Page 32 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

She looks serene. Untouchable. But I know better.

Her body shudders in tiny spasms still, the aftershocks of what we just did rattling through her bones.

And me? My chest still burns where her nails tore across it, my mouth still stings where her teeth broke skin.

She marked me like territory she swears she won’t claim—and I let her.

I hover close, my hand inches above her hip, the ghost of a touch trembling in the space between us.

I want to claim her again, crush her against me until she can’t breathe, until she can’t deny what I already know.

But for the first time in my goddamn life, I’m afraid of breaking something I can’t replace.

I’ve walked into bullets. Dug my own men out of shallow graves.

Held dying brothers in my arms and never once fucking trembled.

But looking at her now, her back turned to me, her breath uneven, her fingers curled tight in the sheets—I’m shaking.

Because if she leaves me, if she dies, if she chooses anyone but me… I won’t survive it.

I close my eyes, but the past claws its way in.

I see myself years younger, standing at Giovanni’s right hand, forced into silence as I watched her laugh across his table.

The way her head tipped back when she smiled, the way her light bent toward him like he owned the sun.

I hated it. I hated her. I hated how she glowed for another man while I rotted in shadows.

Now she’s here— her lips swollen from mine, her body still dripping from me. And yet the truth sears hotter than jealousy ever did: she doesn’t glow for me either. Not really. She’s here because fate twisted us into this cage, because blood and betrayal left her nowhere else to run.

I’ve won her body. But her heart? That battlefield still rages, and I’m not sure I’ve got the strength—or the cruelty—to conquer it.

She shifts in her sleep, a sharp inhale breaking the silence. Her brows knit, her breath stutters. Even dreaming, she’s fighting, bracing for war. My throat tightens. I want to tear the world apart just to give her peace for one night.

I lower my hand finally, pressing my palm to her waist. Just the warmth of skin against skin. Nothing else. It feels like worship. Like surrender. Like weakness I swore I’d never show.

And maybe that’s exactly what she’s made me.

The Message

The room is still thick with the taste of her—salt, sweat, something holy desecrated—but the phone cuts through it like a blade.

A sharp buzz against the nightstand, vibrating too loud for something so small.

Zina stirs, lashes flickering, but she doesn’t wake.

She’s exhausted, and for once, I want to let her have that fragile mercy.

I snatch the phone before it wakes her fully.

“Boss,” a voice rasps through static. One of mine. Nervous. Too nervous. “It’s Santino.”

My chest goes cold, iron heavy in my lungs. “He’s making a move?”

Silence. Then a broken exhale. “No… he’s gone. Vanished. Left something behind.”

I push up from the bed, bare feet hitting marble like thunder. Zina shifts at the sound, but I wave her down before she can speak. My voice comes out lethal. “What kind of message?”

On the other end, I hear it—the tremor he can’t control. My soldier has slit throats, burned men alive at my command. But this shakes him.

“Your brother’s grave…” His words hitch. “…was dug up.”

The world stops. A soundless detonation in my skull. Giovanni.

I see the dirt ripped open, the coffin splintered, the bones dragged into the air where the worms should’ve feasted in silence. Desecration. Humiliation. A challenge written in soil and rot.

Zina is awake now, propping herself up against the pillows, the sheets falling to her waist, her body still glowing with the aftermath of us. Her brows knit as she watches me—she knows before I even speak.

“What is it?”

My grip on the phone tightens until plastic cracks under my hand. I don’t answer her right away. Because how the fuck do I say it? That my blood, my king, the man who made me and damned me, has been torn from the earth like he was never meant to rest.

I force the words out. “Giovanni’s grave.” My voice is smoke and broken glass. “They dug him up.”

Her face goes pale, the fire in her eyes doused in something colder than fear. It’s recognition. She knows exactly what this means—because whoever did this isn’t just declaring war. They’re rewriting history.

I step to the window, phone still clutched in my hand, and stare out into the black gardens of the estate. Rain lashes the glass like claws. My reflection stares back, hollow-eyed, jaw clenched, a man who built empires and now feels the ground collapsing beneath him.

Zina slides out of bed, silk trailing her like shadow, and comes to stand beside me. She doesn’t touch me—she never fucking does when I need it most—but her presence is a blade at my ribs, sharp, grounding.

She whispers the truth neither of us wants to say aloud. “This isn’t about Santino.”

I nod once, the weight of it crushing. “No.”

The line is still open. My soldier whispers, almost pleading. “Boss, what do we do?”

I kill the call without answering. My fists slam against the glass, and the rain outside cracks against it in reply.

Behind me, Zina’s voice cuts low, steady as a curse. “They just pulled the king out of his grave. That’s not provocation.” Her eyes find mine in the reflection, burning like twin torches. “That’s a fucking resurrection.”

And for the first time in years, my blood runs cold.