The Queen of the Bloody Game

The black Escalade growled beneath us like a coiled beast, tires eating pavement as we sped through the city’s underbelly. The scent of gun oil and leather clung to the air like a second skin. I’d traded in silk for something sharper—black pants tight as sin, a holster on my thigh, matte lipstick blood-dark.

Tonight, I didn’t need to play the pretty pawn.

Tonight, I was the queen.

"He's baiting you," Matteo said from the passenger seat, voice low and edged with grit. "Dante wants you out in the open."

"Good," I murmured, my eyes on the rain-slicked streets ahead. "Let him see what happens when you corner a queen."

From the back seat, Luca let out a grunt. “He doesn’t think you’ve got it in you. Still sees you as the girl behind the bar, not the woman who burned his last safehouse to ash.”

“I hope he does,” I said. “It’ll make watching his face crack that much sweeter.”

Beside Luca, Nico cracked his knuckles and smirked. “He’s expecting fear. Let’s serve him vengeance on a silver fucking platter.”

We were heading toward Dante’s newest game—a warehouse on the East Docks, recently ‘acquired’ under one of his shell fronts. Intel said he’d left a message for me there, something personal. Something cruel.

I’d already killed a man for less.

The air inside the car tightened as we turned off the main road. The city dimmed around us, the only light from flickering sodium streetlamps and the glow of our headlights cutting through the dark like a blade. Steel bones of forgotten cranes loomed above us.

The docks were a graveyard of old deals and older blood.

We stopped two blocks out. Matteo handed me a Glock, safety off. I slid it into the holster and looked at each of them—my devils, my stepbrothers, my ride-or-die disasters.

“Stay sharp,” I said. “We’re not here to play hero. We end it or we burn it down trying.”

Luca leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “You say the word, Serena, and I’ll stack bodies like poker chips.”

“Try not to get blood on my shoes,” I said, stepping out into the night.

---

The warehouse was dead silent, which told me everything I needed to know. No posted guards. No cameras. Too clean.

Trap.

I could feel it in my bones, the tension before the storm. Dante liked his games loud, but when he went quiet? That’s when you knew he was about to get vicious.

We moved in a diamond formation—Matteo up front, me center, Luca and Nico on either flank. I kicked the rusted side door in, and the darkness swallowed us whole.

Inside, the place was stripped bare—except for the centerpiece.

A single steel chair.

A body in it.

And a floodlight that clicked on the second I stepped forward.

“She’s still breathing,” Matteo muttered, crouching beside the bound girl. “One of ours?”

I shook my head. No one I recognized.

Panic beat in my throat. I turned and scanned the walls. That’s when I saw it—spray-painted in blood-red slashes on the corrugated iron.

“You chose them. Now they die for you.”

Dante’s handwriting. I’d seen it on a ransom note once, years ago.

Luca let out a curse behind me. “Check the perimeter. Now.”

But we were already too late.

A siren screamed—sharp, high, and damn near deafening.

Then the lights snapped on all at once, blinding.

The door behind us slammed shut. Locked.

Gas hissed from the vents overhead.

"Fuck—MOVE!" Matteo barked, yanking off his jacket and shoving it over the girl’s head.

I grabbed a crowbar from a crate and slammed it into the back door. It didn’t budge.

“It's knock-out gas,” Nico said, voice tight. “Fast-acting. Military grade.”

Of course it was.

I pulled my shirt up over my mouth, eyes burning. “You think he’s watching?”

“He’s always watching,” Luca growled, firing a round into the lock. No luck. Reinforced steel.

My heart jackhammered in my chest. I wasn't ready to die in some goddamn meat locker. Not when Dante still walked free. Not when blood still needed spilling.

“Windows!” I yelled, coughing now. “On the south wall!”

The boys followed without hesitation. Matteo smashed one out with the butt of his pistol. Fresh air poured in. I sucked in a breath like it might be my last.

One by one, we hauled ourselves out, dragging the girl between us.

Outside, the rain was still falling—soft and mocking. My lungs burned. My vision tunneled. But I stood.

Dante wanted to knock me off the board.

He’d just taught me how he plays.

---

Back in the car, Luca shoved an inhaler into my hands. “Breathe, baby.”

I did. Once. Twice. The fire in my lungs dulled to embers.

The girl was unconscious, but stable. Matteo was already on the line with the safehouse, arranging an evac.

Nico handed me a phone. Unfamiliar. Prepaid.

“It was taped to her chest,” he said. “Guess who it’s from?”

I didn’t speak. Just pressed play.

Dante’s voice, velvet and venom.

“You think you’ve taken ground, little queen? This isn’t a game you win with fire and attitude. You want my throne? You’ll have to bury your family for it.”

I smiled. Slow. Cold.

“Then I’ll start digging.”

---

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I studied the maps of every property tied to Dante’s name. Every trade route. Every deal.

The girl in the chair was just a warning.

Next time, he’d go for blood I couldn’t replace.

But he’d made a mistake.

He’d reminded me what I was fighting for.

Not just revenge.

Power.

Respect.

And my seat at the head of the damn table.

So I donned my black leather coat. Holstered both guns.

And when I turned to the men who shared my blood and my fire, I said:

“Let’s show him what happens when you crown the wrong king.”

Because this empire?

It wasn’t his anymore.

It was mine.