Page 79 of Queen
On the other end, I hear it—the tremor he can’t control. My soldier has slit throats, burned men alive at my command. But this shakes him.
“Your brother’s grave…” His words hitch. “…was dug up.”
The world stops. A soundless detonation in my skull. Giovanni.
I see the dirt ripped open, the coffin splintered, the bones dragged into the air where the worms should’ve feasted in silence. Desecration. Humiliation. A challenge written in soil and rot.
Zina is awake now, propping herself up against the pillows, the sheets falling to her waist, her body still glowing with the aftermath of us. Her brows knit as she watches me—she knows before I even speak.
“What is it?”
My grip on the phone tightens until plastic cracks under my hand. I don’t answer her right away. Because how the fuck do I say it? That my blood, my king, the man who made me and damned me, has been torn from the earth like he was never meant to rest.
I force the words out. “Giovanni’s grave.” My voice is smoke and broken glass. “They dug him up.”
Her face goes pale, the fire in her eyes doused in something colder than fear. It’s recognition. She knows exactly what this means—because whoever did this isn’t just declaring war. They’re rewriting history.
I step to the window, phone still clutched in my hand, and stare out into the black gardens of the estate. Rain lashes the glass like claws. My reflection stares back, hollow-eyed, jaw clenched, a man who built empires and now feels the ground collapsing beneath him.
Zina slides out of bed, silk trailing her like shadow, and comes to stand beside me. She doesn’t touch me—she never fucking does when I need it most—but her presence is a blade at my ribs, sharp, grounding.
She whispers the truth neither of us wants to say aloud. “This isn’t about Santino.”
I nod once, the weight of it crushing. “No.”
The line is still open. My soldier whispers, almost pleading. “Boss, what do we do?”
I kill the call without answering. My fists slam against the glass, and the rain outside cracks against it in reply.
Behind me, Zina’s voice cuts low, steady as a curse. “They just pulled the king out of his grave. That’s not provocation.” Her eyes find mine in the reflection, burning like twin torches. “That’s a fucking resurrection.”
And for the first time in years, my blood runs cold.
17
zina
The Fire Inside
The corridors whisper when I walk.
Not the whispers of gossip or fear—those are too soft, too cowardly. This is different. Heavier. A current running under marble floors, brushing cold fingers against the walls, making men lower their eyes as I pass. The sound of my heels ricochets against the stone, sharp, unrelenting, like a firing squad marking its rhythm.
I wear black. Not mourning. Never again mourning. This silk clings sharp against my skin, a sheath instead of a gown, my crown of ruin woven into every thread. Each step feels ceremonial, like the unveiling of a monarch who no longer hides in shadows but walks clothed in fire.
The staff bow their heads. Emiliano’s guards, men who once watched me with suspicion, step aside without orders. One even dares to glance up. I hold his stare until he flinches, until the bravado melts from his face and he remembers who I am. What I’ve become.
I’m not afraid of their fear anymore. I feed on it. It steadies me. Every drop of terror in their eyes is proof that the crown I wear isn’t forged of gold—it’s carved from their nightmares.
Inside, a voice I’ve buried for years finally claws free. I was born in shadows. Raised in blood. Trained by kings who thought I’d kneel forever. Giovanni tried to make me his trophy. Emiliano tried to make me his weapon. Both forgot the truth. Queens don’t bow. Queens don’t break. They burn until the whole fucking world learns to kneel.
I push open the double doors of the main hall. The chandeliers above are dark, crystals hanging like frozen tears. No one has lit them since Giovanni’s reign—too heavy with memory, too drenched in ghosts. Dust coats the iron fixtures, cobwebs dangling like mourning veils. But I don’t need their light.
I bring my own fire.
The flames inside me are not grief anymore. They’re reclamation. Every scar, every betrayal, every humiliation has been sharpened into fuel. Tonight, I’ll wield it. Not against Emiliano—no, that would be too easy—but with him. He thinks he holds the reins. He doesn’t realize I’ve already wrapped them around my fist.
A memory claws up, unbidden, sharp enough to draw blood. My mother’s voice. Whispered on a night when I was too small to understand, too frightened of the man she married.“Queens don’t cry, Zina. They conquer.”Her hands had been trembling when she said it, but her voice—her voice had been steady.
