Page 63 of Queen of Madness

Though her words have a bite and come out more rhetorical than serious, I hear the slight edge—the real curiosity. “Confront your pain.”

“It will kill me.”

“Then let it.” I watch her work through what I’m saying. “Feel it—allof it, without letting anything filter the blow. Let it consume and tear you to shreds, burn you to ashes. And then be reborn.”

“Like a phoenix?” she scoffs.

“Like a queen.”

“I already—”

“No.” I shake my head. While I don’t want to piss her off, I also want her to know that she is capable of so much more if she’d let go of the things anchoring her down. The things stopping her from truly living. “A queen doesn’t sit idle in her ivory tower.”

I stand, shoving my hands in my pockets. “But fuck, I do hope I’m around to see when you fit the crown on your head.”

Then, I leave her to walk her garden in peace.

Idon’t care for the tedious workings of meetings.

Data can be organized and shared without the need to sit in front of one another and discuss something that is already complete. That’s why I reduced my uncle’s quarterly meetings down to annual. The heads I have manning my departments don’t need to check in with me. They’ve been doing it long enough, and should the need arise, they come find me.

But even that is becoming less and less, which tells me things are lining up nicely. I want them to be able to run the entire operation without me. It’s a necessary part of my endgame, just in case things don’t go smoothly with ending Phineas.

Or even if they do....

I glance at the man in front of me. He’s requested an in-person meeting for a renewal of a contract I have with him. His is just one of the many businesses that donate to Hearts. They get the extra tax break, and I’m able to spend less on Hearts, and more on soldiers’ salaries and incentives. Helps keep them happy and loyal.

“Ms. Embros, I—” Mr. Bardot starts, but I hold up a hand to interject. There are many things I can tolerate but being called something that dredges up past memories is not one.

“I am not my mother, Mr. Bardot. Onyx will suffice.”

He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable calling me by my first name, but he nods regardless.

“Onyx. I appreciate what your organization does, but with your direct affiliation with the Mafia, it poses not only a legal threat, but a safety one as well. I’m sure you can understand that I’d hate to put any of my clients in a situation where they could be hurt.”

I run a nail down the column of my neck, the small bite of pain waking me from yet another boring meeting in which I have to read my business partner. It’s a necessary nuisance to help them see reason and know that what I do, aside from Embros Hearts, is not something they need to concern themselves with. That it doesn’t lessen what the organization does, but propels it. Still, a good dash of fear doesn’t hurt anything.

My eyes scan down at Mr. Bardot’s appearance. He’s handsome and well-groomed. A strong face with heterochromia. I’d bet money it’s not from birth, though. No, his discomfort with not using my surname and straight spine as he sits erect tell me he’s been trained for this position since he was old enough to walk. I recall my meetings with his father. A man who may be feared by the wall street rats he socializes with but is nothing more than a mere dog to me.

He’d been happy to work with me, made him feel like he had the power of the Mafia behind him or some nonsense, but it seems as if his son here is not the same.

Blaze’s designer suit is tailored, fitting his toned muscles, but the shadow under his eyes tells me he’s living on minimum sleep. But with the well-established business he runs, I know it’s something different keeping him awake.

That’s when my eyes find his ring. “You’re married.”

“I am.” He didn’t hesitate, which tells me he is proud. Perhaps happy even.

I ignore the faint burn in my sternum and force my gaze on him.

“And she’s either sick or pregnant, keeping you awake at night. I can see from the slight discoloration under your eyes, and your anxiety is higher than usual. You’ve shifted your watch band four times in the last two minutes. Let me guess, it’s the latter and you have a baby on the way. Entertain me, Mr. Bardot, and pretend the child is a female. As I’m sure you’re well aware, women are born with targets on their backs and eyes on their fronts. Knowing there is an organization, legal or not, that defends women, their rights, and most of all, their safety, should give you ease. Does it not?”

I can tell from the way his jaw clenches together that our meeting here is done. A man who is enthralled with his wife, in love to the point of sickness, would do anything for her. And that love increases tenfold when they have a daughter. I should know. I am the reason my parents became elevated targets after working peacefully away from the Murphys for so long.

I’m not sure if I should be happy for the baby he is soon to cradle or sad for him, knowing he now has a weakness that is free from his body. Easiest way to control someone.

He opens his mouth to respond, but Madeline bursts through my office doors, trotting behind my desk like a lapdog. She leans toward me, her frizzy strands tickling the shell of my ear. “I think your new bodyguard is jealous. He’s outside the room pouting.”

I feel my lips pull tight, the corners lifting—something once foreign, now becoming a habit. My eyes flash to the door behind my guest, and I idly pick up a card that was lying on my desk. “Hmm.”

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