Page 84 of Queen
I drag the blade across my palm, slow and deliberate. Blood wells red and thick, dripping onto the table, soaking into wood like it belongs there.
“I loved her in shadows,” I declare, voice rough, unflinching. “Now I vow to bleed with her in the light.”
Gasps ripple. Someone mutters a curse. Another crosses himself. I don’t stop.
“This isn’t theater. Tonight, we bind what Giovanni built to what I will build. We make fire out of ashes.”
Zina doesn’t hesitate. She extends her hand, steady, palm open, waiting for the blade. No fear. No trembling. She looks at me like I’m not just king—but the executioner she chose.
I slice her skin, and our blood mingles across the table’s grain, dark and holy. The room holds its breath.
Then I speak the vow every man here knows, twisted into something new:
“With this blood, I bind not only myself—but every man at this table—to her.”
The silence is absolute. The candles snap. The air tastes of iron.
Zina’s blood runs with mine. The Queen has been crowned.
Public Defiance: Santino’s Rebellion
The knife gleams under chandelier light, its edge catching the flicker of a hundred candles. The silence in the hall is thick enough to choke on. Every soldier, every consigliere, every one of Giovanni’s sons—every set of eyes is on me as I lift the blade and offer my palm to Zina.
She doesn’t flinch. Of course she doesn’t. My Queen was carved from fire.
And then—like a gunshot in a cathedral—Santino moves. His chair scrapes back with a violent screech across marble, the sound slicing the hush in two. He stands, squared shoulders, chest heaving like a man seconds from drawing steel.
“I won’t fucking watch this.” His voice is venom, low but sharp enough to cut. “This—” his arm lashes toward me, towardher, toward the blade poised to carve legacy into flesh—“this is a mockery of our father’s empire.”
The room stiffens, air turning brittle. Men glance between us, half ready to stand, half ready to kneel. Even the candle flames seem to wait.
I keep my gaze locked on him, steady as stone. “Sit the fuck down.”
“No.” His voice cracks but doesn’t waver. His jaw clenches, his eyes burning with the fury of betrayal. “You’ve twisted his death, Emiliano. Twistedher.” His finger jabs at Zina like she’s the sin written across our table. “You’re using her as a fucking pawn. Giovanni’s corpse isn’t even cold in the ground—”
My laugh is sharp, humorless. “Giovanni’s been dead long enough to rot. And I don’t need his corpse’s permission to lead.”
I lower the blade, slow and deliberate, to my palm. Without breaking eye contact, I slice deep. Blood beads, rich and red. The room gasps.
Zina extends her hand. Steady. Regal. I take it. Together we press down. The blade bites, our blood mingling, dripping onto the tablecloth like wine spilled at sacrament.
Gasps echo louder, awe and fear tangling.
I raise our joined hands, our blood binding us in fire. “You think this breaks your father’s legacy?” I roar, voice booming across the chamber. “No. This—” I thrust our blood forward for every coward to see—“this is how we carve something stronger from the ashes.”
Zina tilts her chin, crimson running between our fingers like molten flame. She doesn’t need to speak. The room feels her crown settle on every man’s shoulders like a weight they can’t ignore.
Santino’s face twists—rage, grief, something more fragile than either. His throat bobs. He looks at me like he’s staringinto a mirror that shows him his own future—a monster made of legacy.
Then he spits on the marble. A filthy rejection.
“You’re not building something stronger,” he growls. “You’re burning what’s left.”
He turns, boots striking like war drums as he storms out. The doors slam, rattling the chandeliers.
I don’t blink. I don’t falter. I squeeze Zina’s blood-slick hand, raise my chin, and let my voice roll across the table like judgment.
“Let him walk. But remember this night. Remember who bled. Because when the storm comes—and itwill—there will be no mercy for those who stand against us.”
