Page 41 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

zina

Breach at the Safehouse

T he night tastes wrong. Too still, too sharp—like the air itself knows it’s about to split.

I pace the safehouse’s narrow hall, bare feet silent against cold stone.

Guido sleeps in the adjoining room, curled against a threadbare blanket, his little chest rising too shallow, too fast. I should be beside him, guarding him with the feral devotion of a mother wolf.

Instead, I prowl. My body knows what my mind refuses to admit: exile doesn’t mean safety. It never did.

The walls hum faintly, old pipes carrying the sea’s groan through their veins. The house is a box, built to hide us, not defend us. I press my hand to the window frame, the salt wind cutting my skin, and I swear I hear them in the distance—bootsteps. Too measured. Too many.

Then the glass trembles.

My heart lurches. I yank the dagger from my thigh sheath just as the first shot cracks the night. The window erupts, shards spraying like shrapnel. I throw my arm across my face, teeth bared, the sting of glass cutting into my forearm. Guido’s scream slices the dark, thin and terrified.

“Down!” I roar, already sprinting.

The second shot follows, splintering the doorframe, peppering plaster across the corridor. Shadows crawl across the cliffside as headlights blaze to life—three cars, engines snarling, beams carving the house open. Not random. Not chance. They’ve tracked us.

Guido stumbles into the hall, eyes wide, mouth trembling around my name. I scoop him against me, his heartbeat frantic against my chest. His voice cracks, “Mama—”

“Quiet,” I snap, sharper than I mean to, pressing him against the wall as bullets chew stone. He clamps his mouth shut, shaking. I kiss his hair once, quick and fierce, then drag him deeper into the house.

The door bursts open. Men flood in—faces masked, rifles raised, boots pounding with precision. Not De Luca foot soldiers. No, these are trained. Military. Bought. And one word scrawled in blood back at the villa slices through me like prophecy: Santino.

My lungs burn. My vision narrows. They want the boy. They want me kneeling in dirt, crown buried, blood spilling.

Over my dead body.

I shove Guido into the crawlspace beneath the stairwell, fingers gripping his cheeks so he can’t look away. My voice shakes with rage, not fear. “Don’t make a sound. Do you hear me? Not one.”

Tears glisten, but he nods. I slam the panel shut, sealing him in shadow. His breath still echoes in my skull, small and frantic.

The first man rounds the corner. I lunge before he can raise his weapon, the dagger punching deep into his throat. Hot blood sprays my face, metallic, holy. He gurgles, claws at me, then drops.

The next charges, rifle lifted. I slam my shoulder into his gut, driving him into the wall so hard the plaster cracks. His gun clatters. I grab it, jam the barrel up beneath his chin, and pull the trigger. His skull snaps back, painting the wall in red.

Two more shout, boots pounding closer. My hand is slick with blood, my ears ringing from the shot, but my grip is steady. I kick the first corpse off my blade, yank the rifle up, and brace.

“Come and take him,” I whisper, lips curled into a snarl.

The safehouse walls shudder with gunfire, but inside me, something steadier rises. Not panic. Not despair.

War.

Holding the Line

The house is no longer a house. It’s a cage filling with wolves.

Gunfire rips through the corridor, plaster dust raining down in choking clouds. My pulse hammers as I crouch low, rifle braced, listening for the rhythm of their boots. They’re moving fast, practiced, like they’ve mapped every corner. This isn’t chaos—it’s a hunt.

Guido’s shallow breaths echo in my head, trapped behind the crawlspace panel. Every shot, every scream, I imagine him hearing it, trembling in the dark. That thought alone keeps my grip steady when my muscles want to shake.

Another shadow cuts across the doorway. I squeeze the trigger. The bullet tears through him, dropping him mid-step. His rifle clatters, but I don’t let myself move. One shot draws the others.

Sure enough, two more rush in, shouting in a language I don’t recognize—Italian twisted with something harsher, Eastern maybe.

Outsiders. Mercenaries bought for blood.

I drop the first with a clean shot to the chest. The second dives behind the overturned table, firing wild.

Bullets shred the wallpaper, wood splintering inches from my face.

I roll, pressing flat to the wall, then whip the knife from my thigh.

The moment he pauses to reload, I slide low, slam into him, and drive the blade under his ribs.

His scream gurgles hot against my ear. I wrench it free, blood spraying across my hands, then silence him with another stab to the throat.

My chest heaves. My arm shakes. But I don’t stop.

More boots. Too many. They’re pouring in like locusts, and for every one I cut down, two more spill through the door.

I retreat step by step, dragging the rifle with me, my back slick with sweat, hair sticking to my face. The safehouse trembles under the barrage, windows exploding, wood groaning.

And then I hear it. A new sound—heavy, grinding, mechanical. The whine of steel against stone.

They’re bringing something bigger.

“Motherfuckers,” I hiss, eyes darting to the panel where Guido hides. My boy. My reason.

I can’t hold this ground. Not with him here. If they breach with explosives, the whole house will be ash, and he’ll burn with it.

One of the dying men gurgles near my feet. I crouch low, fist tangled in his collar, yanking his mask down. His eyes are glassy, but he’s still alive enough to hear me. I snarl into his blood-flecked face. “Who sent you?”

His lips twitch. His breath smells of iron and smoke. One word escapes, garbled but clear enough to brand me in fire.

“Rivas.”

My blood freezes. Santino.

A roar builds in my chest, but I shove it down. Later. Right now, survival is the only vow.

I slam him back to the floor, grab my knife, and force my body into motion. My mind races, calculating. I need to move Guido. Need a way out before the roof caves in.

The house isn’t just under attack—it’s already lost.

And if Santino’s fingerprints are on this, then this isn’t just war. This is fratricide.

Flight Through Fire

The house won’t hold. I can feel it in the walls, in the timbers rattling like bones under the onslaught. The enemy doesn’t care about breaking in clean. They want it scorched, gutted, turned to ruin so nothing survives inside.

I rip the panel open and pull Guido into my arms. His face is pale, streaked with dust and sweat. His small fists clutch my nightdress so tight the fabric bites into my ribs. His voice is nothing but a whisper. “Mama…”

“Quiet, baby.” My breath saws out sharp as I kiss his hair, taste the salt of his fear. “Hold on to me. Don’t look back.”

A fresh blast rocks the safehouse, a window imploding in a spray of glass. The air fills with smoke and gunpowder. Boots thunder in the east hall—too close. My only path is west, toward the cliff.

I grab the knife, the pistol, shove the rifle’s strap across my shoulder, and run. My heels pound marble, Guido’s breath stuttering against my collarbone. Men scream behind us, some mine, some theirs, but the difference doesn’t matter. Everyone bleeds the same when war breaks through the door.

We hit the kitchen. Flames already lick the curtains, smoke curling thick. I shove the back door open with my shoulder. The sea wind punches in, cold and violent. For one heartbeat, relief claws at me. We’re outside. We’re free.

Then I see them.

Headlights. Lining the coastal road. Three cars at least. Engines idling low like predators crouched in grass. They’ve circled us.

“Fuck.” The word tears from my throat.

I bolt across the back courtyard, the gravel shredding my bare feet. Guido whimpers, but I squeeze him tighter. My pistol barks once, twice, dropping a silhouette that rises too quick from behind the stone wall. Another dives, firing wild, sparks snapping inches from my skull.

The sea crashes below, black and endless. The cliff looms ahead. Nowhere else to run.

I skid behind an overturned cart, shoving Guido down. His eyes shine huge in the dark. “Mama?” His lips tremble. “Are we going to die?”

“No.” The word is sharp, absolute. A lie carved into a vow. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

Another round of gunfire shreds the stone above our heads. Dust rains down, stinging my eyes. I peek, fire back, one shot catching a man in the throat, his body jerking before he collapses into the gravel.

And then—over the roar of engines, the spit of rifles—I hear it. A voice. Low, mocking, familiar enough to gut me.

“Run faster, Zina!”

My blood ices. Santino.

He’s not hiding. He’s leading them. His laughter cuts through the chaos, cruel and unshaken. My stomach knots. Emiliano’s son. Giovanni’s heir. My stepson. My executioner.

Guido hears it too. His head whips toward the sound, confusion etched into his fear. “Uncle…?”

I seize his chin, forcing his gaze back to mine. “No. Not anymore.” My voice breaks but holds. “Never again.”

A flare arcs overhead, exploding in red fire, bathing the courtyard in blood-colored light. Shadows stretch monstrous across the walls. The trap has snapped shut.

I grip Guido’s hand, knife flashing in my other. My voice is a growl that tastes of iron. “Stay behind me, baby. If the night wants to eat us, it’ll choke on my fucking bones first.”

And with the flare burning down, painting the world in fire, I rise to meet the storm Santino brought to our door.

The Face of Betrayal

The flare sputters above us, raining sparks like molten tears. The courtyard is blood-red, and in the middle of it—he steps forward.

Santino.