The Queens Inheritance

In the pitch black, someone grabbed my arm.

Instinct took over. I spun around, using the weight of my heavy diamond necklace to strike my attacker across the face, then drove my heel down onto his foot. The man groaned, loosening his grip.

A second later, a muzzle flash illuminated the room. Roman was there, his face twisted in a mask of absolute fury. He fired three shots, dropping the man who had touched me.

“Bianca! Get behind me!” Roman roared over the din of shattering glass and screaming men.

The emergency lights flickered on, casting a dim, red glow over the ballroom. It was a bloodbath. Dominic’s men were trading shots with Roman’s loyalists, while the other bosses scrambled for cover.

Dominic was running toward the back exit, flanked by two heavy enforcers.

“Marcus, protect my wife!” Roman ordered, sprinting across the room, jumping over a fallen table with lethal agility.

I didn’t stay behind. I grabbed a dropped pistol from the floor—something I had learned to shoot during my summers with my uncle in upstate New York—and followed Roman.

Dominic reached the kitchen doors, but Roman was faster. He tackled one enforcer into a row of stainless-steel prep tables, the sound of clattering pots echoing like thunder. Roman didn’t even hesitate; he drew a knife from his boot and drove it deep into the man’s chest, then spun around and shot the second enforcer squarely between the eyes.

Dominic fell backward against a industrial refrigerator, his hands raised in terror.

“Roman! Wait! We can make a deal!” Dominic begged, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead.

Roman stepped up to him, his gun pressed directly against Dominic’s chin. “You threatened my daughter’s future. You tried to kill my wife.”

“It was Vivienne! She planned it all!” Dominic screamed.