She’s My Queen

Epilogue

SEVERIO

T hree years later

In the soundproof office on my wife’s yacht, the head of the organized trafficking unit that’s been plaguing eastern Europe and I are holding a video conference.

On the big screen, I watch him sprawling on the white leather couch. He’s wearing a navy-blue jogging suit with a notable number of thick golden chains draped across his chest. His eyes are gray, head completely shaved, and his smile makes me want to carve his face with a jagged knife that leaves scars for life.

The fact that his life won’t be long comforts me, helps me smile and nod at him as he talks about money, properties, and the women he’s likely forced himself on in the past. The man is clearly completely deranged, and I relish seeing how his vanity gets the best of him while he uses me as a sounding board for what he believes is a successful new trade deal we’re negotiating.

He’s unaware I agreed to his meeting because I’m here to watch Drago work in real time.

I’ve earned it. My wife has earned it. My children have too. Except my family is upstairs while I’m down here alone.

This vile man violated every unspoken code we have about not touching family members and has repeatedly made attempts to kidnap my sister and my wife. Which is why Cristina and I boarded her yacht and have been sailing for two years now, always on the move, drawing him nearer, but never too close.

Meanwhile, he’s evaded all my attempts to pin him down and destroy him, primarily because of his membership in another secret Order that operates like mine. They protected him, let him use their resources until they found out it was my family he’s been coming after.

Three days ago, I received coordinates to his yacht. He’s also on the move, which is why I could never pin him down.

But tonight, I have him. “That’s very impressive,” I say. “How do you plan on moving that much merchandise through Europe?”

“I have connections in Turkey, then through Albania, then up the rivers to Russia and back.”

“Those territories are controlled by various groups.” Albanians have their organized criminals. Russians have their syndicates. “Did they all grant you safe passage?” From personal experience, I know that seeking permission for trading illegal goods through various underground channels isn’t his forte. It’s how we ended up where we are today.

He asked Cristina’s father for permission to use Isola Serenella’s marinas, and her dad, along with my uncle, granted it without my knowledge. Since this man is in the other Order, he knew trading along those routes came through my Order, and I had to approve his request. Because I wouldn’t, he asked Cristina’s father, who went to Gio. Gio thought a relationship with this man and his people could help bring me down.

The man spreads his arms along the back of the couch and widens his legs. “Don’t worry about the passage. I’ll take care of it. Be careful that you honor your end of the deal.”

His dominant posturing is funny. I suppress an eye roll. “If this is how you speak to your superiors, it’s no wonder they gave me your location.”

By the time he understands the meaning behind my words, Drago is on the move. The man reaches for the gun on the table beside the white powder he’s been snorting, but stops. His eyes widen, his arms go up, and he says, “I have over fifteen mil in the safe. I’ll give you the code.”

A bullet punches a hole in his forehead, and the man’s head lolls against the back of the couch.

Drago enters the frame. He’s dressed in black and wears a mask. He gives a small nod before the camera shuts off.

Job well done.

I clap softly as I stand and leave my office via the stairs that take me to the main deck of the yacht, where Cristina and the boys are waiting for me.

“Finally!” Alessandro says when he sees me closing the door. “Hurry up.”

I slide into the booth next to my wife and kiss her on the cheek. “It’s done. Happy birthday.”

Warm brown eyes regard me, then she sighs with relief. “We can go home, then.”

“We can.”

“Eat now?” Napoleone asks. He’s five minutes younger than Alessandro. Cristina and I had twins, and as soon as she found out there would be two, instead of telling me, she exchanged the single stroller I bought for a double one. She placed the double one in front of the bedroom door to tell me there would be two.

She serves the boys the nuggets and fries, which they’re excited about since Cristina rarely lets them eat processed food. They dig in with their fingers while we enjoy fried fish and chips.

I notice she’s not eating. “Not hungry?”

“The smell of fish is bothering me.”

I frown. Strange. She prepares fish all the time. “Have some nuggets.” I reach for the large bowl of nuggets and fries, but my boys pull it back toward them.

“No,” they say in unison. Being a twin sometimes means thinking the same thoughts. Paulina and I weren’t this way, but these two are.

“Like father, like sons,” my wife says. “You don’t share either.”

“Your mother is hungry.” I hold out her plate, expecting them to fill it.

They stare back with identical blue eyes, the same color and shape as mine, until I say, “Please give your mother some chicken.”

Napoleone gives up a single nugget. Alessandro scoffs at him but matches his twin’s effort.

“Wow,” Cristina says. “How generous of you. All of two nuggets.”

Napoleone dips his french fry into ketchup. “Mommy’s baby can’t eat.”

Cristina gasps. “Noooo.”

I lean in toward my wife, who’s looking sheepish. “You’re having a baby I don’t know about?”

“Yes,” my son Alessandro answers.

“Baby cake,” Napoleone says, ketchup smeared all over his chin.

Cristina sighs. “Might as well bring the cake now. Hold on.” She gets up and fixes her yellow dress. “You two are fired from Mommy’s secret society.”

“But you can enter Daddy’s anytime,” I say. We don’t discuss Order business with toddlers, but I can’t let a good joke die. Besides, my toddlers don’t care. Nuggets and fries are more important.

Cristina returns with a small birthday cake she baked. On top is a pink stroller. She puts the cake on the table and says, “I was going to surprise you.”

“You’re really pregnant?”

She nods.

I smile. “How far along?”

“Three months.”

I glance at the pink stroller. “You think it’s a girl?”

“I hope,” she says. “Either a boy or a girl is great. But I think you want the baby to be a girl, so I hope it is.”

I scoop her up into a hug and place her on my lap. I kiss her hard and shove my tongue into her mouth until my kids protest for me to stop. I do want a baby girl, but I won’t say it until we know the sex of the baby. I cup Cristina’s face. “But you’re on the pill.”

“I stopped taking it.”

The twin pregnancy was challenging for Cristina. She was on bed rest, at risk for miscarriage because of bleeding, since the fifth month. She couldn’t nurse the twins and fell into a depression, and then, for her safety, I moved us permanently onto the yacht I bought her. Naturally, all our crew members are navy-trained soldiers.

Last year, we talked about another pregnancy, and I remember telling her it was up to her. She took the initiative. “We didn’t have to have more kids,” I tell her.

“I know. But I want one more. Besides, you’re so good with babies, you made it all easier on me.”

This takes me back to the day she joined me under the cover of the wisteria trees. “The first thing you said to me was that I wasn’t good with babies.”

“I was wrong about that. I was wrong about many things regarding to you. You may be the most demanding, ruthless, and, at times, brutally honest man I know, but you’re good to me. You’re so good to me. You’ve make me feel heard, loved, and cherished, and you’ve made me feel more beautiful than I really am. I love you for it. Unconditionally.”

I place a hand over her belly. “I’m only as good as you made me, my queen.”

***