Page 9 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

zina

The Golden Cage

I wake in a bed big enough to drown in. The sheets smell faintly of roses and starch, the pillowcase cool against my cheek. For a second, I let myself believe I’m somewhere else—somewhere that doesn’t carry his scent in the walls.

Then I open my eyes.

The ceiling above me is painted with gold-leaf vines, curling across plaster like serpents pretending to be flowers. The kind of detail you’d see in a museum, not a home. Not mine.

The room is beautiful. Too beautiful. The bed carved from dark mahogany, canopy draped in silk that catches the light like spiderwebs. Curtains that whisper when the air shifts. A vanity that looks like it’s been stolen from a French queen. Every surface glitters. Every corner gleams.

It’s still a cage.

I swing my legs over the side, my bare feet sinking into a rug so thick it could hide a body. The thought makes me smirk bitterly—of course Emiliano would dress a prison in silk and call it mercy. Even his cruelty comes polished, wrapped in velvet and gold.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Not the kind of silence that soothes, but the kind that watches.

When I open the door, I see them—two of his men, pretending they’re not here for me.

Standing a little apart, arms loose at their sides, trying to look like they’re guarding the hall instead of me.

They don’t stand close enough to look like guards.

They don’t have to. I know a shadow when it follows me.

“Morning, Signora,” one of them says, voice smooth as glass.

I ignore him.

The hallway stretches on forever, lined with oil paintings of dead men with sharper eyes than smiles.

Giovanni’s bloodline staring me down in thick gilded frames, a reminder that I’ll never belong to their legacy no matter how many crowns I wear.

My steps echo against the marble floor, sharp and deliberate, as if each heel strike is proof I’m not afraid.

Every door I pass is closed. The few I try are locked. Of course they are. The sound of the latch rattling is a tiny confirmation of what I already know.

I keep my pace slow. Measured. Controlled. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattle the bars.

Through a set of glass double doors, sunlight spills into a sitting room trimmed in ivory and pale blue. French doors open onto a balcony that overlooks the gardens—manicured within an inch of their lives. Beyond the gates, the trees move like they remember freedom.

My fingers twitch toward the handle, but I stop. The balcony’s too high to jump, and there’s no way past the men stationed at the gates. Even if I made it, I’d be running straight into another wolf’s territory. Out of one cage, into another.

I keep walking.

Every surface in this house whispers of him—his wealth, his taste, his control. Even the air smells expensive, like someone bottled power and sprayed it in every room. Leather. Smoke. Metal. The scent of a man who built his empire from ashes and expects me to breathe it like perfume.

Queen of what? I think bitterly. A tomb?

I pass another locked door and smile to myself. He doesn’t trust me alone in his kingdom. Good. That means he’s smart. That means he knows I’m dangerous.

But so is he.

I reach the far end of the hall and stand in front of a set of floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the iron gates are closed, the guards posted like statues.

Silk walls. Gold trim. Locked doors. Eyes always watching.

A golden cage is still a cage. And if Emiliano thinks I’ll sing for him, he’s out of his fucking mind.

A Child’s Instinct

The gardens outside don’t move for me. They sway in the wind like they belong to someone else—which they do. Their beauty is curated, leashed, trimmed into submission. Just like me.

I’m still standing at the window when I hear the soft padding of bare feet behind me. Small, quick steps. I don’t need to turn to know.

“Can we go out there?” Guido’s voice is muffled, like he already knows the answer and hates it.

I glance down at him. He’s half-hidden by the heavy curtain, one small hand clutching the fabric like it’s the only thing anchoring him. His hair sticks up in the back, his T-shirt crooked. My son—my whole world—looking out through bars he can’t yet name.

“We’ll go out soon,” I say, smoothing my voice into something light. Something that doesn’t sound like the truth. “It’s nice out, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the gates. “Are we safe here?”

The question lands like a knife under my ribs.

I drop into a crouch beside him, putting myself at his level. My knees press into the polished floor, cold through my silk pants. I touch his cheek, forcing him to look at me.

“Of course we’re safe, baby.” The lie rolls off my tongue like it’s muscle memory. And it is. I’ve been lying to him since the day he was born. Not about who I am, but about the world I brought him into.

Still, there’s a weight behind his gaze that tells me he’s not buying it.

His next words gut me. “Is Emiliano my dad now?”

I go still.

The question isn’t new. He asked it once before—just days ago, back when we still had the chance to run. I gave him the same answer then. And it still tastes like ash in my mouth.

“No,” I say, too fast, too sharp. “He’s just… someone we know.”

Guido blinks slowly. The curtain slips from his fingers. “But he’s always around.”

I glance toward the door, half expecting to see a shadow pass by, proof that Emiliano is, in fact, always fucking around. “That doesn’t make him your father,” I say, quieter now.

Guido studies me like he’s deciding whether to push the subject. He doesn’t. But the little furrow between his brows says enough—he doesn’t believe me. Not fully.

Even at five, he understands something I don’t want to admit: the danger here isn’t the guns, the guards, or the gates. It’s the slow rot that happens when you start adapting to a place like this. When you start calling it home because it’s easier than fighting every second.

I tuck his hair back, my fingers lingering a second longer than they should. “Go find the playroom,” I tell him. “I’ll be there soon.”

He nods, but it’s the kind of nod a soldier gives when retreating, not surrendering. His footsteps fade down the hall, and the silence he leaves behind is heavier than before.

I turn back to the gates.

A gilded cage might keep the monsters out. But it can also keep them in—with you.

Clash of Wills

The glass garden room feels like a lie someone tried to make beautiful. Orchids climb the walls, roses bloom too perfect, sunlight streams through windows scrubbed too clean to belong in a world like mine. Beauty twisted into a mask, meant to soothe, meant to distract.

I sit in a wrought-iron chair, tracing the rim of an untouched teacup with one finger, because there’s nothing else to do but pretend I’m not trapped.

I hear him before I see him. His steps—slow, deliberate—drag against the tile like a countdown. A chair scrapes against stone, pulled back across from me.

“Coffee?” Emiliano’s voice is silk over steel. He sets the porcelain cup on the table between us, a gesture so polite it makes me want to laugh.

I stare at the cup, then at him. My silence is deliberate.

“I didn’t agree to play house,” I say finally, each word cut clean, sharp enough to bleed him if I could.

His mouth tilts—not quite a smile. “And yet here you are, in my house.”

“Not yours.” I push the cup toward him with one finger, slow, steady. “None of this is yours. You’re dressing me in another man’s wealth like I’m some doll you get to parade around.”

He leans back, relaxed, unbothered, as if my defiance is nothing more than background noise. “And what would you prefer? Rags? Poverty? A life where you’re begging for scraps from men who would rather put a bullet in your head?”

I stand, my chair screeching against the floor. “I’d prefer a life where my worth isn’t tied to the size of a man’s fucking bank account.”

His eyes follow me as I move, a predator tracking prey. “Idealism,” he says softly, like it’s a curse. “You think you can survive this world without a monster at your side?”

“I survived Giovanni.”

“Barely.”

The word lands hard, like a slap. My chest tightens, heat flooding my cheeks. I take a step closer, then another, until only the table separates us.

“You think you’re better than him?”

His eyes glint—dark, sharp, knowing. “No, Zina. I’m worse. And that’s why you’ll survive me.”

Something inside me snaps. My hand flies before I think, aiming for his face.

He catches my wrist mid-swing. Strong enough to stop me. Not enough to hurt. Yet. He rises, stepping into my space until the air between us is nothing but heat, breath, and unspent violence.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting my cheek.

My pulse pounds in my ears. My free hand lands against his chest, uninvited, traitorous, feeling the solid weight of him.

For a dizzying second, our breathing tangles. His eyes drop to my mouth. My body betrays me—I almost lean in.

Then the spell shatters. I wrench my wrist free, stepping back like I’ve remembered I was drinking poison.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss, low and lethal. “Unless you want me to kill you.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches me with that dangerous calm, as if the threat didn’t scare him. As if it turned him on.

The Estate’s Poison

The air in the glass garden room still hums with his presence after he leaves. His scent lingers—coffee, smoke, and something darker that clings to the back of my throat. I need space before I choke on it.

I slip out through a side door into the private gardens.

It’s quiet here—except for the rhythmic clash of steel on steel. On the far lawn, Emiliano’s guards spar, blades flashing in the late sun. They move like predators, fluid and lethal, every strike trained to kill.

One of them glances my way mid-parry. He’s young, sweat glistening down his temple, eyes sharp enough to cut. Instead of looking away, he nods at me. Not deferential. Not casual. Respectful.

It stops me cold.