Page 7 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

emiliano

Mine, Finally

T he gates open slow, like they know who the fuck they’re letting in. Hydraulic groan, iron grinding against stone, heavy enough to make the air shiver. My estate doesn’t rush for anyone. It takes its time. Forces you to wait. To feel small. That’s why I built it this way.

The car rolls up the long drive, gravel crunching under the tires like bone fragments.

Floodlights sweep across the stone walls, three stories high and older than most of the men guarding them.

Every arch, every reinforced door is a monument to permanence.

To me. To what I’ve built here—untouchable, immovable, mine.

I’m out first. Always first. Boots hitting the gravel with the kind of weight that makes silence follow.

My men fan out automatically, hands on weapons but eyes forward, trained and loyal because fear keeps them that way.

The night air smells like wet pine, gun oil, and the faint smoke drifting from the guard towers.

I circle to her side of the SUV. My pulse ticks once—steady, sharp. Anticipation, not nerves.

Zina steps out like she’s walking into a fucking coronation. Head high, chin sharp enough to cut glass. A black dress hugs her like it was designed to be a weapon, and her lipstick’s the color of dried blood. She’s perfected the look of a queen pretending not to be terrified.

But I see her. I always see her.

Guido’s hand is locked in hers, knuckles white with the grip. His eyes dart everywhere—the guards with rifles, the spiked fences, the looming villa rising behind me like a fortress carved out of war itself. He knows this isn’t a home. Not yet. Maybe never.

“Inside,” I say. No need to raise my voice. The command carries, sharp and final, rolling across the courtyard like thunder. My men are already unloading their bags. The weight of the estate itself pulls her forward whether she wants to move or not.

The front doors swing open on cue. Trained staff—my staff—stand ready. The central hall yawns wide, marble floors veined with black, chandeliers dripping light older than half my enemies’ bloodlines. Every detail here is deliberate. Legacy forged in stone.

Zina’s heels strike the marble with sharp defiance. Each step is a bullet casing dropped in a church. She walks like she belongs here. She doesn’t. Not yet. But she will.

I watch her take it all in, pretending not to. She won’t flinch. Not here, not in front of me. Good. I didn’t bring her here to break her in the doorway.

We stop in the center of the hall. The staff line the walls—bodyguards in tailored black, the chef in his whites, maids with their eyes glued to the floor. And behind me, my consigliere Dario waits. Silent. Calculating. Assessing her the way he does any new piece on the board.

“This is Mrs. Maritz,” I announce. My voice fills the space like gunpowder in a closed room. “You address her as such. You show her the same respect you show me. More, if you want to keep your teeth.”

Her jaw tightens at that. I see it, the little tick in the muscle. But she doesn’t look at me. Smart. She knows the rules of performance. She knows this isn’t for her—it’s for them. A demonstration. A claim.

Guido stays plastered to her side, his small body stiff as stone. The kid’s quiet, but the grip he has on her hand says more than words ever could. He’s already learning. Already reading the air like a soldier’s son.

“Dario will see to your needs,” I tell her, my gaze never leaving hers. “Anything you require, you ask him.”

Her head turns toward me, chin tilting just enough to carve the words like a blade. “And if I require a way out?”

The corner of my mouth lifts, slow. Not for her benefit. For mine. “Then you’d better get used to disappointment.”

Dario shifts behind me, his weight moving like he’s not sure if he should laugh or brace for the fallout. He doesn’t know her like I do. Doesn’t know that she’ll keep pressing, keep fighting, even when the walls close in.

We move again, deeper into the house. The ceilings arch high overhead, frescoes painted centuries ago staring down like saints who turned their backs on salvation. The walls don’t just hold heat—they hold secrets. Blood in the mortar. Deals sealed in whispers. Bodies buried under marble.

This is my world. My fortress. My kingdom.

And now—she’s in it.

She thinks she’s walking into a prison. I’m watching a queen step into her throne room. Finally.

Trophies and Territory

I don’t ask her where she wants to stay. That choice was never hers to make.

Her wing is already prepared—the east side of the estate. Three bedrooms, a private bath, a sitting room with windows opening over the hills. Sounds generous on paper, but every inch of it is calculated the way I design my deals: dressed like a gift while cutting off every exit.

The maids move fast, silent. Her dresses are already unpacked, hung by color in the closet.

Shoes lined like soldiers at attention. The vanity—stocked with cosmetics she hasn’t touched in years, brands imported from Milan because I know what she wore when Giovanni first paraded her around.

The closet isn’t new. It’s been waiting for her. For years.

Because I made sure of it.

There’s no key for the bedroom door. No lock. Not for her. She can close herself in if she wants—but only as much as I allow.

She scans the room with careful detachment. Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t touch anything for long. But I see the way her eyes flick to the corners. The way her hand lingers on the closet handle, counting exits that don’t exist.

Good. Let her feel it. Let her realize she’s exactly where I’ve wanted her all along.

I lean against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes on her like I’ve got all the time in the world.

She moves with deliberate restraint—fingers trailing over the polished wood of the vanity, the drape of the curtains, the leather-bound books lining the shelves.

She doesn’t linger. She doesn’t claim. She’s resisting even the act of breathing my air.

“This is yours now,” I say. My voice doesn’t need volume—it fills the space anyway. “Everything in it. Everything beyond it. You’ve got the kingdom you were always meant for.”

Her laugh cuts sharp, bitter. “A kingdom with invisible bars.”

I smile because she’s wrong. “Not invisible. Permanent.”

She turns her back on me, hiding the expression she doesn’t want me to see. That’s fine. I’ve already memorized every look she doesn’t give me.

Guido wanders in, quiet steps carrying him across the threshold. His eyes roam the room with that mix of awe and unease only a child can manage. He lingers at the window, then looks up at me, his face unreadable for a moment. Then:

“Are you my new dad?”

The words hit harder than a bullet. Sharp. Unexpected. For half a second, I don’t answer. The room goes still. Zina’s body stiffens like she’s been struck.

I crouch down to Guido’s height, the weight of his stare heavier than any enemy’s. “Not yet,” I tell him, voice low, even. “But you’ll understand in time.”

His brow furrows, caught between confusion and suspicion. He doesn’t know if it’s a promise or a threat.

It’s both.

The Dinner Setup

The invitation list is short, but the stakes are fucking massive. Tonight’s table isn’t just dinner—it’s the crucible where reputations live or die. Every man sitting across from me will measure my strength not just by the steel in my hand, but by the woman at my side.

And I intend to make them choke on the view.

I find her in her wing, standing at the vanity with her back to me.

Candlelight glows across her bare shoulders, hair falling in dark waves like a curtain she could hide behind if she were anyone else.

But Zina isn’t hiding. She’s staring at herself in the mirror, lips parted just slightly, as if bracing for war.

She’s in a silk slip. Nothing else. Like she’s daring me to decide for her.

“Dinner tonight,” I tell her, my voice cutting through the hush. “Several families. You’ll dress like the woman who rules beside me, not beneath me.”

Her gaze lifts to meet mine in the mirror. Venom glitters in her eyes, sharp as the edge of a dagger. “Is that how you want your enemies to see me?” she asks coolly. “Crowned or collared?”

My grin is slow, deliberate, meant to provoke. “Why not both?”

Her jaw tightens, lips pressed into a thin slash of defiance.

But she doesn’t argue. She knows how to pick her battles, and tonight isn’t the one.

She turns back to the vanity, sliding open a drawer and pulling out lipstick the color of arterial blood.

She applies it with steady precision, each stroke like a silent fuck you.

I watch every movement. The way her shoulders stay squared, the way her hand doesn’t shake. She hates me—but she won’t give me the satisfaction of seeing weakness.

By the time she steps out of the closet, she’s in the dress I had sent up hours ago. A fitted, floor-length red that clings to her curves like a tailored sin, slit high enough to double as a weapon. Her heels strike marble with sharp defiance, every click announcing her arrival like gunfire.

“You’re overdressed,” I murmur.

“You’re overbearing,” she fires back.

Stalemate. For now.

I close the distance, fingers reaching into her hair, adjusting the fall so that the diamond collar at her throat gleams in the candlelight. My knuckles brush her skin—warm, tense, fighting not to tremble. I catch the shiver she tries to bury.

“Tonight, you’ll be watched,” I tell her, voice pitched low for her alone. “Every look, every move, every word cataloged and twisted. If any of them touch you—” I lean in, lips grazing the shell of her ear “—I’ll cut off their hands.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shy away. Her defiance is a steady flame. “How generous,” she murmurs.

“Generosity has nothing to do with it.”