Page 29 of Blood Queen

A relentless, searing burn that radiates from my ribs, my jaw, my face.

My arms are wrenched behind me, secured to the back of a chair. My ankles are bound. The metallic tang of blood coats my tongue.

Bianca stands in front of me, breathing hard, her knuckles bruised.

“You killed him,” she says. It’s not a question.

I smile, blood-stained and sharp. “You got proof?”

Her nostrils flare. She slams a fist into my stomach. I bite down on the groan, let my head loll back against the chair.

“Proof? Really? Does that exist in this world? We all know the rumors are usually true.”

“What rumor? Tell me? Because I’m telling you I didn’t do it.” My lies suffocate me, the walls inching closer in on me.

She snorts. “Oh please, you know,” she cocks her head, “here’s a rumor you might be interested in. One I’m sure dear Uncle Leo has kept from you.”

I fight to stay focused on her. On what she’s saying.

“Once upon a time… A Testa contracted a hit on his own family.”

I spit blood. “What are you talking about?”

“Evany, sweet little missing Evany, don’t you know? Your Uncle hired Antonio Scarfo to slaughter your parents. You and your brothers were meant to die too. He craved the Boss’s throne, lusted after power, and your father, his own brother, was the obstacle.”

My lungs scream for air. “I’ve never heard that one.” My vision blurs with the revelation. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

She punches me square in the face, and my nose erupts with agony as the brutal crack of bone shatters the air and deafens me.

“Did you fucking kill my brother?” she snarls.

“You can torture me all you want,” I rasp, tasting iron, “but I’m only going to tell you two things.”

Bianca’s jaw tightens like a vice.

“I didn’t kill him,” I lie with practiced ease. “And I don’t give a damn that he’s dead.” I lock eyes with her, unyielding. Her chest heaves with the weight of her wrath—a rage that burns as fiercely as my own.

Something snaps within her.

She glares at me, breathless, then releases a choked, guttural sob. The first punch was restrained, but what follows is not. She’s a storm, wild with grief, raining blows on me with frantic desperation, driven by uncontainable sorrow.

I don’t fight it.

I let her take what she needs, let the guilt sink deep into my bones.

By the time she stops, my vision is hazy, blood trickling down my face.

Bianca staggers back, pressing shaking hands to her mouth. Then, like something inside her crumbles, she collapses in a heap, sobbing into her hands.

A long, heavy silence stretches between us.

Then, finally, she moves.

I barely register her cutting the ropes before she’s gone.

Getting back to my place is a blur.

I lock the door, lean against it, and press shaking fingers to my ribs. Pain flares white-hot, but I barely register it.

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