Page 43 of Vicious Kingdom (Dynasty of Queens #3)

T he golden opportunity finally arrived. While luncheon with my parents was far from ideal, it gave me the perfect excuse to go to their house. Armed with the USB drive the don gave me, our plot was in full force.

I parked my car in the circular driveway of my parents’ sprawling estate, taking a moment to steady my nerves.

The familiar tension settled between my shoulder blades as I gazed up at the imposing facade of my childhood home.

White columns and pristine landscaping—everything perfect on the outside, just as my parents preferred.

“You can do this,” I whispered to myself, clutching my purse where the USB drive lay hidden. One quick trip to my father’s office, plug it in, and the famiglia might have access to everything they needed to destroy Voss.

There was sure to be something on his computer.

He wasn’t smart enough to keep the information anywhere else.

The front door opened before I could knock. My mother stood there, immaculate as always in her cream Chanel suit, pearls gleaming at her throat.

“Annaliese, darling. You’re late.” Her disapproval was palpable, but she air-kissed my cheeks anyway.

We glided in silence to the dining room where my father was already sitting…with my uncle and cousin.

My stomach lurched.

I can do this .

Two people were hard enough to evade. Four? I steeled my resolve, and the meal began.

The men talked shop, scheming for their media empire. Mom discussed the latest gossip flowing through society—as if I cared. And Jonatan sulked, hardly touching a bite of food.

“So, Annaliese, how’s married life treating you?” Uncle Jon boomed. “We haven’t been invited to dinner yet, you know.”

He shot me a wink.

And don’t you think that’s by design? Leo’s apartment, although cold and full of tension, was still my safe space. Whatever problems we faced were ours and ours alone. “Oh, you know how it is, so busy that the days are flying by!”

My uncle laughed conspiratorially, while my parents blanched.

“You should have been at the children’s benefit,” my mother scolded. “Surely you could have stopped whatever you’re wasting your time with for them.”

If only she knew….

But my parents would be horrified if they knew I was a best-selling author, who spent her days gleefully typing, immersed in worlds full of monsters.

I made enough money—reinvested it too—that I hadn’t touched my trust in the last three years. Another detail that my family didn’t seem to notice or care to ask about.

It wasn’t like my clothes were cheap.

And they never wondered how I paid for them.

When dessert was cleared away, I rose. “I just need to run up to my room.”

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” My mother rose as well. “You need to box the rest of your things. We’re turning the space into an art room.”

Dinner threatened to make a reappearance. Neither of my parents were inclined to any form of creativity. Not even my father, the lauded businessman.

And yet, so flippantly, they were dismissing my twenty-five years in this house and changing my room.

Always an afterthought.

“Sounds great!” I chirped with forced ease. “Can’t wait to see what you do.”

I hurried away.

This was my chance.

Around the corner, down the hallway lined with family portraits that never quite captured genuine smiles, I moved with purpose, my heart hammering against my ribs as I passed the story of my childhood. No time for nostalgia now.

Father’s office was at the end of the hall—a sanctuary of mahogany and leather that had always been off-limits without explicit invitation. The door was closed but unlocked. I slipped inside, closing it softly behind me.

The familiar scent of cigars and expensive cologne hung in the air. His desk loomed before me, immaculate as always except for a single fountain pen resting beside his closed laptop.

I glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty before someone would come looking for me.

The laptop powered on with a soft hum. I tapped my fingers impatiently against the desk as it booted up. I needed two minutes for the USB to load.

They were the longest of my life.

Once the light on the slim stick turned green, I yanked it free.

“I did it!” I breathed.

The computer screen went dark at my command, and I rushed away. I made a beeline to my room. The heavy oak door swung open on silent hinges—

Revealing the scourge inside.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I tried to backtrack. But the scrawny fucker was fast.

“At last,” the Tormentor crowed, grabbing my hair and yanking me into the room.

“I’ll scream!” I threatened, striking out at him. My fist collided with his rib.

“That wasn’t very nice.” He returned the blow. “Better keep quiet. Don’t want anyone knowing what you were really up to.”

I clenched my teeth. Not this time. Never again. I lashed out, striking with all my might.

With a stifled roar, the Tormentor pinned me against the wall, his bony fingers pressing into my throat. His face—that awful face I'd been forced to see for nearly twenty years—twisted into a snarl.

“You’ve been a very bad girl, Pookie,” he hissed, his breath sour against my face. “Running off with that thug. Did you think I wouldn't find you?”

I clawed at his hand, gasping for air. “Let…go….”

“I’ve been watching you,” the Tormentor continued, pressing harder. “Always watching. Did you think that a marriage certificate would protect you? That he could keep you from me? I will have you!”

“This isn’t Game of Thrones! It’s disgusting and wrong.” My vision began to blur at the edges. With the last of my strength, I brought my knee up hard between his legs. He doubled over with a strangled cry, and I shoved him away, stumbling toward the door.

“You bitch!” he snarled.

It was his turn to strike.

The first blow landed in the soft flesh of my abdomen, knocking the wind from my lungs. The next bruised my boob.

Over and over, he struck, unleashing his demented fury on me.

I curled into a ball, trying to protect my face as the blows rained down on my body. My ears rang with the sound of my own heartbeat, drowning out his vicious muttering. Through the haze of pain, a single thought crystallized: I would not die here, not in this room, not by his hands.

When his fist connected with my pelvis, something snapped inside me. Not bone—something deeper. The fear that had paralyzed me for years shattered, replaced by a cold, clear rage.

I caught his wrist mid-swing. The surprise in his eyes gave me the second I needed. I twisted hard, using the technique I learned in self-defense class. The Tormentor howled as his momentum carried him forward. His head cracked against the edge of my old desk.

Blood bloomed across his temple.

It was the opening I needed. I could run, flee from his assault as I’d done countless times before.

I stayed.

I fought.

Taking a solid object, some random piece of decor, I brought it down on his skull. The hit connected with a sickening sound.

I fucking relished the noise.

He caught me as I went to strike again, forcing me to drop the weapon. But I wasn’t a defenseless child.

I was a woman enraged.

I kicked and scratched, struck and clawed until he was a sniveling mess.

Only then did I flee.

I didn’t stop to bid farewell to the adults. They were supposed to protect me as a child. But they’d always been too busy to notice the hell I endured.

They didn’t deserve courtesy from me now.

As I wrenched open my car door, I vowed never to return to this house of horrors. Not unless I had a gun with the Tormentor’s name on the damn bullet.