Page 18 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

The hall unfurls like an old photograph—edges blurred, colors faded, yet still sharp enough to hurt.

The memories rise unbidden, pressing close from every side: whispered arguments behind closed doors, the sharp snap of Giovanni’s temper cutting through midnight, the rhythmic creak of a cradle that always stopped before dawn.

At the far end waits the nursery door. The cream paint has yellowed, the brass knob dulled, but the weight in my chest tells me I know it too well.

I curl my fingers around the handle. It’s cold, biting into my skin.

The door opens with a groan, and my breath stutters.

Empty. Stripped bare. Not just cleaned—erased. No crib. No curtains. No soft blankets or scattered toys. Just four walls and a floor, blank and pitiless. The kind of emptiness that feels intentional, like someone wanted to deny this room had ever held life at all.

But I know better.

I kneel, dress pooling around me, hands sweeping over the floorboards until I find the one I loosened years ago. Back when I needed a place to hide something I wasn’t ready to lose. My nails pry into the crack, pulling until the board lifts enough to reveal the hollow beneath.

And there it is.

The wooden soldier.

Small enough to fit in my palm, its paint chipped, its sword broken clean in half. Guido’s first toy. Giovanni had thrown it away, said it was dangerous, unfit for his son. I’d pulled it out of the trash that night, hands shaking with fury, and hidden it here like a smuggled relic.

I lift it out carefully. My thumb traces the jagged edge where the sword snapped. It’s only wood, but in my hand it weighs as much as a gun. Proof that he was here. Proof they can’t erase.

The air shifts behind me.

The hairs on my neck rise, prickling.

“Find what you came for?” Emiliano’s voice slides into the room like smoke—soft, but hot enough to burn.

I spin, clutching the soldier so tightly my knuckles ache. “Your sons want me dead,” I bite, words cutting sharper than the wood in my hand.

He steps forward, unhurried, his shadow stretching long across the nursery floor. “They’re not mine.”

The soldier digs into my palm, my chest tightening as I meet his eyes. “But Guido is.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. The room itself seems to hold still, walls and air conspiring to trap the truth between us.

His stare doesn’t waver. His jaw tightens, just enough for me to see the crack in his control.

In my grip, the broken soldier stops being a toy. It becomes a weapon. Not one that can kill him, but one that can remind him—remind all of them—that Guido is real. That he existed. That he can never be erased, no matter how many rooms they strip bare or recordings they whisper about in the dark.

And I know—this truth about Guido isn’t just mine to protect.

It’s mine to wield.

Guido’s Heartbreak

The guest quarters are quieter than the rest of the house, but it’s the kind of quiet that feels borrowed, like it could be stolen at any moment. Heavy curtains choke off most of the afternoon light, casting the room in muted gold shadows.

I’m still holding the wooden soldier in my pocket, my fingers closing around its broken edge, when Guido’s small voice breaks the stillness.

“Are we leaving?”

He tugs at my sleeve, his eyes wide and searching. He’s too young to mask the hope in his tone, too innocent to hide the way his fingers twist into the fabric like he’s anchoring himself to me.

“Soon,” I lie, my voice softer than I feel. I can’t give him the truth—not yet. The truth is that we’re trapped here, at least for now.

Guido glances toward the door, toward the long stretch of hallway beyond. His whisper is small, but it cuts through the stillness like glass. “Why does the boy with the cross necklace hate you?”

Santino. The weight of his cross, the venom in his eyes, the words still burning in my ears. I swallow hard, forcing the ache in my throat down. “He doesn’t understand,” I tell him, steadying my tone. It isn’t a lie—but it isn’t the whole truth either.

Guido looks down, lashes lowering to cast shadows across his cheeks. “Why do they hate me?”

That question is different. It lands like a blade. No accusation. No anger. Just quiet confusion.

And that’s worse.

I kneel in front of him, brushing the dark hair back from his forehead. His face is so open, so unguarded, that my chest aches just to look at him. “They don’t know you,” I whisper. “That’s all.”

I pull him into my arms. His small frame presses against mine, his heartbeat uneven, too fast. I hold him tighter, as though I can shield him from the poison in these walls, from the sharp edges of the family name he never asked to carry.

But I know better.

I can’t protect him from all of it—not here, not when this house is lined with ghosts and grudges. The Rivas bloodline is both crown and curse, and he wears it whether they speak it or not.

He buries his face in my shoulder. The warmth of his unshed tears seeps through my dress, damp and fragile. I rock him slightly, the way I used to when he was smaller, when the world hadn’t yet taught him to question his place in it.

“Why can’t we just go home?” he whispers, muffled against my collar.

My throat burns. “This is only for a little while.”

I don’t add the rest—that the definition of “a little while” depends on Emiliano, on Santino, on secrets buried in recordings I haven’t yet seen.

Outside, footsteps scrape softly in the hall—measured, deliberate. Someone is lingering just beyond the door. Listening.

My spine stiffens. My hand smooths down Guido’s back, even as I keep my eyes trained on the sliver of light beneath the door.

I don’t let go of him. Not yet.

I press my lips into his hair, the scent of soap and rain clinging to him, clean and untainted. “We’ll be all right,” I murmur.

The words are a lie, but he nods against me, choosing to believe.

And I know the day is coming when even that small mercy will be ripped from him—when he’ll learn for himself that in this house, love isn’t enough to keep you safe.

The Recording Exists

The room is dim, the only glow coming from the weak halo of the bedside lamp. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the wood grain of the floorboards, letting the day’s venom seep through me.

Guido is asleep in the adjoining room, his soft breathing just audible through the cracked door. That small rhythm is the only thing keeping me from splintering apart.

The door slams open.

Emiliano fills the frame—broad shoulders, fury carved into every line of his body. His eyes are dark enough to swallow the light, his jaw clenched so tight I imagine hearing the grind of bone.

“What did Santino say to you?” His voice is sharp, demanding—not seeking answers but demanding confessions.

I lift my chin, forcing my face into something cool, detached. “He doesn’t matter.”

The laugh that leaves him isn’t a laugh at all. It’s the ghost of one—humorless, twisted. He crosses the room in three long strides and slams something onto the nightstand. The object skids across polished wood before spinning to a stop.

A USB drive.

“He sent me this,” Emiliano says, his voice low, restrained, more dangerous than a shout. “Said you’d want to watch it before I do.”

The words drop into the room like a loaded gun hitting the floor.

I stare at the drive. It sits there like it’s breathing, pulsing, alive. My fingers twitch against my thigh.

Years. Years I’ve spent locking away truths, burying memories so deep I could almost pretend they didn’t exist. And now—now they’re sitting in front of me, small enough to fit in my palm, impossible to ignore.

“Why?” My voice comes out smaller than I want.

“You tell me.” His eyes narrow, cutting into me.

My hand shakes when I reach for it, though I tell myself it’s from anger, not fear. The metal is cold, but not cold enough to match the chill racing through my veins.

Emiliano doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move. His presence is a storm at my back, silent but too close, too charged. He waits.

I slide the drive into the laptop. The screen stays black for a beat too long, as though deciding whether to reveal what’s inside. Then the image flickers alive.

A voice fills the room.

“Zina.”

My blood freezes.

It’s Giovanni.

His tone is both familiar and foreign—like a song I once loved but can’t hum now without choking. “If you’re hearing this…” The pause stretches, deliberate. “You made the wrong choice.”

My stomach drops, the air sucked from my lungs.

The sound of his voice slices through every wall I’ve built, through every lie I told myself to keep moving. My throat tightens until it’s hard to breathe. My hand clamps the edge of the nightstand, gripping wood until my knuckles ache.

Behind me, I hear Emiliano exhale. Not relief. Not rage. Something else. Something darker, unreadable.

The screen fades to black, but Giovanni’s voice keeps echoing. It reverberates in my skull, repeating, growing louder, until it isn’t just his anymore. It’s mine. It’s Emiliano’s. It’s the whole damn house’s.

And in that moment, I know—this recording isn’t a warning.

It’s only the beginning.