Page 1 of Queen

1

zina

The Crown and the Coffin

Isit at the head of Giovanni’s table like I belong here. Like I earned this fucking seat.

The marble beneath my palms is ice. The silverware is lined up like scalpels, gleaming under chandeliers that glitter like a mouth of diamond teeth waiting to bite. This room has always been a stage for war disguised as breakfast—heavy drapes, colder air, portraits that watch without blinking. Even the floor remembers blood. I can feel it in the stone, a hum under the soles of my heels.

Four sons. Four enemies.

Santino glares at me like he’s holding a knife under the table. He sits straight-backed, shoulders squared, knuckles pale where his fist curls on linen. Romeo slouches sideways,ankle hooked over a knee, eyes dancing like he’s watching a particularly entertaining execution. Dante’s face is carved into something unreadable. He breathes like a statue—slow, measured, dangerous. And Guido—my son—won’t even look up from the edge of his plate. He studies an invisible speck like it’s easier than seeing me.

I smooth a crease in my black dress, a widow’s silk that fits like sin and armor at once. Milan’s best. Giovanni would have approved just to disapprove. He used to say funerals gave the dead too much attention and the living too little truth.

Now he’s the one rotting in the ground, and I’m here, breathing his air.

No one touches the food. Eggs go cold. Coffee grows a skin. Crystal glasses catch the light and throw it back hard. The staff form a silent line along the wall—neutral faces, calm hands, fear leaking out at the edges of their posture. They’re well-trained. Well-paid. Paid in fear.

The stillness is a chokehold.

Santino leans forward, elbows braced like a judge about to deliver sentence. His voice breaks the silence like a hammer through glass. “You shouldn’t be here.”

I don’t blink. Don’t shift. I reach for the teacup with steady fingers, letting porcelain kiss saucer. Lift. Sip. Set it down. A ritual, not a tremor.

“What I should or shouldn’t do has never been up to you,” I say, my voice silk over razor. “Ever.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw—the same vein that used to throb in Giovanni’s temple when a deal soured. Lineage is a mirror that never lies.

Romeo lets a crooked grin slice his face. “Jesus, Zina. Couldn’t even wait a week to start playing queen?”

My fingers twitch toward the steak knife beside my plate. A breath, a promise. Just enough motion for him to notice—and enjoy.

“You want to talk timing?” I ask, soft enough to draw blood. “Let’s start with the will. Or have you already forgotten your father left all this to me?”

“Lies,” Santino spits.

“I have the papers.”

He slams his hand against the table. The crystal rings like a threat. “This house. That name. This empire. It was built for us. Not for you.”

“And yet,” I say, rising, letting the chair legs scrape back like the opening of a vault, “here I am.” I let the room feel the weight of each word. “Wearing the crown your father gave me. Sitting at his table. You want me gone? Do it like a man. Don’t bark across the fucking china.”

Romeo whistles low, delighted by the blood scent. “Careful, brother. Step-mama’s got bite.”

Guido shifts. He keeps staring down, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Won’t look at me. Won’t speak. That hurts worse than Santino’s rage.

I walk the length of the table. No one moves. No one dares. I stop behind Guido and rest a hand lightly on his shoulder—as much to anchor myself as to touch him.

“I’m still his wife,” I say. “You can hate me all you want. But I was the one holding him when he died.”

Silence falls a second time, heavier than the first. It’s a second funeral. It’s consent.

I leave the dining room with my head high and the weight of a kingdom pressed against my spine.

A Throne Built on Ashes

Santino doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Then: “You fed him to the wolves, didn’t you?”