Page 83 of Queen
One of Emiliano’s guards—big, built like an ox, a man who once snapped another soldier’s arm for speaking Giovanni’s name without permission—slumped against the wall. His eyes are open, glazed with shock, his throat carved into a savage smile.
My knees hit marble before I even register the drop. I press my hand over the wound, but it’s useless. Blood leaks hot and slick through my fingers, pooling fast. His lips twitch.
“There’s… a breach…” His voice is nothing but gargles, blood bubbling at my palm. “…inside.”
My pulse spikes, ice flooding my veins.
“Who?” I demand, leaning close, my voice a blade’s edge. “Who the fuck let you bleed out on my floor?”
But his gaze rolls back. His head lolls to the side. Breath gone.
The silence after is worse than his dying words.
I rise slow, wiping my bloodied palm against the silk clinging to my thigh. Rage coils hot inside me, cutting through the fear. I told Guido I’d burn the world before I let them touch him again. This is their answer. Their message. Their challenge.
The corridor stretches ahead, lit with half-dead flames. Shadows crawl over the walls, too deep, too alive. Somewhere deeper, a door slams. Bootsteps echo. More than one pair. The estate hums with a new rhythm—war drums pounding in the dark.
My voice comes out low, steady, sharp enough to slice the night. “You motherfuckers picked the wrong house.”
My heels strike hard against marble, dagger gleaming in my fist. “You think you can crawl inside my walls? Into my son’s bed? Into my home?” My lips curl, a growl ripping free. “Then pray your ghosts are hungry—because I’ll feed them with your bones.”
The air charges, thick with an unseen presence, like the estate itself is holding its breath. Behind me, shouts rise—Emiliano’s men waking, the house roaring to life. But this moment belongs to me.
I’m not just a mother. Not just his queen. I’m the blade in the dark.
Whoever thought they could breach my sanctuary just lit the fuse.
I stalk toward the sound of boots, toward the traitor’s shadow waiting in my corridors.
Tonight, the war doesn’t knock.
It walks inside.
18
emiliano
Opening Ritual: Power on Display
The dining hall hasn’t seen light in years. Not since Giovanni. Not since the last time we gathered to bless blood and bury a traitor. Tonight, I drag the famiglia back into its bones.
Velvet drapes hang heavy as coffins. Iron chandeliers drip with wax like the walls themselves are bleeding. Crimson candles burn low, smoke crawling toward vaulted ceilings that remember too much. The table stretches the length of a battlefield, polished wood reflecting fire like it’s soaked in wine—or blood.
They come because I summoned them. Not asked. Summoned.
The Rivas sons. My lieutenants. Old men with broken backs but sharper eyes than knives. New blood eager to carve theirnames into legend. Every capo worth a bullet is here. They sit stiff, hushed, like they’re waiting for a verdict instead of a meal. Forks untouched. Wine untouched. Every glance tilts toward the head of the table. Toward me.
And toward her.
Zina sits at my side, black silk cut sharp against her body. At her throat, a blood-red stone flashes like a wound turned into armor. She doesn’t bow. Doesn’t flinch. The men notice. Good. Let them choke on it. She’s not here as ornament. She’s here as Queen.
I rise. The scrape of my chair on stone echoes like thunder. The silence deepens, suffocating.
My hand closes around the ceremonial dagger resting on velvet. Forged before I was born, its hilt carved with the Rivas crest, its blade scarred by generations of vows. I raise it high, steel catching firelight.
“Every empire has its altar,” I say, my voice cutting across the table like a bullet. “Every throne is held by blood.”
Some men shift. Some nod. A few glance toward Santino—waiting to see if the son of the dead king will rise, spit, or bow. I ignore them. My gaze stays on her.
