Page 38 of Blood Queen
“I…”
“Kid,” Truman slaps the table, the sharp sound makes me jump. “You’re not leaving this town until you have all the information to make a solid decision.”
I stare at Truman, mind spinning. I had never questioned my past before, never doubted the life Papa had created for me. But now, learning my family’s violent history, I feel lost, adrift.
“I don’t know anything,” I say softly. “My whole life has been a lie.”
Truman’s expression softens. He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his.
“I know this is a lot,” he says gently.
I take a deep breath and nod. “Okay. Where do we start?”
“Let’s go to my house. I’ve got some movies that will help explain the Mafia and give you an idea of what we’re dealing with.
Truman stands and tugs me to my feet. As we walk to his house, questions swarm my mind. Who was my real family? Why did Papa kill them? Was he forced or did he act of his own volition?
Either way, how could the man who lovingly braided my hair and kissed my skinned knees have committed such brutality?
23
Present
He is gone.
My apartment is silent, but his presence lingers like a ghost. The faint scent of his cologne clings stubbornly to my sheets despite my attempts to ignore it. In the kitchen, a solitary glass sits in the sink, a remnant from when he insisted I drink water before he left. His absence feels like a deep wound, a gash in my world that I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge.
Because tonight, I’m back where I belong.
I sit at the long mahogany dining table in the opulent Testa estate, my wine glass balanced delicately between two fingers. Around me, the murmur of low voices fills the room, a symphony of whispered power. The grand chandelier overhead throws a golden glow, illuminating the faces of the men who silently control this city. At the head of the table sits Uncle Leo, his face a mask of neutrality as he listens intently to the reports pouring in.
The food is decadent, the wine expensive, but the real feast is the conversation. Deals are made between bites of filet mignon. Death sentences are whispered over half-drunk glasses of whiskey. And tonight, the topic of choice is blood.
I twirl the stem of my wine glass between my fingers, my face carefully neutral as Leo Testa leans back in his chair, surveying the room. The air is thick with cigar smoke, with power, with the casual ease of men discussing destruction.
“Viggo Scarfo won’t be a problem for a while,” Marco smirks, reaching for the bottle of scotch. “If he can still call himself a man after what was done to him.”
Laughter rumbles around the table. I let my lips curve into a smirk, though I taste nothing but acid.
“And Roberto Leonetti?” one of the older men asks, his voice thick with curiosity. “That was clean work. A professional hit.”
A hum of agreement passes through the gathering. I’m irked that Leo seems to be gloating in the fact that he ordered these hits but kept them all secret. That he ordered me to do these things.
“Someone is sending a message,” Leo muses, tapping a slow rhythm against his glass. His dark eyes flick across the table. “And our sources say the Falcone’s are feeling the heat. Rocco and Alessio are laying low.”
Someone? He’s the one sending the message, just no one knows it but me.
I don’t react, don’t flinch, don’t let them see the way my pulse spikes at those names, at what I’ve done. Leo holds my gaze, daring me to say something. I don’t. I sip my wine, swallowing down the satisfaction that he mistakenly thinks he has the upper hand. Inadvertently, he’s given me everything I need.
Targeting the sons.
The next generation of power.
And the bosses—foolish, arrogant men—will never let their legacies be touched. They’ll come together, forced to act in a way they never would for their men, their women, their soldiers.
They’ll come together for their sons.
For their names.
