Page 8 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

Her eyes narrow, venom simmering, but she swallows whatever cutting words she wants to spit. Instead, she turns sharply toward the door, walking ahead with that regal stride that makes even the walls seem to bow.

Good. Let her think she’s leading.

By the time we leave her wing, the estate hums like a live wire.

Kitchen staff move in swift silence, platters steaming under silver domes.

Bodyguards line thresholds, rifles hidden beneath tailored jackets.

My consigliere runs final checks on the guest list, murmuring orders to underbosses like chess moves.

This isn’t dinner. It’s theater.

And Zina isn’t just another guest. She’s the headlining act. My queen. My weapon. My leash.

And mine.

Power and Performance

The dining hall is a cathedral of excess.

A polished mahogany table stretches down the center, gleaming like a battlefield awaiting blood.

Chandeliers drip light across the assembled faces—men I’ve fought beside, men I’ve buried enemies with, men who would slit my throat if they thought they could get away with it.

Allies. Enemies. Often both in the same breath.

I take my seat at the head. And to my right, where no woman has ever sat in this house, I put Zina.

Not subtle. A statement. A claim. A warning.

The air shifts the moment she sits. Like everyone can feel the imbalance in the room tilt. The men look. The women whisper behind jeweled hands. Glasses lift, wine sipped for show, but no one’s paying attention to the food.

They’re studying her.

She knows it. I can see it in the way her shoulders roll back, in the way her chin lifts. Every angle of her body says queen, even if her eyes are spitting curses at me. Her fingers curl around the stem of her wine glass—not like she’s holding a drink, but like she’s palming a blade.

Perfect.

Plates arrive. Crystal clinks. Forks scrape porcelain. I don’t taste any of it. My attention keeps cutting back to her. The curve of her mouth—not smiling, not quite sneering. The way she doesn’t avert her gaze when another man looks too long. She meets them all head-on, daring them to blink.

And then Arturo Silva tests me.

Old money. Older arrogance. He leans forward, voice a low purr designed to travel down the table. “You’ve done well for yourself, Emiliano.” His eyes linger on Zina like a stain. “Beauty and strength—a rare combination.”

Zina doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even look at him. She looks at me. Which is worse. Because that silent challenge scorches hotter than words: What will you do about it?

Arturo smiles wider, emboldened. “Tell me, signora… are you truly off the market?”

The breath in the room changes. Forks pause midair. Even the staff stiffen.

My mask holds for three seconds. Then his hand moves—slow, deliberate—resting on the table beside her chair. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough. Too close.

A provocation.

The knife is in my hand before I think. Steel slams into mahogany with a crack like gunfire, the blade pinning the polished surface a hair’s breadth from his fingers.

The hall freezes.

Every conversation dies. The sound ricochets through the chandeliers like a warning shot.

I lean forward, my voice low but sharp enough to cut. “Touch her again,” I say, every word edged in steel, “and I’ll make you eat your fucking ring.”

The silence is absolute.

Arturo’s smile falters, stiff. But his eyes—bright, curious—betray him. He pulls his hand back slowly, as if calculating the math of his survival.

Good. Let him measure. The sum never works in his favor.

The others shift, coughing out laughter, forcing conversations back into motion. But it’s false. The tone has changed. The air has been branded. They’ve seen it—the moment I drew blood without spilling any.

I sit back, reclaim my wine, and drink slow. Zina hasn’t moved. Her face is carved from stone, but I know her. I know the storm behind her eyes, the fury simmering at my “overreaction.”

She thinks I went too far. I think I went easy.

Arrival and Occupation

The gates open slow, like they know who the fuck they’re letting in.

Metal groans against stone, hinges dragging centuries of history into the night air.

It isn’t just an entrance—it’s a test, and the estate behind it waits like a predator ready to measure if the woman I’ve dragged inside belongs here.

My estate sits high in the hills, carved out of rock and blood, stone walls older than most of the men guarding them.

Every arch, every steel-reinforced door screams what I’ve built—untouchable, immovable, mine.

The kind of fortress kings used to die for.

The kind of fortress that bends the world around it until even silence obeys.

The car rolls to a stop in the circular drive. I’m out first. Always first. Gravel crunches under my shoes, sharp and deliberate, as I circle to the other side.

She steps out slow, like she’s walking into a fucking coronation.

Zina. Chin high, spine carved from defiance, lips blood-red against skin too pale for her own good.

The boy clings to her hand—Guido—his small fingers clenched white around hers.

His eyes dart across the facade, taking in the torches and balconies, the guards at their stations.

He knows this place isn’t a home. Not yet. Maybe never.

“Inside,” I say. I don’t need to raise my voice. The men hear me. They move like shadows, already unloading the luggage, already falling into the rhythm of obedience this house demands. The weight of the estate pulls her forward whether she wants to move or not.

The doors swing open. The central hall yawns wide—marble floors polished like glass, vaulted ceilings that reach heaven and dare God to look down, chandeliers older than my enemies’ family names.

Zina’s heels hit the stone, sharp echoes ricocheting through the space.

Defiance dressed up as poise. Every click is a threat disguised as grace.

Staff line the edges—bodyguards in tailored black, the chef in his whites, the maids with their eyes lowered like prayer.

And just behind me, Dario—my consigliere—leans on his cane, eyes cold, assessing.

Watching her the way you watch a new piece on the board, deciding if it’s pawn, queen, or weapon.

“This is Mrs. Maritz,” I announce, my voice filling the room like gunpowder in a closed chamber. “You address her as such. You show her the same respect you show me. More, if you value your fucking teeth.”

Her jaw tightens—I see it in the corner of my eye—but she doesn’t look at me. Smart. She knows the rules of performance. She knows to play queen when the court is watching.

Guido presses closer to her side. He doesn’t say a word, but the grip on her hand is loud enough. Already, he’s reading the air, learning the cost of silence in a room like this.

“Dario will see to your needs,” I tell her.

She cuts me a look, voice sharp as broken glass. “And if I require a way out?”

My smile is slow. Cruel. “Then you’d better get used to disappointment.”

Dario shifts, as if unsure whether to laugh or brace for violence.

We move again, deeper into the house. Every hallway hums with history. Blood in the foundation. Deals sealed in whispers. Bodies buried where no one dares look. She feels it—I know she does. The walls press in, demanding submission.

This is my fortress. My kingdom. My empire.

And now, she’s in it.

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

Finally.

Trophies and Territory

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

Her wing sits on the east side of the estate—three bedrooms, a private bath, a sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the hills. Sounds generous. Sounds like freedom. But every inch is designed the same way I design my deals: to look like a gift while cutting off every exit.

The maids unpack her things before she even sets her bag down. Dresses hung by color. Shoes lined in perfect rows. A closet already stocked in her size—waiting like it’s been expecting her for years. Because it has. I made sure of it.

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

She walks through the space like it’s a museum she didn’t buy a ticket for.

Touching nothing for long. Fingertips grazing surfaces but pulling back quick, as though she refuses to leave fingerprints on something she doesn’t want to claim.

Her eyes flick to corners, to windows, to the door handle.

Calculating escape routes that don’t exist.

Good. Let her realize she’s exactly where I want her.

I lean against the doorframe, arms folded, watching her. “This is yours now,” I tell her. My voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. It fills the room anyway. “Everything in it. Everything beyond it. You’ve got the kingdom you were always meant for.”

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

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

She turns her back to me, staring at the window as if the hills will part and give her an escape. She won’t find one.

I’ve waited twenty years for this—for her under my roof, her name tied to mine in whispers, in business deals, in threats whispered across the city. She doesn’t see it yet. She thinks she’s my hostage. She doesn’t realize she’s my victory.

Guido wanders in from the hall, eyes wide as he scans the room. He’s quiet, but kids see more than adults think. He studies me with the same sharpness as his mother.

Then he asks it. The question I wasn’t expecting. “Are you my new dad?”

It hits like a blade. Sharp. Deep. Right where I thought I’d walled myself off. For a moment, I don’t answer. I crouch down so we’re eye level, forcing myself steady.

“Not yet,” I tell him, low and measured. “But you’ll understand in time.”

His brow furrows, like he’s not sure if that’s a promise or a threat.

It’s both.