Page 88 of Queen
If it had gone off, there wouldn’t have been enough left of my boy to bury.
Guido is curled in the corner, clutching the guard who threw himself on the device. His face is white, lips parted in soundless screams, eyes too wide, too wet. He tries to call for me, but terror has stolen his voice.
I stumble forward, my vision narrowing. And then I see the walls.
It isn’t ink. It isn’t paint. It’s blood.
Thick strokes smeared with bare hands, dripping in jagged lines down the plaster. The letters scrawl across every surface, manic, violent.
“THERE ARE NO QUEENS IN THE AFTERLIFE.”
The words bleed in rivulets. Some still glisten. Whoever did this wasn’t gone long.
One of the soldiers mutters, trembling. “Madonna, protect us—”
“Shut the fuck up.” My voice is a snarl, raw and feral. Holy words have no place here.
I drop to my knees, drag Guido into my arms. His tiny fists claw at my nightdress, tearing the silk, leaving damp streaks ofspit and tears. He shakes so hard I can feel his ribs rattle. His breath stutters, shallow, frantic, a rabbit caught in a snare.
I press his face to my throat, rocking even as my own body quakes. “You’re safe. Mama’s here. I’ve got you.” My whisper fractures, glass-thin. “No one’s fucking touching you.”
But my eyes lock on the walls. On the dripping prophecy written in blood.
This isn’t revenge. This isn’t even war. It’s obliteration. A declaration that my crown painted the target. My pride sharpened the knife. They don’t just want my throne. They want my child erased.
A mother is supposed to fear death. But tonight, with Guido’s tears soaking my skin, I swear on my blood, on my bones—death will fear me first.
Council of War: Divide in the Ranks
The dining hall reeks of cigar smoke and sweat. The long oak table, once polished to a mirror shine, looks like an altar tonight—stained with shadows instead of wine.
The capos sprawl across its length, coats slung over chairs, pistols bulging beneath tailored suits. Some avoid my eyes. Others stare too long, like I’m already a ghost they’re rehearsing how to bury.
Emiliano stands at the head of the table, one hand braced on the wood, the other gripping a glass of untouched scotch. His jaw ticks, but his voice is steady. “They went after my son.” His eyes flick toward me, and I see the correction burning there.Our son.But he doesn’t say it aloud. Not here. Not in front of men who would call it weakness.
“They planted the bomb under his bed,” Romeo growls. His fists clench, his body trembling like a coiled spring. “That’s not war. That’s extermination. We answer in kind. We burn the De Lucas to fucking ash.”
Half the table slams fists, muttering vengeance, their hunger for fire vibrating the air. The sound crawls under my skin. Guido’s tiny body trembling in my arms flashes in my mind—his fists clawing my dress, his breath catching like broken glass—and bile claws its way up my throat.
One of the older consiglieri leans forward, rings glinting beneath the chandelier. His voice slithers, oily and smug. “Or we turn it. Let word spread the boy survived—that he is untouchable, protected by fate itself. We use it as propaganda. The Queen’s heir, blessed by survival.”
The slap in my hand trembles before I stop it. Instead, my voice cuts sharper than steel. “You slimy bastard. My son is not your fucking banner. He’s a child. A child who almost died because of this crown you all pretend to worship.”
The room freezes. For once, they look at me not as ornament, not as pawn—but as something feral. Something that could cut them too.
Emiliano doesn’t speak. He watches me, letting me bleed my rage across the table.
“You talk about vengeance like it’s currency,” I hiss. “Every one of you measures blood like you’re trading stocks. But I’m the one paying. Me. In the sound of my boy’s voice stolen by terror.In the weight of his ribs shaking against my chest because you bastards couldn’t keep wolves from crawling into our house.”
The table shifts uneasily. Some look down. Others lean forward, testing me.
Santino’s chair sits empty. I feel his absence like a knife at my spine.
Romeo’s voice slices through, low, aimed at Emiliano. “Brother, if we don’t answer this, they’ll think we’re weak. Next time, no one will reach the bomb in time.”
Emiliano’s gaze flicks between him and me. I see it—the fire in his eyes, the war he’s craving. But I slam my palm down, the crack echoing like a shot.
“No.” The word whips the air. “You burn the wrong house, and you only prove the traitor already owns the board. We find the snake insidebeforewe torch the neighbors.”
