Page 19 of Brutal Queen

“A warning to the people

The good and the evil

This is war.”

This Is War, Thirty Seconds To Mars

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BENEDICT

FOUR WEEKS LATER…

It’s well past midnight and I’m pacing the living room. Sinclair and Nico have been out all night chasing some leads that Gabriella’s team uncovered. There’s been an increase in the number of people overdosing and her sources tracked it back to dealers who are getting their product from suppliers now under De Luca control.

It’s the last fucking thing we need, especially since the problem isn’t isolated to Max’s clubs. Drug addicts rarely give a shit where they get their drugs from, as long as it’s cheaper than the other guy’s. And the fuckers will take it anywhere. We’ve had raids at three of our clubs in the last two weeks now that the dead bodies are becoming a problem for the local police.

Nothing will mobilise the police quicker than a mayor promising to clean up the streets around election time.

Yet more bullshit to distract us from what needs to be done. But I guess that’s the point. Max is making us chase our tails cleaning up his mess, while he buys himself time to bolster his ranks.

It’s fucking infuriating.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet, Benny,” Aurora says from the kitchen as cupboard doors are opened and closed with heavy thuds. “I can hear you fretting from here. They’re big boys. They’ll be fine.”

I can’t help but snigger at her choice of words. I don’t spend an enormous amount of time checking out Sin’s cock when we’re in bed together, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed it. It’s kind of hard to miss. It’s not got quite the same presence as Nico’s with its metal accessories, but still. It’s a pleasing aesthetic.

“I’m not fretting,mia reginetta,” I say as I wander back toward the clattering in the kitchen. “Besides, at least I was quiet. What the fuck are you up to in here?”

As I enter, I find that she’s pulled out every pot and pan we own and is coming out of the larder, arms overloaded with produce. She dumps what looks like every fresh vegetable she could find onto the counter before grabbing two chopping boards and handing me one of the knives from the chopping block.

“Enzo comes home today, and he’s eaten nothing but hospital food for the last four weeks. I want to cook for him.”

It took Enzo two weeks to convince her to leave the hospital. We were essentially living there and while the hospital staff were accommodating, the better Enzo got, the less they tolerated having a crime boss and her army constantly under their feet. The last straw was when one ofthem walked in on Nico and I fucking in one of the medical supply closets.

In our defence, Grey’s Anatomy makes it appear far hotter than it was. Those shelves are flimsy as fuck. How were we supposed to know they wouldn’t hold my weight?

Enzo’s surgeries went well enough for them to remove the external hardware, which meant Doc Em approved for us to bring him home.

It doesn’t feel real. And the guilt of knowing he would never have gone through what he did if I hadn’t blown the building is something that weighs heavily on me. No matter how many times he says he doesn’t blame me.

‘That would mean that I blame you in some way, and that’s just not true, Benedict,’ were his exact words. It’s so fucking like him. Ever the magnanimous leader, but also a part of me wants to punch him in the face until he damn well accepts my apology.

I know I’m not alone in the guilt I’m feeling. The evidence of that is laid out in front of me on the countertop. Aurora’s eyes are fixed on the tomatoes, slicing and dicing on repeat, before transferring them to an oversized bowl. We both need a distraction, and this is as good as any.

I move and take my position at her side. “What are we making then?” I ask.

“My mother’s tomato sauce. It’s a good base for everything and we can store it in jars, so it’ll keep. My sister taught me how to make it when I was little.”

I reach down and take the knife, twirling the handle between my fingers, trying to get a feel for the weight and balance of it.

“It’s a paring knife, Benny, not a throwing knife,” she says, lifting her free hand to my wrist and encouraging it down to the counter.

“Yes, my little queen,” I reply with a smile and a cheeky flourish, kissing the tip of her nose. “Where do you want me to start?”

“First, I need you to peel and crush the garlic for me,” she says, rolling her eyes and pushing me away.

“Garlic. Gotcha.”

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