Page 10 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

I’ve been here less than a day, and already the household is shifting around me. Fitting me into a role I never agreed to play. Queen of the Maritz empire. A title I don’t want—at least, that’s what I tell myself.

I walk the gravel path slowly, brushing my fingers over roses trimmed to perfection. Every petal flawless. Every thorn clipped just enough to seem harmless. But I know better. You don’t take the bite out of something born to wound.

A shadow crosses me. I glance up to find a maid with copper hair tucked beneath a black scarf. She carries a silver tray with two crystal glasses of red wine.

“Signora Maritz,” she says softly, dipping her head. “For you.”

The title knocks the breath out of me harder than the scent of wine.

I take the glass. Cold stem against my fingers. “It’s not… that’s not my name.”

She doesn’t blink. “It will be,” she says, before disappearing down the path.

The words echo long after she’s gone.

I should hate it. I do hate it. But a sick truth slithers under my skin—I don’t hate it enough. Because power wraps around me as easily as this silk dress. Not safety. Not freedom. But control. Influence. The ability to make someone else’s pulse spike with a single look.

It’s exactly what Giovanni once gave me. And exactly what he took away.

The memory is sharp—Giovanni’s hand at my back, his whisper against my ear, the strength that could feel like possession or protection, depending on the night. His cruelty. His love.

My throat tightens. I drain the wine, the burn cutting through the memory.

Am I really so broken I could fall for another viper, just because he wears different skin?

I keep walking, the guards’ blades clashing behind me. Each strike a warning. A reminder.

This cage may be gold, but the venom is still the same.

The Remade Ring

By the time night falls, the wine’s warmth is gone and the garden’s chill has seeped into my bones. I retreat to my sitting room, one of the only places in this estate where I can pretend I’m alone.

The fire glows low in the hearth, throwing restless shadows across the room. I curl into the armchair nearest it, a book open in my lap that I’m not reading. The words blur into shapes, my mind too loud, circling the same questions until they fray at the edges.

The door opens without a knock.

Of course it’s him.

Emiliano strides in like he owns the air I’m breathing, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small black velvet box.

He doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t ask permission.

He just crosses the carpet with that silent, deliberate pace and sets the box on the low table between us, like an offering, or maybe a weapon.

“You should have this,” he says. His voice is steady, low, more dangerous for how calm it is.

The fire pops, gold light breaking across the edges of his face. My gaze drops to the box, but I don’t touch it.

“What is it?” I ask, even though the answer is already vibrating in my chest.

“Open it.”

Every instinct tells me to refuse, to leave the box sealed like Pandora’s curse. But curiosity—damn my weakness—wins. I lift the lid.

The breath leaves me in a sharp, involuntary sound.

It’s Giovanni’s wedding ring.

Only… not. The gold has been reshaped, resized for a smaller hand. The diamond is gone, replaced with a blood-red ruby that gleams in the firelight—rich, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

Fury and grief crash through me in equal measure. My chest tightens until I can barely breathe.

“You—” My voice shakes, but not from fear. “You defile his memory.”

Emiliano doesn’t flinch. His eyes don’t even soften. “No,” he says, low and certain. “I reclaim it.”

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait. His hand closes around mine—warm, unyielding—and before I can pull away, he slides the ring onto my finger.

It fits.

Too perfectly.

His gaze locks with mine as he does it, holding me in that molten stare until I forget how to move. There’s no triumph there. No mockery. Just possession, absolute and unapologetic.

“You’ll wear it tomorrow,” he says, his thumb brushing once over my knuckles before he lets go. “In front of the Five Families.”

I look down at the ruby burning against my skin. My first instinct is to rip it off, throw it back in his face. But I don’t. Not yet.

The weight of it anchors me to the chair, heavy with meaning. A symbol. A claim. Maybe even a weapon—if I choose to make it one.

He leaves without another word, the click of the door closing echoing like a gavel.

I stare at the ring in the firelight, the ruby bleeding red across my hand, and wonder if I’m the one being remade.

Poison or Power

I don’t sleep.

The fire’s gone out, but the ring still burns against my skin, heavier than gold should ever feel. I sit propped against the headboard, lamp casting a soft amber glow across the room. In its light, the ruby looks darker—like blood trapped under glass.

If I’m to wear a crown, I’ll make it draw blood.

I turn my hand slowly, studying it. The metal is smooth, polished, deceptively soft. But I know better. Gold bends. And under the right force, it cuts deep.

Giovanni’s ghost lingers in the back of my mind. Would he laugh to see me wearing this? Or rage from the grave? I can’t decide which answer would hurt more.

The temptation to rip it off coils through me like a spring. To hurl it across the room. To hear it crack against stone. But I don’t. Not yet.

The house is silent. Too silent. The kind of quiet that feels staged, as if the whole estate is holding its breath.

Then I hear it.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Right outside my door.

Every muscle goes taut. My pulse hammers. That’s not a guard on patrol. I know the rhythm of his stride.

It’s him.

The steps stop.

A murmur follows—Emiliano’s voice, pitched low, speaking to the night guard stationed outside.

I can’t make out the words, but I don’t need to.

The tone is enough. Commanding. Certain.

Like whatever he’s saying is a reminder that this door isn’t just a door.

It’s a gate. And he’s the only one with the key.

I stay perfectly still, listening.

After a long moment, the voices fade, footsteps retreating. My heart doesn’t slow. If anything, it beats harder.

I slide out of bed, bare feet whispering against the rug, and cross to my vanity. The mirror throws back my reflection under the lamplight—pale skin, hard eyes, the ruby glinting like a drop of blood.

I study myself. Not afraid. Not soft. Not broken. Just cold calculation staring back.

I curl my fingers into a fist until my knuckles ache white. The ruby flashes once in the glass.

“You want a queen?” My voice is low, steady, lethal.

I lean forward until my breath fogs the mirror.

“You’ll get a fucking viper.”