Page 1 of His Queen

Prologue

Our story continue with the fall of Le Manchot. In a city overflowing with darkness and deceit there is no one I can trust. In the pages that follow I've shared minor details from my past. Do not go looking for more. I've warned you. I haven't always been this person. The truth about my Inception is coming, but it's a story I am still not ready to tell. I've abandoned my Queen, my heart, and my soul to bring this city to her knees in order to keep Arkham safe. A War is coming. Those who choose the wrong side will perish while the rest of us prosper, celebrating our eternal victory.

Retribution is the price you pay for failure. It’s the penance you sow for coming home empty handed, and the devastating disappointment of defeat. Retribution is my destiny. I will spend the next year in repentance, proving myself worthy of the gifts that have been bestowed upon me by the Arkham Mafia. This is my retribution, my task. The city will fall to me and all those who stand in opposition will perish .

This is still only the beginning…

Chapter one

“Doyouknowwhyyou’re here, Christian?” His menacing voice is paralyzing.

Fear wraps its tendrils around my still heart. My fingertips grasp the rim of my glass firmly as I slowly bring it to my lips, then toss it back. I return the empty glass to the table smoothly, delaying my response.

“Forgive me Don Father, I fucked up,” I say, emotionless, without fear the way he taught me to speak to a man of higher rank within the organization.

There’s a heavy silence between us for several minutes. An intimidation tactic, a test to measure how in control of the situation I am.

“Tell me, Christian, what exactly did you do? Confess your sins, my son, and seek your redemption.” His face is devoid of any sort of emotion.

I fight the urge to swallow hard and prevent my hand from twitching. I want to unclip the top button of my collar, but that would be a breach of proper etiquette. My mouth has suddenly gone dry. The only appropriate move is to motion for another. I lift my finger, playing this game of chess cautiously. Within seconds, the dark honey colored liquid sloshes into my glass. I allow it to settle for a moment, then once again bring it to my lips and toss it back. This is part of my atonement. Forcing me to say it out loud makes the betrayal real.

“I broke my oath to you. When I allowed Quinn to get involved by failing to prevent it from happening; I put her life in danger by neglecting to tie up a loose end. Most recently, I used military grade weapons, which resulted in our inability to confirm Le Manchot’s death.” I recite perfectly.

“Does that feel better?”

“No,” I reply.

The Don slips, allowing a small smile to slide across his lips. “Good.” He snarls. “Do you accept your retribution?”

“I do.”

“Rise and remove your shirt,” he instructs.

I do as he says, standing, unbuttoning my shirt with calm hands, removing it, and tossing it over the leather chair where I was sitting. The Don snaps his fingers. Another man in a suit appears carrying a tray. A second man appears with a black wooden chair.

“Sit,” the Don commands.

I do as I am told, assuming the position, straddling the chair, and awaiting the marks of punishment. Behind me, I hear the snap of the latex gloves as they are pulled on. A tool shelf is rolled over next to me. As I wait, I imagine all the things the man is doing to prepare my shameful punishment. He catches me off guard as he cleans the skin between my shoulder blades right below the base of my neck. The cold cleanser dares me to react to make a sound, bringing further shame upon myself. The man presses the stencil into place and allows it to dry. I can hear the thud of my own beating heart, thumping away in anticipation of the familiar buzz from the tattoo gun and the initial stroke of ink.

It’s not unbearable. At first, the strokes are hard, unforgiving, but the pain feels good. I sit for over an hour as he carves the outline into my flesh. He rubs some ointment from shoulder to shoulder.

“Smoke break,” he declares, stripping off his gloves and walking out the back door to the alley.

I raise my finger. The drink arrives instantly. I toss it back and motion for another. By the time the man tattooing me returns, I’m on my third drink. He snaps a fresh pair of gloves into place.

“Ready?” He asks.

I nod my head in reply and wait for the sting of the needle as the machine resumes its buzzing. This time, when the needles strike my skin, it stings. I try to relish in the pain. Allowing it to ripple over me and punish my soul. After several hours of sitting stiffly in the chair, my shoulders ache. The skin is raw and tender now, each stroke sends searing hot pain in every direction. Stroke after unforgiving stroke. A weaker man might beg for mercy, not me. My jaw is set and my face remains a perfect stone, carving free from an ounce of emotion. The Don watches on in admiration as I take my punishment. When the design is finished, the man in the suit wipes the ointment across my shoulders and gives it a smack of approval.

“Do you want to see it?” The Don asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“No. It will only be a reminder of the shame I must bear,” I reply, standing to collect my shirt and jacket.

“You might be surprised then, Christian.” He taunts, nodding towards the large mirror on an adjacent wall.

Curiosity gets the best of me. I find myself making my way to the mirror. To gaze upon the reminder. When I turn to look over my shoulder, I suck my breath in with a gasp, shattering my stone cold facade. In the reflection, a pair of intricate feathers and wings with a skull in the center stare back at me. They are delicate yet foreboding with the skull that ties the pair together. I’ve earned a pair of cardinal wings, bestowed upon me by the Don Father himself. My chest swells with pride as I am filled with intense emotions. If my father was alive to see this, to look on at my battle scars, my missteps, and my honorary marks, I know he would approve. I take a deep breath, recomposing my face before I turn to gaze into the Don Father’s eyes. There’s a semblance of parental pride there. He’s taken me under his wing and raised me the way he would have raised a son. I’m sure there’s a paternal bond somewhere beneath his emotionless exterior. As I stare at him I notice the way the edges of his mouth are fighting to turn up in a smile, the way he stands so cool and collected, menacing, and yet beneath that exterior there’s a piece of humanity somewhere.

“But why?” I ask the Don trying to hold back the emotions surging through me.

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