Broken Queen, page 1
BROKEN QUEEN
RUINED KINGDOM
BOOK 2
NATASHA KNIGHT
Copyright © 2022 by Natasha Knight
All rights reserved.
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.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover by Deranged Doctor
CONTENTS
About This Book
1. Vittoria
2. Amadeo
3. Bastian
4. Vittoria
5. Amadeo
6. Bastian
7. Amadeo
8. Vittoria
9. Amadeo
10. Vittoria
11. Amadeo
12. Vittoria
13. Bastian
14. Amadeo
15. Vittoria
16. Bastian
17. Amadeo
18. Vittoria
19. Bastian
20. Vittoria
21. Bastian
22. Vittoria
23. Amadeo
24. Bastian
25. Vittoria
26. Vittoria
27. Amadeo
28. Vittoria
29. Vittoria
30. Amadeo
31. Bastian
32. Vittoria
33. Amadeo
34. Vittoria
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Epilogue 3
Bonus Epilogue
What To Read Next
Also by Natasha Knight
About the Author
ABOUT THIS BOOK
Betrayal. Destruction. Truth.
* * *
He says you can only rise up once you hit rock bottom.
Only be made whole once you’re fully broken.
* * *
I don’t know that there’s anything left to break.
* * *
Time is running out for me. Enemies are closing in at every turn.
* * *
But this time I won’t be alone.
* * *
One brother has vowed his protection. The other reaffirmed his hatred of me.
* * *
Yet they both want me.
* * *
But something dark is unraveling inside me.
An event too terrible clawing its way into my consciousness.
* * *
And even as things begin to change between us, it’s those memories that may undo us all.
* * *
Broken Queen is the second book of the Ruined Kingdom Duet and must be read in order.
One-click Ruined Kingdom in all stores now!
1
VITTORIA
They’re everywhere, and they’re touching me. Their hands and mouths and tongues are all over me. Their breath is hot at my back. It’s sickening. Fingers dig into my hips, keeping them lifted as my knees are forced apart, dragged through shards of broken glass that slice like knives.
I don’t scream. I can’t. I have no voice. And the music. It’s so loud. It pounds against my forehead, which they keep pressed to the floor as the bass vibrates through every cell of my body.
Warmth runs down the inside of my thigh. I’ve lost control of my bladder.
“Fuck. She’s pissing herself.”
Someone laughs. I taste vomit. I don’t remember throwing up, but I must have. I’m lying in it.
But something shifts in the air then. A door slams. A roar sounds like the battle cry of some wild beast. It’s louder than the music and the pounding of blood in my ears.
The fingers digging into my hips loosen just a little. The hand at the back of my head is gone. Attention diverted. A palpable rage rattles the room itself, and an instant later, their hands and their sweaty bodies and disgusting tongues are forced off me.
I should move, but I can’t. I’m too scared. Too fucking terrified. I turn my face, laying my cheek in wet, still-warm vomit. Everything hurts. Glass cuts into my knees, my chest. I should get up. Get away while they’re distracted. But I’m locked in place on my hands and knees, my face in vomit, my eyes squeezed shut. I don’t want to open them. I know I have to, but I can’t. I don’t want to see, and I can’t run.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, princess.
But no, that’s not right. He was wrong. So wrong. I’m not stronger for it. I’m not strong at all.
“How dare you?” a man roars, and I force my eyes to open. A body is flung across the room, knocking over a chair before it slams against the wall. “How dare you touch what’s ours?”
Fury. Rage. Raw and unfiltered and wholly violent.
I take in the scene.
Men are scattering, scurrying. Trying like hell to get away. Chairs are knocked over. Boots pound heavy on the concrete floor. One almost makes it to the stairs before he’s caught. I lay my body down. Glass digs into my chest, stomach, and thighs, and I wince with the pain, but I can’t look away from the chaos. From the two men pummeling the others. Two men taking on an entire room of soldiers.
This is violence like I’ve never seen before.
No, that’s not right. I’ve seen it once. Blood-splattering, bone-breaking violence. Not a single bullet is fired here, though. Bullets are too easy. Bullets are for when you’re outmanned and outmuscled. A single woman against many men. These two, though they may be outmanned, they have enough rage to fill a fucking stadium. And they use their fists. They want to feel the crunching of bone. They want to drench their hands in blood. And all I can do is watch. Just lie there and watch.
Until they finally turn their attention to me.
The dragons who came to my rescue.
One glance. One furious glance. Cold steel eyes and the burning embers of a fire, so opposite, so alike. I try to move, but I can’t. I’m cold. My body shivers. The bare concrete floor is freezing.
Footsteps like that of an army charge down the stairs. More men. You can’t trust men. I need to get up. I need to run.
I manage to climb to my hands and knees. My body is heavy like I’m dragging my limbs through the thick mud. A few feet from me, Amadeo is smashing his fist again and again into the face of a man on the floor. He’s rendered him unrecognizable. I’m transfixed as blood splatters Amadeo’s face, hair, and clothes. I wish I were strong like him. I wish I could feel the breaking of bones. Wish I could kill them all with my bare hands.
“Brother,” Bastian says, voice hoarse as he wipes the back of his arm across his face, smearing blood. He sets that hand on Amadeo’s shoulder. I watch the brothers, so curious about them—these two violent, angry men who are so devoted to one another.
Amadeo is muttering a mantra and beating the man to a pulp. He doesn’t hear Bastian. Not yet.
“Amadeo. Stop. Don’t fucking kill him. Not yet. That’s too good for him,” Bastian says.
Someone cuts off the music. The silence that follows is alive with a heart that beats. A man groans, and all around me, I smell the coppery scent of blood over that of basement and puke and piss.
“I plan to take my time,” Bastian is saying, and Amadeo stops pounding the unconscious man. His eyes meet mine, and what I see in them, it makes my heart stop. Makes my throat close up so I can’t breathe.
He stands, and they both turn their full attention to me. Something gives and a tidal wave of emotion overwhelms me. A keening like that of an animal comes from deep inside my chest, and I think I’m going to choke on it. This thing that won’t let me breathe, that’s been inside me so long it’s a part of me. It’s all of it. Everything that’s happened. Tonight. The nights before. My father’s death. The funeral. That book and what it accuses my brother of. Amadeo and Bastian.
The nightmares of another basement. Another violent night.
A jacket is draped over me, and I smell a familiar aftershave. It’s warm. He just took it off. A hand closes on the back of my head, cupping it tenderly. But it’s that gentle touch that brings out the animal inside me. It’s then I find my voice and scream and scream. I spin as I scream bloody murder grabbing hold of a shard of glass because I will dig it into his eye even if it cuts me through. Even if they kill me for it. But I won’t let them touch me. I won’t let any of them touch me.
“Fuck!” Glass crunches under Bastian’s shoes. He catches my arm and squeezes my wrist, forcing me to drop the glass to the floor. “You’re safe. Vittoria. Look at me.” I shove against him, and he releases my wrist. The jacket slips from me as I try to scramble away through this carpet of broken bottles.
“Vittoria. Look at me.” It’s Amadeo’s voice now. I’m backed into a corner, the wall cold against my bare skin. “Vittoria.”
I claw around me for a weapon. More glass. A gun. Anything. And when he puts his hands on me and gives me a shake, I attack, clawing at his face and arms and screaming like an animal until he slaps me, stunning me.
My head jerks to the side, and I’d fall over if he didn’t catch me. Pulling me to him, he presses my face into his chest. My cheek stings from where he hit me, but it has its desired effect. I’m not screaming. Clawing. Attacking like some beast.
“Shh. Quiet now. You’re safe.” I can’t tell if it’s
But I’m not all right. I haven’t been all right for a very long time. And I’ve never been safe.
“We need to get her upstairs and out of here,” Bastian says. “Away from these men. This place.”
Amadeo straightens and lifts me up, cradling me against him. I wrap my arm around his neck and bury my face against him. I taste blood.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, princess.
I feel my resistance giving way. Hot tears stream down my face as I cry ugly and loud. The smell of the room, of basement and beer and whiskey and violence, is too much, and when that cry is over, I’m so exhausted. Empty. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. I am so fucking tired, and this emotion has drained the last of my energy. I can’t fight anymore. I can’t.
Amadeo must feel me yield because he tucks me closer and tells me it’ll be all right. He looks down at me, and I meet his eyes for an instant before turning my face back into his chest and burying it there.
“Get them all in the back of the truck,” Bastian says. “You know where to take them. No one touches them without my order. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” a soldier answers.
Amadeo begins the climb up the stairs. I open my eyes briefly to see Bastian following, eyes locked on me, so I close mine again, breath heaving as years-old tears stream like never before.
2
AMADEO
“I’ll get the kit,” Bastian says as I carry Vittoria through the dark house, past the open door of her bedroom and to my own. Adrenaline sends blood pounding through me.
We knew something was wrong the minute we drove through the still-guarded gates of the Naples house. Bastian commented on how dark the house was as the thought formed in my own mind. I’d been thinking about Sonny’s strange mention of one of our houses being attacked. About rats. Was it his warning? Had he already ordered the attack while we were at the Ravello house talking? While he was visiting and making nice with mom? When we walked through the front doors, we saw right away that less soldiers were inside than should have been. The house was dark. Too dark. And the stink of cigarettes, aggression, and fear permeated from the basement.
But those soldiers down there, they were ours.
We were attacked from within, and Vittoria was their target. I failed to protect her as I promised I would.
Bastian draws the blankets back, and I lay her on the bed. The jacket falls open, and I see the sudden panic in her eyes as she looks up at me. But her eyes are unfocused, so it’s not me she sees. She tries to claw at me again, making that strange keening sound like a wounded animal cornered but still fighting.
“It’s me, Vittoria. It’s Amadeo,” I tell her, seeing the print of my own hand on her pale cheek, feeling the guilt of having injured her. I did it to draw her out of her head, but still, I hurt her.
“Those men would have done worse,” Bastian says when he sees what I’m looking at. He sets the black duffel on the foot of the bed. He’s washed his hands and discarded his bloodied T-shirt for a clean one, but he missed a smear of blood on his jaw. Unzipping the duffel, he takes one of the syringes out. There are half a dozen because we’d prepared for taking her. The instant Vittoria sees it, her strength renews and she redoubles her fight.
“No one is going to hurt you, but we need to get the glass out,” I tell her, folding her arms across her chest and pressing them down. Wide, wild eyes stare up at me. She’s shaking her head, and I’m not sure she hears me as she struggles, her eyes darting from me to Bastian to the syringe.
“Her neck,” Bastian says calmly once he’s pushed the air from the barrel.
“No! No!”
I keep a tight hold of her and turn her face away while Bastian finds the injection site and pushes the needle in.
Vittoria whines, but I keep her steady until he’s done.
Her gaze moves to Bastian, then to me, and I can see her struggling to keep her eyes open as her arms fall to her sides when I release them.
I cup her face with both hands, brushing her hair back. “Vittoria. I promise you no one will hurt you again. I swear it.” I say it with a ferocity that burns in my gut as she struggles to focus. “Close your eyes and sleep. We need to get you cleaned up. It’s better this way. Trust me.”
She makes a sound, still fighting the drug, but it won’t take long to do its work, and within moments, she’s still.
“Jesus.” Bastian sets the syringe aside and pushes his hand through his hair. He exhales, tension evident on his face. “I’m going to fucking kill those men.”
He paces the room, processing, expression grave every time it lands on the now-unconscious Vittoria.
I turn back to her. She’s bruised and cut, and it’s my fault. I left her unprotected. I thought I was in control, but I was not, and she paid the price for my failure.
Were we in time? Or did they hurt her more deeply and take the thing that would break her?
“I told her she had my protection,” I say.
Bastian presses a hand to my shoulder. “Our protection, brother.”
I think of Hannah. Hannah at the mercy of Lucien Russo.
A girl at the mercy of a man.
I brush hair from Vittoria’s forehead, my fingers coming away bloody.
A woman at the mercy of a dozen men.
“Go wash the blood off your hands, Amadeo,” Bastian tells me.
I don’t move. I don’t want to leave her.
“I’ll be with her. Go.”
I go into the bathroom and close the door behind me. After stripping off and trashing my ruined shirt, I wash my hands, which are sticky with blood up to my elbows. A glance at my reflection tells me I’d better wash my face, too, and I do, then look at myself.
This was Sonny. I have no doubt. But our soldiers betrayed us. Men who are supposedly loyal to my brother and me. How many more traitors lie within?
I dry my hands and face. There’s more blood to wash off, but I’ll do it after I’m done cleaning her. I return to the bedroom to find Bastian looking her over, already having started.
She’s cut up badly at her hands and knees, her feet. Her forehead where they must have pushed her face down. Shards are stuck to her stomach, thighs and chest, too, but those don’t look as bad.
“They’re mostly shallow. It looks worse than it is,” Bastian says as we get to work picking the glass out with tweezers and depositing the shards into a bowl.
“That’s not the damage I’m worried about,” I say.
“We were in time,” he says without looking at me.
“You don’t know that.” Silence settles between us. “She was under my protection.”
“Our protection. And in case you’ve forgotten, we’re at war, brother. Have been since the day grandfather died. Hell, since Geno Russo walked into our kitchen when we were just kids. This is a reminder. She’ll be fine. She’s strong like a fucking dandelion. They will sprout up after the earth is razed to rubble.”
It’s quiet for a long time, and I can’t help looking at Vittoria’s face as she sleeps. I hope it’s a dreamless sleep. I remember the nightmare she’d had the night I’d watched her. She’d fought so hard that I could see it in the muted movements of her body.
