Page 51 of Blood Queen
His nostrils flare. “I don’t give a shit if she’s right. I will not let you go to them so they can finish what they started.”
The finality in his voice is solid, unwavering. I should be annoyed at how quick he is to try and decide for me. I should fight back, argue that it’s my choice. Because it is. It’s my life. My family.
But instead, I just feel… tired.
So I step closer, pressing my forehead to his chest. His arms come around me instantly, his grip strong, steady.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur.
His breath shudders against the top of my head. “Promise me.”
I close my eyes. The spark inside me from home—the cabin—the angry, vengeful spark, grows in the pit of my stomach. Icouldgo. I could make them pay for killing my biological family, for executing Papa. For making me an orphan.
I could right all the wrongs.
Couldn’t I?
29
Present
The hotel suite is silent when I slip inside, the heavy door clicking shut behind me like a judge’s gavel sealing a verdict. My pulse hasn’t slowed. My skin hums with the phantom echoes of gunfire, the ghost of adrenaline still sinking its claws into my veins. I exhale sharply, pressing my back against the door for just a moment, feeling the weight of the night press against me.
Then I move.
The crimson dress slides from my shoulders with a whisper, pooling at my feet in a puddle of silk. The garter comes next, then the wig, tossed onto the dresser like a discarded persona. I stare at my reflection in the mirror across the room, at the woman left behind in the wake of destruction.
A stranger stares back.
I peel off the rest, stripping myself down to bare skin, to something real beneath the facade. The clothes—tainted withsweat, smoke, and the stink of the Diamond Club—get shoved into a trash bag. No evidence, no loose ends. Just the ghost of blood and gunpowder clinging to my memory.
My hands don’t tremble. Not yet. That’ll come later, when the echoes settle, when the night catches up to me.
The bathroom is a sanctuary of cool marble and expensive silence. I twist the faucet, let the water run scalding, watch steam curl against the air like breath from a sleeping beast. The scent of gun oil still lingers on my fingertips. It clings, refusing to be scrubbed away.
I step into the bath, letting the heat envelop me, burning away the filth of the night. My body sinks into the water, tension unraveling in slow increments. My nerves still prickle with awareness, but beneath it, buried deep, there’s something else. A thrill. A quiet, simmering satisfaction.
I did what needed to be done.
Rocco and Alessio thought they were untouchable. They thought their father’s power made them gods. But tonight, I reminded them that gods can bleed. That vengeance isn’t loud or reckless—it’s a blade in the dark, a whispered promise turned into reality.
I close my eyes, tilting my head back against the porcelain, listening to the steady drip of water against my skin. The high is still there, but so is the unease. The hollow part of me that asks:When does this end? What am I doing? How have I sunk so low?
And yet, as the water cools around me, as my heartbeat settles into something almost human, I wonder if I’ll ever feel clean again.
I slip a towel around me as I rise from the tub, water sloshing onto the floor. Shadows stretch long against the walls as I cross the room, a ghost haunting my own space. Night simmers outside my window.
For a moment, I stand there and watch the city blink and breathe, a beast licking its wounds, preparing to strike back. I imagine Rocco and Alessio being found, the Commission’s oil-slicked rage spilling over every corner of this life I’ve built.
The Commission will meet. Will retaliate now that I’ve put things in motion.
I slip into the King bed naked. Yank the heavy duvet over me and exhale.
30
Past
The bus rumbles beneath us, eating up the last few miles to South Carolina, and I watch out the window like a kid seeing the world for the first time. Because, in a way, I am.
