Page 5 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

zina

The Walk of Defiance

T he gates creak open like a fucking monster yawning, and every part of me wants to scream at the sound. Instead, I keep my hands folded in my lap, nails digging crescents into my palms. Pain is better than fear. Pain is proof I’m still in control.

The black SUV crawls up the long drive, tires crunching over gravel like bone.

Two of Emiliano’s soldiers flank me in the back seat—silent, stone-faced, wedding rings that glint like cheap lies in the dim light.

I don’t ask for their names. They’re not men.

They’re shadows with guns, trained to bleed on command.

We pass a marble fountain carved into some Roman god with water streaming from his mouth into a basin choked with roses.

Excess and arrogance sculpted in stone. And beyond it, the villa rises.

White marble. Black iron. Windows that look back at me like a hundred cold eyes.

Bigger than I remembered. Or maybe it’s just heavier now that I’m walking back into his world.

The SUV stops. The soldier to my left steps out, opens my door.

I don’t thank him. My chin is high when my heels strike black stone, each click sharp as a gunshot.

My dress is armor—black silk fitted to my body like a sheath, lips painted blood-red.

Over my shoulders, a coat heavy enough to crush pride if I let it. But I won’t. Not here. Not now.

I told myself I wouldn’t look at the house. That I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction. I look anyway.

Balconies stacked like thrones. Iron lanterns dripping with shadow.

And there, carved into the double doors, the Rivas crest—serpents strangling roses.

Legacy in iron. Warning in art. My stomach knots, but I ignore it.

I am not here to feel. I am here to finish what I started the night I left him bleeding in bed.

The doors swing open before I even knock. Of course they do. He’s been waiting.

The foyer swallows me whole. Marble floors so cold they bite through the soles of my shoes. Oil paintings glare down from gilded frames—ancestors, killers, kings. Men whose names are written in ash and blood. Men who never wanted me here. A woman like me doesn’t belong in a place like this.

But I walk like I fucking do.

My heels echo down the corridor, every step a funeral march, every breath measured. I don’t ask where they’re leading me. I already know. His office. The heart of the house. The room where he pulls strings, signs death warrants, writes contracts in the same hand he uses to write love notes.

I inhale through my nose. Leather. Cigar smoke. A darker undercurrent—something that smells like memory and ruin. My pulse kicks against my ribs. Do this for Guido, I remind myself. Not for revenge. Not for closure. And definitely not for him.

The doors open.

And there he is.

Emiliano Rivas stands behind an ancient desk like he owns the fucking world. Because he does. Black shirt, no tie, collar open at the throat. Silver streaks at his temples catch the light like a crown. His consigliere looms beside him—thin, silent, shark-eyed. But I don’t see him.

I only see Emiliano.

My ruin. My addiction. My mistake.

His eyes rake over me like fire, slow and consuming. And I hate myself for the way my body still burns.

The Negotiation: Masked Surrender

The door closes behind me with a soft click. It might as well be a prison lock.

The room is cold—not for lack of heat, but because power hangs heavy in the air. Mahogany walls polished to a shine. Gilded edges that drip with arrogance. Ceilings high enough to make anyone feel small. And everywhere, the scent of leather, ash, and control.

On the desk between us lies a contract. Thick. Leather-bound. Open to a page of neatly inked clauses. The words glisten like wet oil under the lamplight. Scripted lies dressed up as legacy.

Emiliano doesn’t sit. He stands tall behind the chair, one hand resting on its carved back, his eyes locked on mine. Always watching. Always weighing. The silence is worse than any words.

His consigliere clears his throat. His voice is gravel.

“This agreement merges all Rivas assets under shared legal control. Mrs. Rivas”—he glances at me, but his gaze slides off quickly, like he’s afraid to hold it—“you will have decision-making rights within the estate. Appearances will be managed through the family office. There are terms for discretion. For travel. For… obedience.”

That last word lodges in my throat like a bone.

I don’t respond. My gaze is fixed on the contract. The paper looks sterile, civilized. But the truth bleeds through the ink. This isn’t an agreement. It’s a noose dipped in gold.

Emiliano waits. He doesn’t rush me. He never does. That’s his game. Let silence do the strangling.

I force myself into the chair opposite him. My spine doesn’t bend. I won’t give him that satisfaction. My fingers brush the pen, steady despite the scream in my chest.

The consigliere drones on, outlining protections, rights, responsibilities. As if this empire ever followed rules. I don’t hear most of it. Because the only voice in this room that matters hasn’t spoken a word.

Emiliano doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just waits. His presence fills the space, heavier than the air itself. He knows I’ll sign. He knows I don’t have a fucking choice. And the worst part? He’s right.

For Guido. Always for Guido.

I flip the pages without reading them. What’s the point? These aren’t terms. They’re shackles. My hand shakes once as I reach the signature line. Then I steel it.

Zina Moretti Rivas.

I press the pen down hard, carving my name into the page like a wound. The ink pools and shines, binding me tighter than chains.

When I set the pen down, my voice is low. “Blood, not ink, would be more honest.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. A threat. “Next time, I’ll bring a blade.”

My jaw clenches. He loves this. My surrender dressed as compliance. My silence mistaken for peace.

I rise without waiting for dismissal. “Are we done?”

His gaze slides down my body, slow and deliberate. Not a man admiring a bride. A predator admiring the trap he’s built.

“For now,” he says softly.

The words crawl under my skin, sharp as knives. He knows I won’t run. He knows fear won’t drive me away. And that’s what makes him dangerous. That’s what makes me furious.

The Vows: A Performance of Power

The parlor is already full when I’m escorted inside—three of Emiliano’s top lieutenants stand along the perimeter, dressed in black, faces carved with the kind of smirks that say they’ve already decided how this ends.

There’s no chapel. No priest. No flowers. Nothing that belongs to a wedding. Only blood-colored drapes heavy as coffins, a rug that reeks of history, and a long table cleared bare as if the space itself understands it isn’t here to celebrate love—it’s here to witness surrender.

Emiliano waits at the head of the room. His hands clasped behind his back, posture regal, expression unreadable except for the sharp glint in his eyes. That glint says it all—this isn’t about vows, it’s about dominance. Not a union. A spectacle.

I pause in the doorway, forcing myself not to falter. My heels strike marble in slow, deliberate clicks as I cross the room. Every step feels heavier, like walking deeper into quicksand.

“Is this really necessary?” My voice is even, sharp as a blade hidden under silk. I want them to hear me, but I don’t want them to see me flinch.

His jaw tightens. “You want protection. This is what it costs.”

My gaze flicks to the men at the edges of the room. Their names don’t matter. Their stares do—cold, dismissive, condescending. They’re not looking at me like a queen. They’re looking at me like a pawn granted temporary value by his command.

“This isn’t a wedding,” I hiss, voice just low enough that only he catches it.

“No,” Emiliano agrees, tilting his head like a man humoring a child. “This is war. And war demands witnesses.”

On the table sits a velvet box, unopened, waiting.

He doesn’t reach for it yet. One of the men steps forward, begins speaking in Italian.

His voice is slick, rehearsed—an oath, but not of love.

Words about honor through loyalty, loyalty through blood, betrayal punished in fire.

They’re vows forged on battlefields, not altars.

I translate them silently. They’re not promises. They’re threats.

Emiliano takes a single black rose from the velvet box and holds it out. Its stem is long, thorns intact, sharp enough to pierce skin. A symbol of surrender. Of obedience.

I stare at it. Three seconds. Four. My hand twitches at my side before I force it forward. I take the rose, not gently, not reverently—coldly. Like I’d accept a gun before pulling the trigger.

One of the men chuckles. Another smirks.

“Isn’t she beautiful when she obeys?” Emiliano says, loud enough to cut through the room. His voice is calm, but it lands like a whip.

Heat explodes in my chest. My teeth bite down so hard I taste blood. But my face stays still. My shoulders remain square.

I don’t break.

I hold the rose, its thorns biting into my palm until I feel the sting, and I pretend it doesn’t hurt. Pretend it doesn’t matter. Pretend I’m not bleeding pride in front of his men.

They’re watching. All of them. Memorizing this moment.

And Emiliano? He’s not claiming me as a wife. He’s claiming me as a prize. A victory paraded like a trophy.

And I let him.

Because weakness isn’t allowed here. Not now. Not ever.

But the next time one of these men dares to smirk at me? He’ll do it with broken fucking teeth.

Private Words: Threats Behind the Curtain

The moment the door shuts behind us, the performance collapses.

No soldiers. No smirks. Just silence thick enough to choke on, broken only by the low hiss of the fireplace burning in the corner.