Claiming The Queen: The Mafia Boss's Rise

When the Syndicate Elders issued a blood decree, my Underboss fiancé had seventy-two hours to marry me or lose his territory.

But instead of securing our alliance, Pietro slid my four-carat blood-diamond engagement ring onto the finger of Mia, the nineteen-year-old protégé I had rescued from the gutters.

He let her leak confidential intel that cost our Family over a million dollars, yet he fiercely protected her while blaming me.

He publicly stripped me of my rank as Consigliere, relocating my desk to the entry-level floor.

Then, he demanded I forfeit my controlling shares directly into Mia's name.

"Stop making a scene before you ruin your chances of ever becoming my wife," he warned me patronizingly.

I looked at the man I had dodged bullets with for four years to build this legitimate empire from nothing.

He was so poisoned by power and ego that he truly believed I would accept being his powerless trophy wife while he paraded his mistress around.

He thought I was just a submissive woman who desperately needed him to survive.

Without a second of hesitation, I picked up the pen and signed my power away.

What Pietro didn't know was that I had already secretly transferred my true holdings to the daughter of the city's most feared Don.

I left him holding a worthless piece of paper, packed my bags, and went back to my old territory to build a new fortress.

Chapter 1

The four-carat blood-diamond glittered under the crystal chandelier as Pietro slid it onto Mia's trembling finger.

Seven hours earlier, I had stood before the Syndicate Elders and signed the blood decree—marry me within seventy-two hours, or lose everything.

Now, I watched the man I'd bled for, killed for, built an empire for, place my ring on the hand of the girl I'd rescued from the gutter.

As for me, a broken engagement meant I would be free to return home to Salvatore—the most ruthless, blood-soaked Don our family had ever seen.

Even with that ultimatum hanging over us, I never expected Pietro to slide my four-carat diamond engagement ring onto the finger of my nineteen-year-old protégé.

The brass handle of my office door was clammy with the chill of the air conditioner. With the metallic click of the lock engaging, the clamor of chips from the casino floor below was instantly severed, my eardrums faintly throbbing from the sudden pressure change.

I stood behind my desk, my hands resting flat on the cool glass surface.

I had just reminded Pietro of the old laws.

"As an Underboss, you are required to solidify our faction's bloodline by your thirtieth birthday," I stated. "Which is in three days."

Pietro leaned against the leather armchair opposite me.

He scoffed, a harsh sound that scraped against the stillness of the room.

"You're dredging up antiquated traditions to force my hand," he said, the words edged with contempt. "You want to trap me in a church."

Mia stood beside him.

She was a girl from my old neighborhood-a desperate associate I had pulled from the gutters and brought into our sanitized, corporate operations for the sole purpose of protecting her.

Pietro reached into his tailored suit jacket. From it, he produced the velvet box I had seen on his desk a month ago.

I had thought he was waiting for the perfect moment to officially propose.

Instead, he opened the box, took out the massive blood-diamond, and casually handed it to Mia.

The shadows from the venetian blinds sliced his face into bars of light and darkness. I found my eyes fixed on a single speck of dust on the knot of his tie, and the man before me suddenly felt like a complete stranger. "I need space to think."

I watched the diamond resting in Mia's trembling palm, a strange placidity settling in my veins. The anger that once would have consumed me felt distant now, like reading a faded newspaper headline, leaving only a film of gray, weary dust.

Mia looked up at me, her eyes wide, playing the part of the innocent bystander perfectly.

She took a step forward and reached out, trying to hand the tainted jewel back to me.

I did not move.

My voice was a low, toneless sound, scraped from the back of my throat.

"Keep it. I don't accept hand-me-downs from traitors."

I looked back at Pietro, but he was already turning.

He walked out of my office with the slow, untouchable swagger of a man who believed he owned the world.

I looked at Mia. "Our alliance is dead. Get out of my sight."

She scurried out the door, clutching the ring to her chest.

Hours later, the only light in the penthouse Pietro and I shared was the thin, chemical blue of the city filtering through the blinds.

I pulled my suitcase from the closet and began methodically folding my clothes.

I did not cry.

My hand paused on a black cashmere sweater—the one I'd worn the night Pietro carried me, bleeding, through a back alley after a deal went wrong. Four years ago. I folded it carefully and placed it on top of the suitcase.

My chest felt as if it were packed with cold, shattered glass; each breath was a careful negotiation with the sharp edges against my ribs, but my hands were steady.

The front door clicked open.

Pietro walked into the bedroom, loosening his silk tie.

He stopped when he saw the suitcase on the bed.

He crossed his arms. "What do you think you're doing?"

The cashmere fibers of the sweater abraded my fingertips with a faint static. "Did Mia deliver my message? That our alliance is over?"

His face instantly hardened.

He advanced, his haste to argue stirring the stale, smoke-tinged air. "You're a paranoid, venomous woman! Mia is a sister from our old territory. You're supposed to look out for her!"

The folding motion paused.

My gaze traveled past his shoulder, to the memory of certain looks Mia had given him in boardrooms, a photograph slowly developing in my mind.

I remembered the time Pietro shouted at me in front of our Made Men just to protect Mia from being reprimanded for a late report.

He had recently promoted her to his personal assistant, threatening anyone who questioned her profound lack of competence.

Looking at his angry face, I realized with sickening clarity that his judgment was gone.

He was no longer the hungry, honorable man who had helped me build this network of fronts and backrooms from nothing.

Power had poisoned his blood.

I glanced at my phone on the nightstand, where my secured flight itinerary to the old territory was already booked.

I knew fighting him tonight would only waste my energy.

I pulled off my left glove, finger by finger, a slow and deliberate ritual. Then I lowered my eyes, feigning submission. "You're right," I whispered. "I'm stressed and overreacting."

Pietro blinked, thrown off balance by my lack of retaliation.

The anger drained from his face, replaced by a confused frown.

"Suit yourself," he muttered, turning and walking out of the penthouse.

I listened to the deadbolt slide home, knowing he would not return tonight-and knowing precisely how I would strip him of everything he loved.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Salvatore: "The jet is fueled. But there's a situation at the border. Call me."