Page 60 of Blood Queen

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Evany!” he roars, slamming a fist against his desk. The crystal tumbler beside him rattles but doesn’t spill. “Rocco and Alessio Falcone were hit two nights ago, and I know damn well it wasn’t sanctioned.” His eyes bore into mine, dark and accusing. “It was you.”

I scoff, crossing my arms. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because you’re reckless,” he snarls. “Because you’ve got an agenda of your own. Because you’re your father’s daughter.”

I step closer, my voice even, measured. “I wouldn’t dream of starting a war between the families, Leo. That’s bad for business, and I, unlike you, prefer business thriving.”

His eyes narrow, calculating, but he’s not stupid. If he had proof, he wouldn’t be yelling—he’d be disposing of me.

“If I didn’t order the hit, and you didn’t go rogue,” he finally says, his voice quieter but far more dangerous, “then tell me, Evany, who did this?”

I meet his stare, letting just enough doubt flicker across my features. “I don’t know.”

Silence stretches between us thick and suffocating. I hold my ground.

“This is bad,” he mutters. His jaw flexes, a muscle ticking at the edge of his cheek, but I don’t waver.

Finally, he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before leveling me with a warning look. “You stay put.

That evening, I overhear him on a call. His voice is low, sharp, edged with the kind of tension that only comes when men like him are afraid.

“We can’t do this over the phone. No one’s safe right now,” Leo mutters. A pause. Then, clipped and certain, “New York. Wednesday. No more delays.”

I don’t have to hear the rest. The panic in his tone says enough.

They’re scrambling.

And I’ll be there to watch them fall.

I return to my apartment, moving through the space with precision, my fingers quick on my laptop as I book a flight under the alias I’d prepared months ago. The ticket to NYC is one-way, just in case. A new name, a new identity. I secure a hotel room under a different alias, clean, precise. Every detail accounted for.

But before I go, I have one more stop to make.

Truman answers his phone on the third ring. “Kid?”

“I’m in Atlanta.”

Silence, then a sigh. “Where?”

“Your place.”

He hesitates. “I’ll be there soon.”

When he arrives, his expression is tight, wary. “It’s only been two days.”

“I know.”

He studies me, his gaze sharp and searching. “Things are escalating.”

I swallow. “I’m ready to collect what’s mine. What has always been mine—my father’s hard-earned legacy. I’ve waited patiently for this moment for years. For them to be exposed, caught off-guard.”

His jaw tenses, pain flickering behind his eyes. “This goddamned revenge scheme is going to kill you, and I can’t bear to lose you.”

Something in my chest tightens, but I shove it down. “You make me weak,” I whisper. “One kiss, one brush of your hand—it’s like a drug. It’s all bad for me, but I never turn it down. And now you want me to be strong and just what, Truman? Run away with you?”

“Yes.”

I laugh, but it’s hollow. “How can you ask that of me now? After so much time? I’m so close now.”

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