She’s My Queen

3. The lamb

3

THE LAMB

CRISTINA

T he Mancini ancestor who fled Sicily for Switzerland in search of a life where his family wouldn’t be hunted by enemies and allies alike founded the Serpentine Order sometime around the mid-fourteenth century. The mission was simple: prosper through stability and peace. The Order’s structure was also simple, modeled after the basic anatomy of the serpent: Head, Body, and the tip of the tail, which the Order calls the Rattle.

Most of the members make up the Body, which serves the Head, and the members of the Head come from the Mancini family. Since Grandpa Mancini fathered two sons, Severio’s dad and Uncle Gio both inherited the Order. The Mancini family tradition dictated that brothers should be the Head of the Order; thus, according to Gio, once his brother died, the leadership should’ve stayed solely with Gio.

But Severio strong-armed him out of the picture, and Gio never recovered. He wants to become the Head. Even now, after Severio disrupted our wedding as a show of force.

The Mancinis remind me of royal families. Or crime lords, to those of us in the know. The fact that Gio is also a political leader in our small country should’ve been a red flag for my father. Nevertheless, my dad joined the Order, brought in my mother, then died of a heart attack.

The burden of the Order membership fell on me, his sole heir.

When my mother and Gio sat me down to explain all this and how my inheritance was now tied up in the Order and that Gio was the sole owner and I was basically a penniless woman, I couldn’t get out of bed for weeks. Grief over my daddy’s death and the uncertainty over my future weighed me down.

Until my mother came into my bedroom one morning with a solution. I would marry Gio Mancini. At first, I refused. The man was more than twice my age, and while some might find him handsome, he was unattractive to me. Besides, I’ve known him my entire life and regarded him as my elder.

But one weekend, I finally managed to crawl out from under my misery and sought strength where I always found it. At church.

During Mass, I caught Gio looking at me the way Father Thomas used to look at me when I was younger. Back then, the priest would ask me to help clean up after a gathering, and I couldn’t refuse. I knew I had to say yes to Gio’s proposal too.

Once I heard about Severio and how ruthlessly he’d punish everyone involved in the unsanctioned initiation of my family into the Order, I feared what he’d do. He kept my mom and me in the Order, but once a family enters the Order, unsanctioned or not, they must play by his rules.

And rituals.

For the claiming ritual, Severio requested that I wear my wedding dress.

Before sneaking out of the wedding reception, I hid my wedding dress under a long black cape I bought at the flea market in Sicily. My friend Tiki, who went with me that day, wondered what I needed it for. I can’t remember how I answered, but whatever I said wasn’t the truth.

Nobody can know about the Order or the ritual Severio will perform tonight. Growing up on a small island where everyone knows me and I know everyone means that sneaking around in a cape tonight is necessary.

I round the corner and stand before the villa where Severio’s staying.

Villa Segreta, named after its isolated location, is the only three-story villa on the island. It rises from the “corner” of the mountain on the far edge of the island, and since it’s far from the main attractions, it’s rarely occupied. Regardless, it requires frequent cleaning and upkeep, and Tiki, who is also the hotel manager, prices it higher than she ought to.

I used to protest the fee she charged for this space, but since Severio is paying, I don’t mind. A single night costs as much as the yearly salary of my sous-chef.

He’s paying for Villa Segreta and two of the nearest neighboring villas.

I lift the dress and the cape and climb the stone steps to the private entrance on the third floor. By the time I make it to the green door, I’m panting like a golden retriever after three hours at the dog park. Before entering, I need a minute. Or an hour to recover my breath. I grab the railing and do just that.

For longer than necessary. Because I’m terrified of what and who is behind the door.

The door opens, and I step away from it, wondering if I should run. I dismiss that instantly since I was barely able to climb the steps. I’m no runner. Or a walker, even. I like lounging.

A man dressed in black slacks and a sleeveless black shirt greets me. His height makes me crane my neck, but my eyes never make it past his throat because the devil tattoo over his jugular arrests my gaze. I suppress the urge to cross myself.

When he says nothing but simply opens the door wider, I gather he’s one of Severio’s guards. I walk inside, and the man closes the door behind me.

Originally a flat roof, this added-on third floor features an open space with a kitchenette that’s more of a bar than a cooking station of any kind, and a seating area directly in front of a spacious terrace enclosed entirely in glass. The master bedroom is tucked on the right side almost as an afterthought because of the uninterrupted view of the calm seas that takes your breath away as you walk in.

But that’s not why I’m having difficulty breathing. It’s not the view, because I’ve seen it a thousand times. It’s Severio Mancini standing on the terrace, leaning his shoulder against the glass. His hair appears wet, so he must’ve showered recently. He’s dressed in black pants and a white button-up shirt. No tie. A phone is pressed against his ear, and I see no ring on his wedding finger.

I take small comfort in knowing I won’t sleep with another woman’s man.

Since he doesn’t turn or greet me, he hasn’t noticed I’ve arrived. Or perhaps he has, but whoever he’s speaking to takes precedence over me. Thank God for that. I’ll use the time to sit down and do a few things to compose myself. Like breathe, for one.

“Do you want something to drink?” a deep male voice asks from the shadows.

I scream at the top of my lungs. I had no idea someone else was here!

Severio rushes inside. He looks from me to the tall man standing by the bar simply existing in his masculine, tattooed, six-sevenish frame. He’s even taller than Severio, and Severio is at least six-five to my five-two. With heels.

“What happened?” Severio asks the man.

I almost point at the man and say, He scared me , but refrain from the childish gesture. It’s just that Severio’s kill-all protective energy makes me think of that one older boy at church who punched Father Thomas in the face for looking at me the way a grown man shouldn’t look at a ten-year-old girl.

The tall man lifts his hands in surrender. “I thought she saw me when she walked in.”

Severio looks at me.

“I didn’t see him.”

Severio was on the terrace. If he’s in the vicinity, I’m going to find him first. Must be the wild cat energy, and my self-preservation instinct noticing the biggest predator in the area.

“Gordon’s kind of hard to miss,” Severio says, referencing the man’s large frame.

Oh, now I’m at fault. “He’s easy to miss if you’re around,” I fire back, proud to have come up with such a killer comeback.

The corner of Severio’s lip quirks up, and I wish I could take it back. Now he thinks I’m preoccupied with him. Which is true, I am, but only because of my purpose for being in his company tonight. “I wasn’t expecting another guard inside, is all.”

“Gordon is a recruit. He will perform the ritual,” Severio says, as if that explains Gordon’s presence. And apparently, it does, because Severio walks to the bar and pours himself a glass of wine. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks.

Severio is moving on while I’m stuck on Gordon will perform the ritual .

I take stock of the man, who is also watching me. He’s handsome. Brutally so, with full sleeves of tattoos over strong, muscular arms. An all-around terrifying man who looks right at home in the criminal underworld with Severio. Except his dark brown eyes project warmth and kindness, perhaps even pity. Maybe he pities both of us.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say back with a shy smile.

Maybe it’s his first ritual too. Maybe that’s how Severio will initiate him into the Serpentine Order. A man must be “made,” after all, and maybe this is a way to be made for the Order. If that’s so, I wish Gio had mentioned it. Not that it would have made a difference, but I would have appreciated the heads-up.

“Cristina.” Severio’s voice cuts through the tiny bit of intimacy I’m seeking with the man who will claim me.

I blink, not remembering what he asked me. Shit.

“Tequila?” Gordon prompts as he moves behind the bar.

“Great suggestion.” I need tequila for this. Dirty tequila, not top shelf, and in large quantities. I’ll forget the claiming ever happened.

“She’ll have a glass of wine,” Severio says calmly, eyes narrowing on Gordon, who is behind the bar, unfazed that the predator appears annoyed with him.

Severio extends a hand toward me and flicks two fingers.

I think he’s calling me.

If I were in the mood, I’d bark, maybe even flip him off, but I’m rattled and nervous about the claiming, even more than I was before. I approach Severio like a good doggy.

When I reach him, Gordon slides me a tequila shooter.

I pour it down my throat, then push the glass back to the man. It’s dirty tequila and burns right down my esophagus and into my belly.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Severio staring at me. The small rebellion feels good. It’s the bare minimum of what I can do. Petty and childish as it is, it’ll keep me grounded for the night when all my other freedoms have been confiscated by this Order I never asked to be a part of.

“As you wish,” Severio says to my refusing the wine. He nods at Gordon, who pours a bottle from our top-shelf tequila selection. We drink a shooter each, and this one goes down smoothly. Bummer. I can’t catch a break tonight. Or this month. Or this year, it seems.

“Another?” Severio asks.

I nod.

“Perhaps wine this time?”

I’m trying to decipher his tone. Is he suggesting I drink wine or strongly suggesting I do as he asked and take wine? Probably the latter.

Gordon drops the shot glasses into the sink and puts away the tequila bottle before pulling out a tray full of awkward-looking tools. Weird. He rounds the bar and takes a seat on the other side of me. He taps a bar chair with a backrest. “Come on, little one. This won’t hurt unless you want it to hurt.”

“I don’t want it to hurt.” I accept Severio’s offered glass of wine. I tilt my head and tip the glass when Severio grabs my elbow.

“That’s a 1955 Jolin.”

“I know.”

“Then you will have the decency to enjoy it.”

“Enjoy? That’s a tall order. Even for you.” I’m not talking about the wine. I’m sure 1955 Jolin is excellent. There are only a few bottles of that wine floating around, and if it were any other day, I’d consider it a celebratory drink for a special occasion. Severio might be celebrating, but I’m certainly not.

Severio shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t offer it.”

Behind me, Gordon removes my coat, leaving me in my lavish wedding gown. Severio soaks it up with his eyes.

“Your dress is beautiful,” he says, his blue eyes seemingly sincere.

“It’s a Mancini.”

“Ah. I’ll be sure to tell my sister.” Severio’s watching me intently. I think he’s expecting me to undress. At least I have the small freedom to do this at my own pace.

Sandwiched between two men, one sitting on the barstool behind me, the other standing in front of me, I turn toward the man who’ll claim me.

The warmth in his brown eyes comforts me. A small smile plays over his lips. It also comforts me.

“Am I a part of your initiation ritual?” I ask, remembering Severio said Gordon is a recruit. “Is that how you’re going to be brought into the Order?”

A frown wipes the smile off his face, and his eyes dart to Severio behind me.

“Let’s get started,” Severio says.

He expects me to undress. But I’m a curvaceous woman and by no means comfortable standing naked in front of two men who both clearly take care of their bodies, which is something I don’t do. I’m not terribly self-conscious and hating on my body, but I’m also aware my curves are plentiful, especially around my bottom and my thighs.

My breasts are also quite large.

Thankfully, it’s night, and the lighting in the villa is dim. If the room was lit up, I don’t think I’d have reached behind me and grabbed the zipper of my dress. I also don’t think I’d have pulled it down as I’m doing now.

Gordon’s eyes widen, unblinking, and dart from me to Severio.

Since he’s making me feel worse, I look at the ceiling. The top of the dress loosens and falls halfway down my body, stopping at my wide hips. Nothing slides off those unless I tug it.

And so I do.

I’m left in a white corset and white, knee-high shapewear that gathers up my bottom half into a firmer frame. The fact that these two men are witnessing how I tucked myself in so I can feel good and look pretty for the wedding makes me want to take out one of the hairpins holding up my hair and jab their eyes.

“It’s like a one-night stand,” I say at the ceiling. “Plenty of women have those and come out just fine or, heck, feeling even better having done it.”

I reach for said pin, fantasizing about jabbing it into Severio’s eyeball, when his fingers close over my wrist and pull it away from my hair. He tugs, and I turn toward him.

His fingers around my wrist squeeze tightly, provoking a gasp from me.

“Her hair,” he says, and sits down while I stand between his legs, way too close to him, “should stay up. Don’t you think, Gordon?”

“Mmhm,” comes from behind me.

Severio leans in and taps the barstool behind me. My breasts push against his shoulder, and I feel hot all over when I shouldn’t. He wants to claim me the way a king would claim his enemy’s daughter on the ground of the village he conquered.

“Have a seat,” Severio says.

“A seat? Here?” I ask, feeling heat crawling up my cheeks. “Are you going to watch?”

Severio’s lips are at my ear. “I am. I’m going to enjoy it.”