Chapter 42: The Queen's Awakening

The sunlight crept across the stone rooftop like a slow-burning fire, casting a golden glow over the sleeping city below. Birds chirped in the distance, but inside Sophia, a storm still raged. The adrenaline from the night before hadn't faded; if anything, it had carved itself deeper into her bones.

She sat wrapped in Rafael’s discarded dress shirt, legs tucked beneath her, the buttons undone enough to reveal the bruises and bites he’d left across her chest and collar. Marks of possession. Marks of *pleasure*.

Rafael stood a few feet away, shirtless, his body glistening with morning dew and the aftermath of war. He lit a cigarette, his jaw tight with thought.

“Will there be retaliation?” Sophia asked, her voice still hoarse from moans and gunfire.

“Yes.” Rafael didn’t sugarcoat it. “They’ll come harder next time. They’ve seen what you are now.”

Sophia raised a brow. “What am I?”

He turned to her, his gaze burning hotter than the rising sun. “My weapon. My weakness. My queen.”

Her breath hitched.

She should’ve been scared. She should’ve felt caged.

Instead, she felt unstoppable.

Rafael crossed the rooftop and crouched before her, his fingers brushing along her bare thigh. “You felt it last night. The rush. The power.”

“I felt the fear, too.”

He smirked. “Fear keeps us sharp. But it doesn’t rule us.”

His hand slid higher, parting her thighs gently. “Let me remind you what *does*.”

Sophia gasped as his fingers stroked her, slow and possessive.

She clenched the stone behind her as he dipped his head, kissing her inner thighs like they were sacred territory. His tongue followed, tracing a path of fire.

“You’re mine,” he growled between licks. “All of you. Mind. Body. Soul.”

She cried out, hips rising to meet his mouth, his tongue devouring her with a hunger that left her trembling. Her release came like lightning—sudden, blinding, and raw.

Rafael stood, dragging her up into his arms. “They want to take you from me.”

“Let them try,” she panted.

He carried her inside, laying her on their bed and taking her again, slower this time—but just as intense. Her fingers clawed at his back, her lips begged for more, and when he came undone inside her, it was with a name that wasn’t *just* her own.

It was a promise: *Sophia, mi reina.*

**

Later that morning, a meeting convened in Rafael’s underground war room.

Sophia entered in a fitted crimson dress that whispered confidence. The same men who once dismissed her now looked at her with caution—and curiosity.

Rafael stood at the head of the long, mahogany table, commanding attention without saying a word.

Beside him, Sophia didn’t flinch.

“Last night’s ambush was not just a breach,” Rafael began. “It was a declaration. From Salvatore DeLuca.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

Salvatore DeLuca—head of the Naples syndicate. Old money. Old blood. And one of Rafael’s oldest enemies.

“He's not just coming for territory,” Rafael continued. “He’s coming for *her.*”

Sophia’s stomach flipped.

“Why?” Matteo asked.

Rafael’s jaw flexed. “Because her father once brokered a blood pact with DeLuca. Promised her hand in marriage in exchange for protection.”

Gasps echoed. Sophia went still.

“What?” she whispered.

“He never told you,” Rafael said, softer now. “But your disappearance was his betrayal. He faked your death to break the deal.”

Sophia stumbled back a step, bile rising in her throat. “So I was never just a pawn. I was a *bargain.*”

“Yes,” Rafael admitted. “And now DeLuca wants what he thinks is his.”

Sophia’s hands balled into fists.

“I belong to no one,” she hissed. “Least of all a man who’s never touched me.”

Rafael smiled darkly. “Then we remind him who you belong to.”

She met his gaze. “Let’s make them bleed.”

**

That night, Sophia joined Rafael in his planning room, poring over maps, dossiers, surveillance photos.

He watched her quietly. Admired the way she absorbed information like a blade absorbing heat.

“You’re different,” he said.

She didn’t look up. “You made me different.”

“No,” he murmured. “You were always this. I just gave you permission.”

Sophia lifted her head slowly, eyes burning.

“Then give me permission to kill Salvatore.”

He stilled.

And then, he nodded. “On one condition.”

“What?”

“You wear *this.*” He held up a small velvet box.

Inside was a necklace—a choker of black diamonds, with a single ruby drop.

“It’s a collar,” she whispered.

“It’s a crown,” he corrected. “The world will see it as one or the other. That’s your choice.”

Sophia lifted the necklace, fastened it around her throat, and smiled.

“Then let the world see a queen.”

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