Page 9 of Corrupted Queen

But my son is not a bird, and when he says it a second time and ramps up for a second round of howling, I know I have to act fast. I set him on the bed and grab my phone—my original phone, not the burner I have to use to avoid being tracked. I keep it on airplane mode if it’s on at all. I will have to sell it soon.

I swipe through the photos until I find one of Gabriel. I have no idea if this is going to work, but I’m willing to try anything to avoid my neighbors coming over to shut Harry up themselves. I hold the screen over Harry’s face, watching him hopefully.

Harry’s eyes lock onto the image and he releases a world-weary sigh that is far beyond his years, of which he has less than two. He stops crying and reaches up, trying to touch his father’s face. My heart cracks right down the middle.

“Go to sleep,” I say in a deep voice, both sounding and feeling ridiculous.

He puckers his lips and blinks slowly. My God, it’s working.

Something itches under my skin as I watch Harry fall asleep. It’s the same discomfort that has plagued me for a month now. I think it’s a combination of guilt and longing. I should hate Gabriel, but instead I miss him. I miss the feel of his heavy arms around my shoulders, the soft press of his lips on my neck, the almost primal protectiveness he had where Harry and I were concerned.

Yet how can I miss him when I know the first thing he will do if he finds me is take Harry away? I remember him threatening to do so all too clearly. It sticks in my mind like a rock in the sole of my shoe, digging in with every step I take.

I try not to let my thoughts dwell on Gabriel. I have a purpose now, besides staying just out of his grasp. There is darkness spreading through the city, and I intend to dig all the way down to the roots to expose it.

Later that night, flashing blue and red lights glow through my curtains, without an accompaniment of sirens. I tiptoe out of bed, trying not to wake Harry, and peek through the window. Another stretcher, another figure shrouded in plain white cotton.

This cements the realization that I cannot stay in this motel any longer or in any ones like it. I need to get out of here.

4

Gabriel

I adjust my cufflinks, listening to the chatter through the wooden door. The press are waiting for me, and they are hungry.

My war with Andrew Walsh was expensive and exhausting, but at least because of it, I was spared much of the everyday tedium that accompanied being a billionaire CEO. My assistant Jenny made polite apologies for the various fundraisers, galas, and grand openings I couldn’t attend, leaving me to focus on the bloody business at hand.

The tentative peace forged between the younger Walsh and I has freed up a lot more time, and certain pressures have necessitated a return to the boardroom. Those pressures are also what have brought me to this press conference, where I am about to announce a cut in funding to a number of Belluci Inc.’s drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers.

“You need to look less miserable when you’re on the podium,” Vito advises from beside me.

“I don’t want to do this,” I mutter.

He claps me on the back and I wince. “Sorry,” he says, noting my discomfort.

The wound in my shoulder has knitted together nicely, and only smarts now when I bump it or try to lift anything heavy. My legs, on the other hand, still ache almost every second of the day. I have gotten used to the pain.

“It’s fine,” I tell him.

Vito’s expression twists into concern. “I know you don’t want to do this, but you have a role to play. I’m sure you’re a little out of practice, but you need to be the billionaire they’re expecting.”

He means that I need to slip back into my CEO persona. Gentle smiles, well-timed laughter, and no public displays of menace or intimidation. If I could operate Belluci Inc. the way I operate the Family, things would run a lot more efficiently. Unfortunately, threats of violence in an office environment tend to lead nowhere but human resources.

I grit my teeth, listening as my publicist Carmen Book lays out the format of the conference. I will make a speech, then answer a few questions. Should be simple enough. Only, the words I need to say burn at the bottom of my throat like bile.

Vito comes closer, stroking his beard with a sympathetic smile. “This is a small sacrifice to avoid a larger catastrophe. You are doing what you have to do.”

He is right, but somehow, the pill is no easier to swallow.

My thoughts drift to Alexis, as they inevitably do when I’m mired in stress. I can see her plump lips and rosy cheeks in my mind’s eye, and the pools of ocean blue that would hold my gaze as she told me to relax. She was good at calming me down. She was also the best at riling me up. Even after I tugged back the businessman veil to expose the wicked criminal underneath, she never pulled her punches. She didn’t care that I was a mob boss, or if she did, she didn’t let that knowledge deter her from calling me an asshole to my face.

I wonder if that was Felicity’s appeal to my father. She was always a dragon of a woman.

The security guard at the side of the door presses a finger to his earpiece and nods at me. It is time to go. Vito pats me on the back one last time in a way that would feel condescending coming from anyone else. From him, it is the encouragement I need.

I stride through the door and up onto the podium. I hear the click and whoosh of dozens of camera flashes, their lights blinding me. Carmen offers an encouraging smile as she exits the stage, but her gaze stings with fury. She doesn’t understand this move and begged me against it. Her job is to keep the public sweet on me. My job is to protect my empire.

I go to the mic and stand, looking out at the sea of reporters who have gathered to witness my horrible proclamation. I try to keep my lips lifted, but my foul mood keeps trying to tug them back down.

---