Shes my queen, p.1
She's My Queen, page 1
SHE'S MY QUEEN
MAELA LEDGER
Copyright © 2024 by Maela Ledger
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing: Linda at lindaedits
Proof: Kim at lindaedits
Cover Design: Daqri at CoversbyCombs
For the readers who are embarking on this new journey with me. Thank you, gorgeous.
“The concept of Queen is to be regal and majestic. Glamour is part of us, and we want to be dandy.”
— FREDDY MERCURY
CONTENTS
1. My Unwedding
2. Cute but hates me
3. The lamb
4. The claiming
5. Marked
6. The morning after
7. A gentleman
8. The other ritual
9. Are you hit?
10. Suspect #1
11. Like a kitten
12. Liars
13. Cookie monster
14. Who did it?
15. The wolf entered the house
16. We’re living together, dear
17. I like him
18. Have we met before?
19. You were supposed to kiss me
20. His lips are soft
21. Not my girlfriend
22. Say you’re sorry
23. More special moments
24. All the feelings
25. The next step
26. Hate him even more
27. It’s all mine now, and yet…
28. At the funeral
29. You want a pony?
30. Who are you?
31. There goes my heart
32. The news
33. Woof-Woof
34. Suprise
35. Territorial creature
Epilogue
About the Author
1
MY UNWEDDING
CRISTINA
The fake wedding ceremony went ahead as planned, the guests none the wiser that Gio Mancini, my late father’s best friend, his long-time business partner, and the prime minister of Isola Serenella , and I never married.
Not officially by the church, at least.
At the altar, while friends and family watched from the nave behind us, Father Thomas performed the ceremony, all the while trembling at the mere presence of Gio’s best man, his nephew, Severio Mancini, the Head of the Serpentine Order, which my father had joined before he passed away barely a year ago.
Severio is said to be one of the most powerful people in the world. And he stopped our marriage, forbade Gio from signing his name next to mine in the marriage registry.
When I asked for the reason Severio ordered the ceremony to proceed, with the understanding the marriage would be invalid, Gio became angry and secretive. He said that Severio is a power-hungry monster who thinks he can control everyone.
From what I’ve witnessed of the man, Gio is right.
At least Severio allowed the mock ceremony and the reception to continue as planned. After all the hard work the venue staff, the planners, and my kitchen staff did, I’d’ve been devasted if they didn’t get to see the fruits of their labor.
In Italy in late May, most wedding receptions can be held outdoors. Ours is in the main garden of my family’s resort, which overlooks the sea on one side and the lush green of the rocky Mediterranean mountains on the other. With nature providing most of the surrounding beauty, decorating a garden for a wedding takes expertise.
Sol, our wedding planner, didn’t want to overwhelm the venue with color, but also said all beige would make everything boring and too simple. After much debate, he settled on peach and beige color combinations for the flowers and the rest of the decor, allowing the natural beauty of the island I grew up on to take care of the rest.
I selected the menu, from the hors d’oeuvres to the cake. Which is a great thing, because if I hadn’t been the chef, I’d have to comfort another chef, who, I imagine, would have a meltdown over the bride not eating his meals.
I love food, but I can’t eat a single bite. My stomach is in knots over the claiming ritual Severio’s insisting on.
Apparently, the membership to the Serpentine Order I inherited from my father comes with “perks.” If by perks, Gio means having a close relationship with Severio, who is sitting with his siblings at one end of our long table, then I wish I could return my membership card. But I can’t. The Head of the Order severs ties with the members of the Body and not the other way around.
Ever so slightly, I lean forward and look their way.
Paulina Mancini, Severio’s twin, is chatting with Sol. Her smile is radiant, her blonde hair perfectly held back by a golden bow that matches her golden dress and shoes. Her manicured fingernail touches the shoulder of the woman next to her, and Michela Mancini, Severio’s sister-in-law, looks up.
Sol is speaking animatedly and pointing toward the boats in the marina while Corrado Mancini, Severio’s younger brother, burps his baby girl, her head turned toward her uncle, Severio, who sits at the head of the table in a seat he’s not supposed to occupy.
According to custom, nobody should sit there, but I think he’s making a point. Not that he needs to make a point. His mere presence makes people turn toward him. If he sat in the corner by the kitchen exit, he’d still draw all the attention.
That’s because Severio carries himself like a military general. And as most generals would, he attends the wedding in a black suit that he wears like armor and looks utterly uncomfortable in, in an atmosphere where people are relaxing and having fun.
He barely ate any of his beef Wellington, and now he seems content to people watch. Like a beautiful, dangerous panther. With narrowed, piercing blue eyes, flattened lips, elbow on the table, his jaw resting on his fist.
The baby Corrado is holding lifts her head and turns her cute, chubby face toward me. I smile and wave. I love babies.
She flutters her little fingers as if waving back.
Since Severio’s vigilantly watching everyone, his gaze cuts my way. We lock eyes, and I immediately lean back into my space. I promise myself I won’t wave at the cute baby anymore if it’ll keep me off her uncle’s radar.
“He’s not had a single bite to eat,” my mother says to Gio. They’re standing right behind me, probably thinking I’m not listening. Or, more likely, discounting the fact I can hear them speaking about him. Severio. He’s the topic of every conversation tonight, and opinions of him are polarizing.
“He thinks we’ll poison him before the ritual,” Gio says.
“Will we?” my mother asks.
Gio chuckles. “I wish, but if he dies in such a way, the members will vote in favor of his brother, not me.”
People either hate Severio or are obsessed with him. Since most of my friends have no idea what’s going on, they’re all in the latter category, giggling and laughing loudly at the round table across from ours, trying to get his attention. Tiki’s eyeballing him as if he’s a male lion she wants to sacrifice herself to.
Unfortunately, Severio’s already picked his gazelle for the evening.
He’s claiming me.
That’s right. The nephew of the man I was supposed to marry will claim me on my wedding night. The worst part is that there’s nothing I can do about it besides accept it and get on with my life.
Actually, there is something I can do about it. Or rather, the one thing I am doing about it.
I’m hating him.
Actively.
Viciously.
With every fatty cell of my being. It must be fatty cells because I have more of those than I do of fiber ones.
Severio gets up from his seat and buttons the front of his suit jacket over his white button-down shirt. He starts to push a baby stroller away from the party, toward the ramp that leads to the level below. The ramp connects with a narrow path lined with a few small round tables set for couples dining under the wisteria trees.
At least seven broad-shouldered men wearing suits and bearing tattoos over their necks and knuckles follow him. Others replace them where they’d stood. These men wear blue pins on their suits. The ones with Severio wear red serpent pins.
I think it might be an Order insignia of some sort, but up until my father’s death, I was a bird, a civilian like my friends, blissfully unaware that Gio had initiated my father into the Order without consulting Severio first.
I can’t fathom why Gio would do such a disrespectful thing to a dangerous man like Severio, but I’m here paying for it nonetheless.
Gio’s phone rings, and I turn in my seat as he presses it against his ear. Black tux. Dark hair slicked back with more gel than he’s ever admitted using. Deep lines around his cold blue eyes are made even deeper as he narrows them on Severio’s back. “Keep your distance,” he says into the phone. “I don’t want any blood spilled in front of the birds.”
He’s talking to his men since the security at our event is insane. All the mobsters brought their families and are surrounded by their own security teams. When I say mobsters, I’m including my mother and the group of men Mom cal
Severio’s Order. Technically, it’s his, but Gio speaks of it as if he runs it, rather than his nephew. Hence, Severio’s show of dominance, though not force.
A waitress carrying a single whiskey glass on a tray bursts out of the indoor bar area, almost falling down the steps to the lower level as she rushes after Severio, I presume to deliver his whiskey.
On her way back, her cheeks are red. She’s clearly gushing over serving Severio.
I roll my eyes.
Now seems like a good time for a butchered Jane Austin line: A single man, no matter the size of his fortune, can’t make me gush with a single glance, which is all I’m sure she received from Severio. He might’ve not even seen her.
He seems reserved. Watchful. A panther sprawled on a tree, watching the gazelles graze the grass.
Gio’s rough grip on my shoulder startles me. I look down at his hand, his wedding band mocking the most sacred event of my life.
“That’s your cue,” he says.
“Sorry?” I look up and find my mother also hovering.
“Severio is alone,” she says, her warm brown eyes showing kindness. I think she feels bad for me, but is helpless to stop the claiming Severio insists on. “He’s expecting you to come and introduce yourself.”
I push my chair back and rise, fixing my wedding gown, the fabric soft under my touch. No lace. All tight corset and silk. I pick up my white gloves and slide them on, then approach the railing behind our table.
Since the resort’s built into the mountainous terrain and we’re on higher ground, I glance below, but unfortunately, through the thick wisteria he’s sitting under, I can’t spot him.
“Are you sure he wants me to join him?” Severio walked away from the party, and that means he needs nobody’s company.
“Cristina, my dear,” Mother says in her best parental voice. “Do what your husband says.”
He’s not my husband, I want to answer, but I don’t because I avoid conflict with my mother if I can, and having to sleep with a stranger on my wedding night is conflicting enough.
Gio grabs my elbow and digs in his fingers. “Now, Cristina.”
“Ouch,” I say, hoping he’ll ease his grip, but he doesn’t. His clear blue eyes reflect the coldness of his heart. That’s not how he looks at my mother. Or his dog. Or me, usually, for that matter, but today’s getting to him.
I pat his hand. “I’ll go. Don’t worry.”
He hugs me and gives me a peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Cristina. You’re doing us all a great service.”
It doesn’t seem fair that I’m the one who must pay for what my father did with Gio, but Gio crossed Severio so severely (pun intended) that he froze all of Gio’s assets and may or may not release them once he claims me. Severio doesn’t need me or want me, and if I asked, I bet he would release me from “service,” but I have no doubt that humiliating Gio by claiming me will give him a sense of revenge.
“If my daddy were alive,” I tell my mother, defiantly lifting my chin, my eyes filling with tears, “you wouldn’t dare treat me like this.”
“He’d have done worse,” my mother hisses. “I begged Severio to spare you.”
Gio barks at her to stop, drawing the attention of the couple at a table near ours. They turn to see who’s raising his voice.
Gio shows them his teeth, a mockery of a smile. “We’re a family now. Remember. Let us all behave.” To me, he says, “I will get us out from under his grip. You have my word.”
With a heavy, terrified heart, I force myself to walk toward Severio, the man I hate for ruining my life and taking away my dignity.
I could’ve lived in a mansion with an inattentive husband who would have given me all the freedom I needed to pursue my passions. But now I’m unmarried, penniless, and on my way to sleep with a stranger on my supposed wedding night. What keeps me striding toward my enemy is the vision of a future where I own the hotel at the heart of a resort from which Severio departs in a few hours and to which he will never return.
2
CUTE BUT HATES ME
SEVERIO
This is the sixth wedding I’ve attended this year.
Thankfully, this one is a farce, or I’d have thought it a bad omen cosmically lining me up as the seventh man at the altar. I wouldn’t wish a lifetime spent with me on my worst enemy, let alone of the woman I’d chosen as my bride.
The same could not be said for my brother, who smeared cake frosting on the cheek of his stunningly beautiful wife just so he could lick it off. Before I gag, I position my phone on my niece’s stroller, meeting the eyes of a guard standing at the ramp. The camera disguised as a red serpent pin on his suit allows me to view the main gathering on my phone.
Watching the cowards who want to hurt me when they’re unaware I’m watching gives me perverse pleasure. I sip my whiskey. The slight jerk of my twin’s head toward the middle of the long table where the bride and groom sit tells me something’s happening.
I flick two fingers toward the guard whose camera I’m using as surveillance, and he moves a few steps closer.
My uncle Gio, a dark-haired man in his sixties, grips the hand of his bride, a voluptuous, petite woman in her late twenties. Her neck curves as she looks up at him.
All things considered, she’s holding up pretty well. At the altar, I expected at least some grievances or tears from a woman whose fiancé gave her up before the marriage was consummated. She made it through the ceremony, smiled, and nodded, even kissed her fake groom on the mouth as a bride would. All that without a glint of a tear in her eye.
I doubt her eyes will remain dry once the claiming starts. It’s not intended to be pleasant, but it’s also not a punishment. It is a claiming. A permanent reminder that all major decisions regarding the Order must go through me.
The ritual is written in the rule book, and since I’m executing the claiming because Gio broke the Order’s rules, the ritual feels like vengeance, which makes it that much sweeter.
It’s taken my uncle over a decade since my father passed me the throne, in a manner of speaking, to find a way to steal the Order from me. He found his way when he took over the Capone family fortune and tried to marry Capone’s only heir. If he’d been successful, he would have gained popularity by allowing human trafficking alongside our legitimate trade that passes through the web of islands we own.
Trafficking people is something I’ve refused to allow and will never allow as long as I’m alive. And hopefully, that’ll be for many decades so I can properly enjoy the fortune I’ve amassed.
The waves softly hitting the sand right under the venue remind me of the beauty of this island I’ve coveted since I first came here as a boy. I inhale the briny breeze blowing from the water, and it smells like victory.
I finally own this island. This small country, I should say, but that makes me sound like I’m interested in politics. I’m not. My uncle remains the prime minister. That won’t change, and besides, I’ll need to make use of his political ties and savviness. I make for a poor diplomat. Autocracy is more my forte.
Behind me and before another ramp in the path under the wisteria tree, one of my guards argues with someone. I turn to see a band of musicians trying to make their way up. When I meet my guard’s eye and nod, he lets them pass.
Jesse, the former vice president of a motorcycle club, has been in my detail since my niece was born seven months ago. He’s not the type I’d normally place in my guard unit, but he’s a longtime friend of my sister-in-law, which means he’s shown loyalty over time. It means I can trust him, so I put up with his rebellious attitude.
Jesse lets the musicians through. One of the band members, a short blonde woman, picks up her trumpet and wipes the mouthpiece as if ready to test it before the performance.
Don’t do it.
I glance at my niece’s cute face as she sleeps peacefully in her stroller next to me.
The musician blows into the trumpet.
My niece startles, her little arms shooting up, big blue eyes snapping open, tears instantly pouring out of them, accompanied by a bellowing cry. I chug the remainder of my whiskey and pull the stroller toward me so I can rub her perfect chubby cheek. She grabs my finger and holds it tightly in her fist, my touch slowly calming her down.
