Page 16 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

Her breath falters. The way her eyes shift, just slightly, tells me she’s scrambling through memories, trying to find the one I’ve just cracked open.

“What do you mean?”

I could hand her the truth right now. I could tell her about the phone call, the men I sent to make sure her path was blocked, the passport that never reached her hand. But there’s more power in letting her chase the answer than in giving it.

I let the silence stretch. Only the wind moves, curling through the fog and stirring the edges of my coat around her. She’s wrapped in it now—my scent, my weight, my words—whether she wants to be or not.

Finally, I step back, my gaze never leaving hers. “Ask your lawyer.”

Confusion flares across her face, followed by something else—wariness. She’s trying to decide if I’ve just given her a piece of the past… or planted a lie in her head that she’ll bleed herself dry trying to disprove.

Her hands tighten in the coat’s lapels, pulling it closer around herself like armor. But armor only works if it isn’t mine she’s wearing.

“You’re lying,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

“I don’t need to lie to you, Zina.” I let the words hang between us like smoke. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

The fog thickens again, wrapping around the graveyard, muting the world beyond us. She’s shivering now—not from cold, but from the thought that something this big happened in her life… and I’ve been carrying the truth the entire time.

And I’m not finished with her yet.

The Walk Back – Tension Rekindled

We leave the graveyard behind us, the fog curling at our heels like it wants to follow. The silence between us blooms again, but it’s changed. Now it’s loaded, stretched tight over everything I’ve just told her—and everything I’ve refused to.

She walks like her mind’s somewhere else, retracing years she thought she understood and finding holes she didn’t know were there. Her steps aren’t hesitant, but there’s a shift—less defiance, more distraction. I let her keep it. Sometimes distraction is a sharper leash than chains.

Our arms brush once, twice. The wool of my coat still hangs off her shoulders, and the movement is enough to let my hand graze hers. Just enough to remind her I’m here. Close. Always close.

I don’t take her hand. I don’t push further. There’s more power in letting her simmer—in letting the questions gnaw at her while I stay quiet.

My thoughts spiral inward. I’ve given her everything but the truth. And now I want the one thing she still won’t give—her forgiveness.

Not her trust. Trust is fragile, conditional. Forgiveness—that’s the currency that binds a person to you for life. And I’ve never been the kind of man who plays for anything less than permanent.

We pass the last row of stones, the gravel path widening toward the gates. My men stand where I left them, watching but not interfering. They know better than to cut into this moment.

The car waits like a sentinel, black paint drinking in the weak morning light. The cold bites sharper here in the open, the wind tugging at the edges of my coat still wrapped around her.

When we reach the car, I circle ahead, open the rear door for her. A gentleman’s gesture. A monster’s timing.

“You mourned him,” I say. My voice is quiet, but there’s no softness in it. “Now forget him.”

Her eyes lift to mine, and for a second, I catch the flicker of heat there—anger, grief, maybe both. Her lips part like she wants to speak, then close again, the words trapped.

“You belong to me.”

The words hang in the space between us, heavier than the morning fog. She doesn’t step forward immediately. I watch her, patient, letting the weight of the statement sink in. I want her to hear the vow in it, the threat, the inevitability.

Finally, she slides into the back seat, the velvet of her dress whispering against the leather. I close the door, the sound final and sharp, like a gavel dropping.

As I walk around to my side, the thought hits me again—she’ll either break under the truth I’ve kept from her… or she’ll find a way to use it against me.

Either way, she’s not walking away. Not now. Not ever.

A Name from the Grave

Her hand is on the door handle when she stops.

At first, I think it’s hesitation—another little act of defiance to stretch the moment between us. But then she turns her head, back toward the grave. The fog curls low over the grass, and from here, I can just make out the flowers lying at the base of Giovanni’s headstone.

They’re not the ones I left.

Zina steps away from the car, slow, deliberate, like she’s walking into a thought she hasn’t fully formed yet. I follow her gaze to the bouquet—white lilies, fresh, their stems still wet. Tucked beneath them, a small cream-colored card catches the breeze.

I feel the change in her before she touches it. Her shoulders stiffen, her breathing shifts. She crouches, fingers brushing the petals before sliding the card free.

The wind carries the faint scrape of paper as she opens it. Her eyes lock on the inside for a heartbeat too long.

Then she says it. A single name.

“Santino.”

The sound of it is enough to still the air in my lungs.

My entire body goes rigid. The cold around us is nothing compared to the one that coils through me now.

She looks at me, then back to the grave, then at me again. Her voice is barely a whisper, but it lands like a fucking gunshot.

“He knows.”

Every instinct I have sharpens in an instant.

This isn’t about flowers. This isn’t about mourning.

This is about lines being crossed, territories being tested.

Santino being here isn’t a coincidence—it’s a message.

And if he’s leaving his name like this, it means he’s ready for me to know he’s watching.

I close the distance between us in two steps, my voice low and clipped. “Get in the car. Now.”

She doesn’t move right away. Her eyes are still on the card, her grip tight like it’s the last thread tying her to the moment.

“Zina.”

Her head snaps toward me.

The fog thickens, swallowing the space around us. My men shift in the distance, their postures changing, waiting for a signal they know might mean trouble.

I reach out, take the card from her hand without asking. The paper is still warm from her skin, the ink dark and clean—fresh. Too fresh.

My jaw tightens. “This ends now.”

She doesn’t ask what I mean. She knows.

I toss the card into my coat pocket and guide her back toward the car, my hand on her lower back—not gentle, not rough, just enough to remind her that hesitation is a luxury she doesn’t get today.

The door shuts behind her with a solid, final thud.

As I move around to my side, the truth sits heavy in my chest: Santino just turned Giovanni’s grave into a battlefield. And he did it knowing Zina was watching.

That means he’s not just sending me a message.

He’s sending one to her.