Mag-log inThe frantic energy of the car ride evaporates the moment the heavy oak door of the master suite clicks shut.Downstairs, the house is alive with the low hum of the night shift—guards changing posts, the faint murmur of the television in the staff quarters. But in here, the silence is thick and waiting.I stand in the center of the room. My heart is beating a heavy, deliberate rhythm against my ribs.Aureliano and Ciro did not follow us inside.They stopped at the threshold. Aureliano kissed my forehead—a benediction—and Ciro squeezed my shoulder, his dark eyes promising that the perimeter, and the baby, were secure. They stepped back. They gave us the room.They knew.They saw the way Spadino looked at me in the car. They saw the way I leaned into his touch. They understood that the bridge back to my own body had to be crossed with the man who worshiped the ruins.Spadino stands by the door.He isn't moving. He isn't bouncing on his heels or spinning a knife. The chaotic energy that u
The doctor’s office smells of rubbing alcohol and expensive perfume. It is a discreet clinic in the city center, the kind where politicians’ mistresses go for “vitamin drips.”I sit on the paper-covered exam table. My legs dangle.Dr. Rossi sits on his stool, scribbling in my file. He looks tired. Delivering the Vitale heir has aged him five years in six weeks."Physically," Rossi says, snapping the chart shut, "you are fully recovered. The tearing has healed. The uterus has returned to normal size. Your blood pressure is stable."He looks up at me over his glasses."You are cleared for normal activity."Normal activity.The words hang in the air, heavy with implication.For six weeks, "normal activity" has been feeding schedules, diaper changes, and napping when the tyrant allows it.But Rossi isn't talking about naps.He is talking about the thing that has been simmering under the surface of the mansion since the birth. The thing that my wolves have been dutifully ignoring, suppress
The mirror in the master bathroom is a traitor.For months, it showed me a vessel. It showed me the tight, high curve of the heir, the glow of the pregnancy, the purpose. I looked at my reflection and saw a fortress protecting a king.Now, the mirror just shows the ruins.I lock the door. It’s a futile gesture in a house where the owners can pick any lock in three seconds, but I need the illusion of privacy.I drop my silk robe to the floor. It pools around my ankles, a puddle of expensive fabric that feels too nice for the body standing above it.I look at myself.The stomach that was hard and round is now soft. It hangs slightly, empty and deflated, like a balloon the day after a party.But it’s the lines that stop my breath.Silver and angry red streaks map the curve of my hips and the underside of my belly. Stretch marks. The skin tore to make room for Maria, and it didn't snap back.I trace one with my finger. It feels textured. Broken."Ruined," I whisper to the glass.I turn to
The living room of the Vitale mansion has hosted war councils, execution orders, and political negotiations.Today, it is hosting job interviews.And truthfully, the body count was lower during the war.I sit in the center of the beige velvet sofa. I am wearing a black silk blouse and trousers that hide the lingering softness of my stomach. My hair is pulled back. I look like the Donna.But my hands are shaking.It is the caffeine withdrawal. Or maybe the sleep deprivation. Or maybe the sheer, unadulterated rage I am currently feeling toward the three men standing behind me.My wolves. My walls. My headache.They are arranged like a praetorian guard.Aureliano leans against the fireplace mantle, arms crossed, staring at the empty chair in front of us with the intensity of a laser sight. Ciro stands by the window, blocking the light, his massive frame casting a long, intimidating shadow. Spadino is perched on the arm of the sofa next to me, cleaning a knife."Put the knife away," I his
Power is a currency I understand. Violence is a language I speak fluently.But sleep deprivation?Sleep deprivation is a torture technique the CIA should study. It breaks you down faster than waterboarding. It strips away your defenses, your logic, and your dignity until you are nothing but a raw nerve ending crying over a spilled bottle of formula.Maria is three weeks old.She is a tyrant. A dictator. A tiny, screaming warlord who rules the Vitale empire with an iron fist wrapped in a cashmere blanket.She does not sleep. She naps. She dozes. She waits until the exact moment my eyelids flutter shut, and then she unleashes a wail that pierces through three layers of drywall.The sun is barely up. The light filtering through the hallway windows is grey and weak, matching the color of my complexion.I am walking the corridor. My feet drag on the marble. I am wearing a silk robe that is stained with spit-up on the shoulder.Behind me, the cavalcade of the damned follows.Aureliano walks
But she must be the last.The sentence hangs in the air, heavier than the velvet curtains, heavier than the stone walls of the mansion.I look down at Maria.She is sleeping, her tiny fist curled against my chest. She is a miracle. A singularity. The beginning and the end of a lineage that almost didn't happen.I feel a pang of grief, sharp and cold, for the children I will never have. The brothers and sisters she will never know.But then I feel the weight of the hands touching me.Aureliano’s palm on my shoulder. Ciro’s grip on the bed rail. Spadino’s fingers brushing the baby’s blanket.They aren't pulling away. They aren't looking at me with pity or disappointment. They are looking at me with a fierce, terrifying gratitude. I gave them one. I gave them a Queen."One is enough," Ciro rumbles, his voice breaking the silence. "If she is like her mother, one is more than the world can handle."Aureliano leans down. He kisses my temple, a hard, lingering press of his lips that brands m
The diary burns against my skin.I can feel the leather cover pressing between my breasts, hidden by my dress. Every breath I take reminds me it’s there.I am blood.The thought echoes in my head, louder than the clatter of pans in the kitchen. I am scrubbing a copper pot, my hands red and raw from
The silverware sounds like swords clashing.Clink. Scrape. Clink.It is our final meal. The Last Supper. But there is no messiah at this table, only three Judases and the woman they sold for thirty pieces of silver.I sit in the chair to Aureliano’s right—the Queen’s chair—one last time. I am weari
The house settles into an uneasy silence after the brawl. The maids have swept up the glass in the foyer, but the stain of violence hangs in the air like cigar smoke.I am sitting on the window seat, knees pulled to my chest, watching the moon reflect off the black water below.Five days.One hundr
It is two in the morning.The house is sleeping. The monsters are in their caves.But the light under the library door is still on.I stand in the hallway. I am wearing my oversized t-shirt, my bare feet cold on the marble. I am shivering, but not from the temperature.I am shivering because I am a







