Savage Queen (The Dark Elite 3)

Grace

The next two days are a whirlwind.

By agreeing to meet with Camilla, I’ve agreed to completely and utterly submerge myself into the world of the mafia, and if there was no turning back before, there’s certainly no backing out now.

There are endless meetings.

Security briefings.

Plans made for every possible contingency.

Zaid and Lucas have already mapped out the warehouse that Camilla requested to meet in, an abandoned shipping facility on a deserted side of town, and just yesterday I spent hours with the guys and a team of men, going over positions. We’ve mapped out exactly where everyone will be positioned and where the backup crews are going to be. Vans full of mafia men in critical locations go as far out as ten miles away from the warehouse, prepared for anything.

Hale isn’t messing around.

The meeting is set for seven p.m., so we head out at six thirty. An outside observer would guess, based on the sheer number of heavily armed men gathered around me as we walk toward the fleet of vehicles in the underground parking garage, that I’m someone of great importance. Looking at the guards that flank me on every side, they might imagine I was their mafia queen, their very own Camilla.

Fuck. I hate that I am my mother’s daughter.

But I remind myself that this is what tonight is about. I’m not only going to this meeting for the sake of the Novak Syndicate, but also going for myself—to see exactly what I came from, and who this woman has turned out to be.

Who I could turn out to be.

The drive is quiet, everyone laser-focused and tense. Finally, the van pulls up to the warehouse, and as it rolls to a stop, my heart rate jumps.

This place is nothing short of creepy. Camilla—I can’t bring myself to think of her as Mom—chose her location well. The Chicago fog rolls in, thick and tinted yellow by the few streetlights, and if it weren’t for the full moon, I’m not sure I’d even be able to see the warehouse.

My nerves are strangely steady. The last couple days have been so packed that I haven’t had time to freak out, and I don’t plan on letting myself start now. My steps are measured and even as we walk into the warehouse.

I know why Camilla chose this place—it’s huge, but it’s open. The place is abandoned, all of the merchandise long since cleared out, leaving nothing but an empty space.

Leaving nowhere for anyone to hide.

The Novak men have already arrived and stand exactly where Hale told them to, and it seems we aren’t the only ones who came prepared. The other side of the warehouse is filled with Camilla’s own security, her own warriors, and it hits me like a ton of bricks to the chest that this isn’t child’s play.

I’m walking into a den full of criminals and murderers, only to face the worst of them all—my mother.

She stands on the other side of the room, watching, waiting. Surrounded by her own men, she looks nothing short of a mafia queen herself. As agreed, she breaks away from her group of security forces, moving slowly toward the middle of the room. She’s graceful as a cat, her movements as smooth and controlled as a predator’s. I don’t even hear the heels of her boots click on the pavement.

I wait.

I wait until she’s standing there waiting for me before I break away from Hale, Ciro, Lucas, and Zaid. They all tense behind me, not liking this any more than I do, but none of them make a move to stop me.

I don’t look back at the men. I keep my focus straight ahead on my mother, on Damian’s murderer, and I don’t let myself drop her gaze until I’m standing in the middle of the room with her, less than four feet away. My heart flips in my chest, but I’m proud of how steady my pulse remains.

“Grace. Look at you.” She speaks warmly, a smile spreading across her face. “You look stunning.”

I fucking know I do, but I refuse to acknowledge her compliment. Instead of my usual jeans and a sweater, I’m dressed in a plunging black shirt with a blazer over it, and sleek black pants with a crisp line down the leg. I even painted my nails a bright crimson, reminiscent of the blood that spilled from Leland’s mutilated body on our front stoop.

Every piece of this outfit was chosen to send a message. This woman doesn’t know me any better than I know her, and she doesn’t know how mu

ch I’ve changed in the years we’ve been apart. I’m not the innocent, naïve girl she left behind.

I’m a fucking mafia princess, and I mean business.

I also have a gun in a small holster hidden beneath my blazer, and a knife strapped to my calf.

My mother is likely carrying concealed weapons too—although they’re pointless, really. We all know Camilla isn’t going to pull anything tonight, not if she’s smart. Not when there are armed men gathered in a tight arc on our side of the warehouse, able to expertly snipe her before she could even make a move.