Page 95 of Queen
Romeo shakes his head, voice breaking. “You don’t understand. This is bigger than De Luca. Someone opened the gates. Other families—others who swore loyalty—” He stops himself, breath hitching. “It’s like the whole fucking underworld just put a bounty on our house.”
The fury that coils inside me is almost a relief—it keeps me upright when my body is breaking. I lean against the wall, tasting blood where I bit my cheek earlier in the yard. My voice drops to a whisper, but it carries the weight of a death sentence.
“They think she’s unguarded.”
Romeo’s silence confirms it. His gaze flicks toward the east, toward the coast where Zina and Guido sleep under false exile. He knows as well as I do: the scent of blood follows them still.
I straighten, every wound screaming, every muscle begging me to rest. But kings don’t rest. Monsters don’t rest. And I’m both.
“They think I’ll let her burn,” I murmur, more to myself than him. A bitter smile twists my mouth, sharp enough to cut. “Let them come.”
The words echo down the corridor, sharp as gunfire, a promise of the slaughter to come.
Romeo takes half a step back, as though even standing this close to me now is dangerous. Maybe it is. The walls feel like they’re leaning in, listening. Waiting.
Because somewhere in the dark, I know Zina feels it too—the storm gathering at our doorstep, the war that will test whether blood, love, or vengeance is the crown we wear to the grave.
21
zina
Breach at the Safehouse
The night tastes wrong. Too still, too sharp—like the air itself knows it’s about to split.
I pace the safehouse’s narrow hall, bare feet silent against cold stone. Guido sleeps in the adjoining room, curled against a threadbare blanket, his little chest rising too shallow, too fast. I should be beside him, guarding him with the feral devotion of a mother wolf. Instead, I prowl. My body knows what my mind refuses to admit: exile doesn’t mean safety. It never did.
The walls hum faintly, old pipes carrying the sea’s groan through their veins. The house is a box, built to hide us, not defend us. I press my hand to the window frame, the salt wind cutting my skin, and I swear I hear them in the distance—bootsteps. Too measured. Too many.
Then the glass trembles.
My heart lurches. I yank the dagger from my thigh sheath just as the first shot cracks the night. The window erupts, shards spraying like shrapnel. I throw my arm across my face, teeth bared, the sting of glass cutting into my forearm. Guido’s scream slices the dark, thin and terrified.
“Down!” I roar, already sprinting.
The second shot follows, splintering the doorframe, peppering plaster across the corridor. Shadows crawl across the cliffside as headlights blaze to life—three cars, engines snarling, beams carving the house open. Not random. Not chance. They’ve tracked us.
Guido stumbles into the hall, eyes wide, mouth trembling around my name. I scoop him against me, his heartbeat frantic against my chest. His voice cracks, “Mama—”
“Quiet,” I snap, sharper than I mean to, pressing him against the wall as bullets chew stone. He clamps his mouth shut, shaking. I kiss his hair once, quick and fierce, then drag him deeper into the house.
The door bursts open. Men flood in—faces masked, rifles raised, boots pounding with precision. Not De Luca foot soldiers. No, these are trained. Military. Bought. And one word scrawled in blood back at the villa slices through me like prophecy:Santino.
My lungs burn. My vision narrows. They want the boy. They want me kneeling in dirt, crown buried, blood spilling.
Over my dead body.
I shove Guido into the crawlspace beneath the stairwell, fingers gripping his cheeks so he can’t look away. My voice shakes with rage, not fear. “Don’t make a sound. Do you hear me? Not one.”
Tears glisten, but he nods. I slam the panel shut, sealing him in shadow. His breath still echoes in my skull, small and frantic.
The first man rounds the corner. I lunge before he can raise his weapon, the dagger punching deep into his throat. Hot blood sprays my face, metallic, holy. He gurgles, claws at me, then drops.
The next charges, rifle lifted. I slam my shoulder into his gut, driving him into the wall so hard the plaster cracks. His gun clatters. I grab it, jam the barrel up beneath his chin, and pull the trigger. His skull snaps back, painting the wall in red.
Two more shout, boots pounding closer. My hand is slick with blood, my ears ringing from the shot, but my grip is steady. I kick the first corpse off my blade, yank the rifle up, and brace.
“Come and take him,” I whisper, lips curled into a snarl.
