Page 61 of Vicious Kingdom (Dynasty of Queens #3)

T he wooden altar sat alone, looking down on the sanctuary, with weary resignation.

The material was worn by the decades, and the stain faded from the beams of sunlight falling upon it morning after morning.

And yet to me, and many others, it was a beacon of hope.

The one place I could return to, whenever my soul was hurting, and find the strength to continue.

The black clothing covering my body should mean that I was in the depths of despair.

Today, I was here to thank the Good Lord for my freedom.

I knelt in the pew, bowed my head, and lifted my spirit to the heavens.

I’ve been delivered.

Random thoughts interrupted the prayers on my lips. I finished the message to the Father, whispered an Amen, and lost myself to the tangled web of mental chaos. As I meditated, the door opened and closed. The hinges were in desperate need of oil.

I didn’t open my eyes, didn’t look behind me.

Other souls, plagued with spiritual needs, often visited while I was in here, so I didn’t think anything of the interruption.

It wasn’t until the stench of ripe fruit tickled my senses that my distracted mind fixated on the newcomer.

The sickly, syrupy scent invaded the sanctuary.

Who the hell liked peaches enough to smell like them?

I was tempted to look back, but that was rude. Besides, I was almost done. Just a few more minutes of quiet reflection, then I could leave this sacred space and return to the noise of the outside world.

A metallic click shattered the silence.

My body reacted before my mind could process—diving sideways off the pew, hitting the hardwood floor with a painful thud as something whistled past my ear.

The crack of gunfire exploded through the sanctuary, echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

Splinters erupted from the pew where I’d been kneeling seconds before.

My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat thundering in my ears. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The taste of copper flooded my mouth as I bit my tongue.

“You traitorous little bitch,” a voice hissed from behind me, that disgusting peach scent growing stronger.

I crawled forward, using the pews as cover, frantically trying to put distance between myself and my would-be killer. Another deafening crack split the air. The bullet punched through the wooden bench inches from my hand, showering me with splinters that stung like angry hornets.

I bit back a scream and changed direction, zigzagging toward the side aisle. The smell of gunpowder mingled with that sickening sweet scent.

“You think you can just walk away?” The voice was male, dripping with scorn. “After everything you’ve done?”

My mind raced through faces, trying to place him. After the living nightmare of the last week, and the blessed end to the one person who should have stood by my side, this terrible consequence was the newest horror in the epilogue of my marriage.

I reached the end of the pew and risked a glance back. He stood in the center aisle, gun extended, face twisted in a mask of hatred. I recognize him as one of my husband’s soldiers.

“You have it all wrong!” I protested, knowing the words fell on deaf ears.

I’d heard the whispers. I knew what they said about me.

The soldier barked a harsh laugh. “You think you can murder the don, and we wouldn’t find out?”

“I didn’t kill him,” I insisted.

I wish I had.

I scampered back, but the soldier bounded forward, gun raised.

“Rot in hell, Black Widow,” he snarled.

The gun barrel leveled at my face. My limbs froze, throat constricting around a scream that wouldn’t come. This was it. My second chance at life, snuffed out on the same day I’d thought I’d gained my freedom.

The heavy church door crashed open behind him. The Made Man half-turned, startled by the intrusion.

“Put it down, my son.” Father Donelli’s voice, normally gentle and warm during Sunday mass, had turned to steel.

The soldier sneered, gun still trained on me. “Stay out of this, holy man. This doesn’t concern you.”

I caught sight of Father Donelli’s weathered face, his eyes hard as flint. In his trembling hands—hands that had only ever offered communion and blessings—he clutched a hunting rifle.

“This is God’s house,” Father Donelli said, stepping forward. “And she is under the church’s protection.”

The soldier scoffed.

Not taking the threat seriously, the Made Man turned his attention back to me. The gun trained to my head. His finger curled on the trigger.

There wasn’t time to beseech the heavenly powers for a final blessing on my soul. I was going to meet my maker. I trembled, but not from fear.

No, I was angry.

Life hadn’t been kind, and now it was over.

I rose on shaking legs. My gaze pinned on my doom. “Fuck you! I wish it had been me!”

“This is for Don Moretti,” the soldier snapped.

Time slowed to a long, drawn out heartbeat.

A bullet cracked through the air.

I flinched, ready for the pain.

But the darkness never came.

The soldier jerked to the side, body forced by gravity to the ground.

A pool of blood formed around the soldier’s head, expanding across the polished floor like a macabre halo.

His eyes remained open, vacant and glassy, staring at nothing.

The bullet had caught him just above the ear, leaving a small, neat hole where it entered and a much larger exit wound on the other side.

His fingers still curled around his weapon, but the threat had vanished with his life.

I couldn’t look away. The man who moments ago had been so intent on ending my life now lay motionless, his face frozen in that final moment of surprise.

Blood seeped into the collar of his expensive suit—the uniform of my husband's men. His chest didn’t rise.

His eyelids didn't flutter. The peach cologne that had announced his presence now mixed with the metallic tang of blood.

My stomach lurched. I’d seen death before—in this life, how could I not? But this was intimate. It could have been me.

“Isabella!” Father Donelli appeared suddenly in front of me, blocking the grotesque sight. “Isabella, child, are you alright?”

I closed my eyes sucking in a desperate breath. “I’m unharmed.” I blinked, body swaying, and I reached for the back of the pew to steady myself. “Thanks to you, Father.”

The priest laid down his rifle and gently reached for my arm. “You shouldn’t be out and about alone. Where is your guard?”

“At home,” I managed to say, my stomach flipping inside my abdomen. “I didn’t think….”

The priest studied me with a guarded expression. “Isabella, this rumor is going to be the death of you.”

A sick twist of fate.

The Black Widow, they called me. While there were plenty of whispers as to my late husband’s demise, this was the one that was gaining traction.

“You need to call your guard. Have him come take you home, while I clean this mess up,” Father Donelli instructed.

I nodded and sat heavily on the wooden seat.

“One more thing,” Father Donelli looked between me and the dead body, “if you insist on going out and about without a guard, you need to be armed. Do you have a gun?”

That was probably the funniest thing a holy man could ask. But he was right. I needed to protect myself.

“I’ll get one.”

Father Donelli nodded, his expression grave. “Good. The Lord helps those who help themselves.” He crossed himself quickly. “I recommend something small, that you can easily conceal.”

I would have gaped at him, maybe even laughed. But the shock was setting in.

“Alright, I’ll have Franky find me something,” I gulped. Glancing around him, I sucked in a sharp breath. “You sure you don’t need help with that?”

The priest shook his head. “I’ll make some calls. This will be taken care of.”

I knew what that meant. In this neighborhood, bodies had a way of disappearing. Even in God’s house, certain rules applied.

“Thank you, Father.” My voice sounded hollow, distant even to my own ears.

“Go home, Isabella. Lock your doors at night. Be careful who you trust.” He squeezed my shoulder. “I fear the wolves have only just begun their hunt.”

I stood on unsteady legs, my black dress suddenly feeling like a target rather than mourning attire. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Fuck them.

Stepping over the soldier’s body, I walked down the center aisle toward the exit, my shadow stretching long across the sanctuary floor. The sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows cast prismatic colors across my black dress, painting me in hues of crimson, violet, and gold.

Black Widow. The name echoed in my mind with each step.

I paused at the heavy wooden doors, my hand resting on the ornate handle. Why was I running? Why was I hiding from a reputation I never earned? If they were going to hunt me regardless, perhaps it was time to become the predator they already believed me to be.

My late husband’s enemies had feared him. His allies had respected him. And now they were coming for me, assuming I was weak, vulnerable—prey.

I turned back to Father Donelli, who was scrolling through his phone as he stood over the dead body.

“Father,” I said, pausing at the door, my hand resting on the worn wood. “Tell them this was me.”

The priest's weathered face creased with confusion. “What are you saying, my child?”

“When they ask who killed him. Tell them the Black Widow did it.” My voice grew stronger with each word. “Let them know I’m ready for a fight.”

Father Donelli studied me with ancient eyes that had seen too much sin to be shocked. “Isabella, that path leads only to more bloodshed.”

I smiled, feeling something cold and hard crystallizing in my chest. “Amen, Father.”

I looked at the dead body one last time before turning away. The name they’d given me—Black Widow—echoed in my mind as I made my way toward the exit. I’d been fighting it, denying it, running from it. But no more. The title carried power, carried fear.

“May the Lord bless and keep you,” the priest called after me.

“And you as well,” I responded before stepping into the glittering morning sunlight. A new day was here. I was still alive, and now I was ready for the fight.

***

To Be Continued in Venomous Throne

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