Page 96 of Queen
The safehouse walls shudder with gunfire, but inside me, something steadier rises. Not panic. Not despair.
War.
Holding the Line
The house is no longer a house. It’s a cage filling with wolves.
Gunfire rips through the corridor, plaster dust raining down in choking clouds. My pulse hammers as I crouch low, rifle braced, listening for the rhythm of their boots. They’re moving fast, practiced, like they’ve mapped every corner. This isn’t chaos—it’s a hunt.
Guido’s shallow breaths echo in my head, trapped behind the crawlspace panel. Every shot, every scream, I imagine him hearing it, trembling in the dark. That thought alone keeps my grip steady when my muscles want to shake.
Another shadow cuts across the doorway. I squeeze the trigger. The bullet tears through him, dropping him mid-step. His rifle clatters, but I don’t let myself move. One shot draws the others.
Sure enough, two more rush in, shouting in a language I don’t recognize—Italian twisted with something harsher, Eastern maybe. Outsiders. Mercenaries bought for blood. I drop the first with a clean shot to the chest. The second dives behind the overturned table, firing wild. Bullets shred the wallpaper, wood splintering inches from my face.
I roll, pressing flat to the wall, then whip the knife from my thigh. The moment he pauses to reload, I slide low, slam into him, and drive the blade under his ribs. His scream gurgles hot against my ear. I wrench it free, blood spraying across my hands, then silence him with another stab to the throat.
My chest heaves. My arm shakes. But I don’t stop.
More boots. Too many. They’re pouring in like locusts, and for every one I cut down, two more spill through the door.
I retreat step by step, dragging the rifle with me, my back slick with sweat, hair sticking to my face. The safehouse trembles under the barrage, windows exploding, wood groaning.
And then I hear it. A new sound—heavy, grinding, mechanical. The whine of steel against stone.
They’re bringing something bigger.
“Motherfuckers,” I hiss, eyes darting to the panel where Guido hides. My boy. My reason.
I can’t hold this ground. Not with him here. If they breach with explosives, the whole house will be ash, and he’ll burn with it.
One of the dying men gurgles near my feet. I crouch low, fist tangled in his collar, yanking his mask down. His eyes are glassy, but he’s still alive enough to hear me. I snarl into his blood-flecked face. “Who sent you?”
His lips twitch. His breath smells of iron and smoke. One word escapes, garbled but clear enough to brand me in fire.
“Rivas.”
My blood freezes. Santino.
A roar builds in my chest, but I shove it down. Later. Right now, survival is the only vow.
I slam him back to the floor, grab my knife, and force my body into motion. My mind races, calculating. I need to move Guido. Need a way out before the roof caves in.
The house isn’t just under attack—it’s already lost.
And if Santino’s fingerprints are on this, then this isn’t just war. This is fratricide.
Flight Through Fire
The house won’t hold. I can feel it in the walls, in the timbers rattling like bones under the onslaught. The enemy doesn’t care about breaking in clean. They want it scorched, gutted, turned to ruin so nothing survives inside.
I rip the panel open and pull Guido into my arms. His face is pale, streaked with dust and sweat. His small fists clutch mynightdress so tight the fabric bites into my ribs. His voice is nothing but a whisper. “Mama…”
“Quiet, baby.” My breath saws out sharp as I kiss his hair, taste the salt of his fear. “Hold on to me. Don’t look back.”
A fresh blast rocks the safehouse, a window imploding in a spray of glass. The air fills with smoke and gunpowder. Boots thunder in the east hall—too close. My only path is west, toward the cliff.
I grab the knife, the pistol, shove the rifle’s strap across my shoulder, and run. My heels pound marble, Guido’s breath stuttering against my collarbone. Men scream behind us, some mine, some theirs, but the difference doesn’t matter. Everyone bleeds the same when war breaks through the door.
