Page 67 of His Queen

“You go east, and I’ll head west. We’ll meet back here once we find her,” Mr. Del Rossa orders before rushing off.

My gaze zeroes in on the mausoleum door that’s still open, wondering who they were talking about. Who is inside there? Who is this person no one is supposed to find?

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I wait until the coast is clear before quietly moving across the path until I have my back against the mausoleum wall.

I step closer to the door, peering inside. My eyes are immediately drawn to the figure sitting in a chair with his back toward the door, his head hanging down.

My heart suddenly hammers against my chest when I see his hands tied behind his back. A strange feeling creeps up my spine as I slowly inch closer, the musty smell filling my nostrils the farther I step into the dimly lit mausoleum. Every instinct is warning me not to go closer, but I can’t resist the lure of the mystery.

The man moans, and I jolt back, startled by the sudden noise. I step on a dead leaf that crunches under my foot. The man’s head jolts up and he makes these muffled sounds. I’m about to obey the warning creeping along the back of my neck when he glances over his shoulder, the side of his face triggering a sense of familiarity. I step forward, drawn to the stranger by some invisible force. I should run away. I know this, but I can’t get myself to move in the other direction. Every step I take is careful and slow, my heart beating so fast I can hear thumping between my ears.

As if the world stops and time seizes to tick, I suck in a breath when I see his face. It’s a face I haven’t seen since I was four. A face I wouldn’t have recognized if it weren’t for pictures Mrs. Del Rossa keeps in a special photo album for the nights I cry myself awake and sneak into her bedroom, missing my family.

His eyes widen, and my life implodes. “Marco,” I breathe out in a barely audible whisper. “You…you’re alive.”

I’m not sure if it’s fear or shock that courses through me in ice-cold waves; maybe it’s a little bit of both.

He’s trying to say something, but his mouth is taped shut, and he gestures with his shoulder for me to take it off.

My hands shake as I reach for the tape, pulling it from his mouth, and I swallow hard, my mind still trying to comprehend what is happening.

“Mirabella?” he says, almost out of breath. “Is that you?”

I can’t speak. It’s as if I’ve lost my tongue, and my mind can’t form a single coherent sentence.

“My God, I’m happy to see you.”

He looks different than he does in the pictures. Older, thinner, lowly, his beard unkempt with bald spots along his jaw.

“You have to untie me,” he urges, but my instincts flare and I take a step back.

“Mira, it’s me. Marco. You don’t have to be scared of me.”

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Dead?” he asks, raising his brows. “That’s what they told you? That I’m dead?”

I nod slowly. “You…you were murdered, too, that night.”

“As you can see, I wasn’t murdered. These people lied to you.”

My legs weaken, and I’m forced to sit on the bench in the middle of the mausoleum, still unable to believe this is really Marco sitting in front of me.

“They lied to you, Mirabella,” he says in earnest. “They’ve been lying to you all along.”

I shake my head slowly. “Why…why would they lie?”

“I don’t know. It’s what they do. They lie and steal and ruin everything.”

“I don’t believe that,” I say, my mind on the verge of exploding.

Marco rolls his eyes. “Of course, you don’t. They brainwashed you for, like, how long has it been?”

“Nine years.”

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Nine years is plenty of time to plant bullshit inside your head.”

“But why would they do that? Why would they lie to us?” I ask, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this person in front of me is my oldest brother who is supposed to be dead.

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