Page 39 of Blood Queen

The Commission will have no choice but to meet.

And once they’re all in one place… I’ll be closer than I’ve ever been to revenge.

Uncle Leo sits across from me at the polished mahogany table, his salt-and-pepper hair meticulously combed back and his tailored suit without a wrinkle. He scans the room with the calm authority of a King, lifting his glass of whiskey to his lips, savoring each sip as if assessing his vast domain.

Inside me, rage unfurls like a slow-burning fuse, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment to explode.

He ordered the execution of my biological parents. Had my brothers—brothers I don’t even remember—slaughtered before they had a chance to live. But Papa trained me. And Uncle Leo’s spent every day since I returned shaping me into something useful, something sharp, something deadly.

I curl my fingers around the cool, smooth surface of the glass, feeling the subtle chill seep into my palm. My breath escapes in a measured, steady stream, as if releasing the tension with each exhale.

Patience, I remind myself, as I stare intently at the swirling liquid inside.

I can’t strike until I can burn it all to the ground.

24

Past

At Truman’s house, we settled onto the couch with a pile of mafia movies between us and a bowl of popcorn. Popcorn that he made in a metal box called a microwave. He laughed at me when I stood and watched the bag expand, spinning on a little plate inside.

His parents were at work, and we had time, seven hours to watch what we could, he said. The day faded away into evening as we watched The Godfather, Goodfellas, and some of The Sopranos. The movies portray the mafia as ruthless, but they also show the love they had for their families.

I couldn’t reconcile the two images.

“This is… intense,” I mutter, my stomach churning from the graphic violence and betrayal depicted on screen.

Truman squeezes my hand. “Yeah, it’s not pretty,” he says grimly. “Are you sure you want to get involved with them?”

I glance at him, my brown eyes searching his green ones for answers he doesn’t have. “I don’t know if I have a choice,” I say truthfully.

At five, we left. I promised him I would show him how popcorn was really supposed to be made when we got back to the cabin. I watched as he wrote a note for his parents—lying again, saying he was sleeping over at a friend’s house.

Although, was I friend? Maybe we were. Maybe it wasn’t a lie. We detoured to the library, they were closing soon, but Truman managed to snag a computer and print out a bunch of articles he found about the four families so we could bring them back and read them. So we could learn more.

By six thirty, we’d returned to the cabin and Truman looked beat.

“Do you always walk to town? It’s so far,” he says wiping sweat from his brow.

I snort and shake my head. “No, I usually only walk to the truck and drive it into town.”

He throws his hands up in the air before collapsing onto the couch. “Why the heck have we been walking then?”

I shrug. “It slipped my mind. I wasn’t really thinking about it. But honestly, what if those guys were still around and saw his truck?”

Truman stares at me. “Ok, fair point.”

“Here, let me get you some water,” I say, heading to the kitchen.

I pause for a moment, thinking of my papa and how he’d react if he saw me now—caring for this outsider boy, letting him into our home and our lives.

“Thanks, Kid,” Truman says, gulping his down.

“No problem.” I sit beside him on the couch. “So, you wanna learn how to make real popcorn or what?”

His eyes light up and he grins. I retrieve a pot from the kitchen and place it on the stove, drizzling the bottom with oil. Truman watches intently as I add the kernels and turn the heat to medium.

“Now we let the kernels dance and pop in the oil,” I explain. “Gotta keep ‘em moving so they don’t burn.”

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