunk, every thrust into the earth a punishment. My arms burn. My lungs seize. Dirt cakes my palms, slides under my nails, mixes with the raw cut from earlier.
Behind me, Zina stands with her arms folded tight across her chest, her face carved from something unreadable. Not grief. Not mercy. Something harder. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t shift. Just watches, like she’s measuring whether I’ll falter.
I don’t.
The hole grows deeper, black as sin under the moonlight. My body aches, but I refuse to slow. Betrayal deserves no gentleness. Matteo drank our wine, shared our table, wore our trust like armor. Now he’ll rot with Giovanni.
When the pit yawns wide enough, I drag Matteo’s body from the trunk. The linen is soaked through, stiff with blood. His face is mangled, jaw twisted, like he died trying to swallow the truth. I lower him in, and for a moment, I see us younger—the three of us laughing, Giovanni at the head of the table, Matteo raising a glass. For a fleeting second, guilt claws at my chest.
Then Zina steps forward.
She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t cross herself. Instead, she pulls Giovanni’s old ring from her pocket—the signet he wore like a crown, the weight of his empire pressed into a single band of gold. Without hesitation, she tosses it into the grave. It lands on Matteo’s chest with a dull, final thud.
“I don’t want a ghost’s blessing,” she murmurs, her voice jagged glass.
Something inside me stills. She isn’t afraid of kings. She isn’t begging for permission from the past. She’s spitting in its face.
I look at her, chest twisting. The fire in her eyes is the same one that once burned in Giovanni’s, the same that nearly consumed me. But hers is different. It isn’t about ruling men. It’s about survival. Vengeance. Something deeper than blood.
The Ceremony of Fire and Salt
I crouch at the edge of the grave, salt clutched in my fist. Sweat and dirt cling to my undershirt, the cold biting into my skin, it reminds me this isn’t just ritual—it’s retribution.
Grain by grain, I scatter salt around the grave. Each motion is deliberate, the circle taking form with a precision that borders the dark hole.
Across from me, Zina watches. Arms folded, jaw set, her expression carved from obsidian. The flames from my match catch in her eyes, hard and unyielding, making her look less like a mourner and more like a weapon.
The line of fire hisses to life, crawling along the salted perimeter. Controlled. Hungry. A serpent circling the dead.
Without hesitation, she takes the second match from my pocket, strikes it against stone, and drops it. The opposite side ignites, completing the crown of fire. Heat rises between us, smoke wrapping upward like incense at an altar.
I bow my head. My lips move, the Sicilian words sliding out like smoke from an old wound:
“Ca si puttuni ruviri sutta lu rè, ca la Zina si susi di cenniri.” (When the king rots beneath the earth, the queen will rise from ashes.)
The vow bleeds out of me, raw and guttural. Not meant for Matteo. Not even for Giovanni. For us.
Zina tilts her head, the fire painting her face in amber and shadow. “That wasn’t for him, was it?”
I raise my eyes. No mask. No strategy. Just the brutal truth. Slowly, I shake my head. “No. It was for us.”
The silence after is heavier than chains. Her chest rises once, deliberate. She doesn’t step closer, doesn’t retreat.
