Echoes of a Steel Queen

Chapter 1

Jocelyn

The smell of gasoline is the first thing, sharp and sickening. Then the cold, seeping through my coat from the concrete floor. A voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. My husband’s voice.

“Leave her.”

“Logan, are you sure?” A second voice. Riccardo. Always the calm one. The calculating one. His consigliere.

“She’s a liability,” Logan says, his words clipping the air like shards of glass. “Her reputation, her ambition… it’s become a problem. This cleans the slate.”

A small, metallic click. The familiar sound of Riccardo’s Zippo lighter. A flare of light illuminates the darkness behind my eyelids. He’s lighting a cigarette. Or a fire.

The world burns, and I wake up with a gasp, the scream caught in my throat.

My eyes snap open. Not to a gritty shipping container, but to silk sheets, a thousand thread count, cool against my skin. Sunlight streams through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains, not a flickering bare bulb. The air smells of lavender and my own perfume, not gasoline and death.

The bedroom door opens. “Sera, my love. Another nightmare?”

Logan stands there, a vision of tailored perfection. His dark hair is immaculate, his jawline sharp. He wears a silk robe the color of blood, his concern a mask that doesn’t quite fit. He thinks I don’t see the flicker of impatience in his eyes.

I see everything.

A year. I have exactly one year until the Antwerp deal. One year until he leaves me to die for real.

I pull the sheet higher, my hand trembling. I make it tremble. “Logan,” I whisper, my voice a fragile, broken thing. “It was so real.”

He crosses the room, the plush carpet silencing his steps. He sits on the edge of the massive bed, his weight a suffocating presence. “Just a bad dream, my little bird. It’s over now.” He reaches out, stroking my hair. His touch feels like spiders on my skin.

I flinch, a genuine reaction I allow him to see. “Don’t.”

He pulls his hand back, a frown marring his handsome face. “It’s been a month since the… incident. The doctor said these episodes would fade.”

The incident. A rival family ambush. A car crash. A convenient head injury that explains my new personality. My own plan, executed from a hospital bed in a past life, now serves as the perfect cover story.

“I’m sorry,” I say, lowering my eyes. I focus on the intricate pattern of the lace on my nightgown. Submissive. Weak. “I’m just so tired.”

“Of course you are,” he coos, his voice dripping with condescension. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. You just need to rest. Let me handle things.”

*You have it handled. The same way you handled the Antwerp deal. The same way you handled my life.* The words are a scream inside my head, but my lips remain parted in a silent, pathetic O.

“Riccardo is downstairs,” Logan says, rising from the bed. “We have a meeting about the new port tariffs. The usual boring stuff.” He pauses, watching me. “You used to love all that.”

I look up at him through my lashes, my eyes wide and vacant. “I… I don’t remember.”

A flash of something crosses his face. Relief. Pure, unadulterated relief. The Ice Queen, the woman who ran his logistics with terrifying efficiency, the strategist who won him his territory, is gone. In her place is this fragile doll he can finally control.

“It’s for the best,” he says, more to himself than to me. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I’ll have Maria bring you some tea.” He blows me a kiss from the doorway and disappears.

The door clicks shut. I don’t move. I listen to his footsteps fade down the grand staircase. I count them. Twenty-three steps to the first landing. Another seventeen to the main floor. I designed this house. I know its every secret, every hollow space, every sightline.

Slowly, I sit up. The trembling stops. The fear in my eyes recedes, replaced by a cold, clear focus. I look at my hands. They are steady. These are the hands that negotiated with cartels, that signed contracts worth nine figures, that could field strip a Glock in under thirty seconds. Now, they look delicate, pale against the white silk. A perfect disguise.

I need to see him. I need to see them both together.

I slide out of bed, my feet silent on the cold marble of the en suite bathroom. I ignore my reflection in the vast mirror. The woman in it is a stranger I’m learning to inhabit. I pull on a simple cashmere robe, a soft grey that makes me look washed out, invisible.

I don’t take the main staircase. I use the servants’ passage that runs behind the west wall, another of my architectural additions. The sound of their voices grows clearer as I approach the small grate hidden behind a tapestry on the main floor.

“…completely useless now,” Logan is saying. The sound is slightly muffled. He’s in his study. My study.

“It’s a pity,” Riccardo’s voice replies, smooth as poison. “She had a fine mind for business.”

“She had a mind for my business,” Logan snaps. “People were starting to say she was the real boss. Can you imagine the disrespect?”

“It was just talk, Logan.”

“Talk becomes truth. That crash was the best thing that could have happened. It broke her. Look at her now, she’s terrified of her own shadow. She’s like a porcelain doll. Beautiful to look at, empty inside.”

I press my forehead against the cool stone wall, my breath catching in my chest. *Empty inside? Oh, you have no idea what’s inside me now.* Rage is a furnace, and I am banking the coals, letting them glow hotter and hotter until they are ready to burn this entire house, this entire empire, to the ground.

“What about the Volkov situation?” Riccardo asks, changing the subject.

“Let them posture. Their new leader, this Travis, thinks he’s a ghost. He moves quietly, but he’s still just a Russian thug. Jocelyn would have had him tied in knots with legal and financial traps before he even knew what was happening.” Logan sighs, a sound of genuine frustration. “I’ll admit, I miss that part of her.”

“We’ll manage,” Riccardo says dismissively. “We always do.”

A heavy silence hangs in the air. I can picture them perfectly. Logan behind my mahogany desk, swirling a glass of scotch. Riccardo standing by the fireplace, one hand in his pocket, radiating a lethal stillness.

I need to push them. I need to see their reaction to me, up close.

Taking a steadying breath, I smooth my hair and compose my face into a mask of timid confusion. I walk out of the passage and drift into the study’s doorway like a ghost.

“Logan?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Both men turn. Logan’s face softens into that familiar, patronizing smile. Riccardo’s remains impassive, but his eyes narrow for a fraction of a second. He is the danger. He is the one I have to watch.

“Sera, darling, you should be in bed,” Logan says, standing up.

“I heard voices,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself. “I thought… I thought maybe something was wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong, my love. Riccardo and I were just finishing up.”

“Jocelyn.” Riccardo inclines his head, a gesture that is almost a bow but holds no respect. “You look pale.”

“I’m alright,” I lie, letting my gaze drift around the room as if I’m lost. My eyes land on the open ledger on the desk. The Volkov shipping routes. So sloppy. A child could see the vulnerabilities.

Riccardo follows my gaze. He steps forward, a predator sensing a weakness. “We were just discussing the recent movements from the Volkov Bratva. You always had such an interesting perspective on their patterns. Anything come to mind?”

It’s a test. A small, sharp jab to see if the Ice Queen is still in there.

I look from the ledger to his face, letting my eyes fill with a blank confusion. I frown slightly. “Volkov? Is that a kind of wine?”

Logan lets out a short, sharp laugh. It’s a cruel sound.

But Riccardo doesn’t laugh. He just watches me, his eyes like polished stones. For a moment, I think he sees through it. He sees the fire behind the fog. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage.

Then, he blinks. A slow, final assessment. He turns to Logan and gives a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

She’s gone. The threat is neutralized.

Relief floods Logan’s posture. He’s won. He walks over to me, puts his arm around my shoulder, and guides me back toward the door. “Come, my love. Let’s get you back to bed. Leave the business to the men.”

His words are a match strike in the gasoline-soaked ruins of my soul. I lean into him, playing the part of the broken wife. I let him lead me from the room, my head resting on his shoulder.

“Yes, Logan,” I murmur into the expensive fabric of his shirt. “Whatever you say.”

He can’t feel the ice forming in my veins. He can’t see the intricate web of vengeance I’m already beginning to spin in my mind. He thinks he’s leading a doll back to her shelf.

He has no idea he’s walking a dead woman back to her tomb, and that she plans on taking him with her.

Once I’m back in the bedroom, the door clicks shut, sealing me in my gilded cage. I walk to the cheval mirror. The woman staring back is pale, her eyes wide and haunted. A perfect victim. A fragile piece of porcelain.

I let the expression hold for a long moment.

Then, slowly, I let it fall away.

The fear evaporates. The fragility shatters. What’s left is ice and iron, a queen in exile, staring out from behind a prisoner’s eyes. My lips curl into a smile that holds no warmth, only a promise.

“Let the games begin,” I whisper to my own reflection. One year is all I need. More than enough time to burn their world to ash. And I will enjoy every single second of it.

Chapter 2

Jocelyn

The mask stays in place. From the mirror to the walk-in closet, I am the ghost of my former self. I select a dress of pale silver silk. It hangs on my frame, making me look fragile, ethereal. It’s a color that washes me out, a shroud for a woman who is already dead.

Downstairs, the dining room is a cavern of polished mahogany and glittering crystal. Logan is at the head of the table, flanked by Riccardo. Three of our most important capos, men who once answered my calls without question, are already seated. They stand when I enter, a perfunctory gesture devoid of its former respect.

“Jocelyn, darling. Glad you could join us.” Logan’s smile is a thin veneer over his impatience. “You remember Gianni, Paolo, and Vito.”

I incline my head, my eyes downcast. “Of course.”

“She remembers our names, at least,” Vito mutters to Paolo, just loud enough for me to hear. A low chuckle ripples between them.

I take my seat at the opposite end of the long table, a queen exiled in her own court. The distance between Logan and me is a chasm. Maria, our head housekeeper, places a plate in front of me. Seared scallops. My favorite. A dish Logan ordered to maintain the illusion of a caring husband.

“Eat, Sera,” Logan says, his voice carrying down the table. “You need your strength.”

I pick up my fork, my hand performing a slight, practiced tremor. The conversation flows around me, a river of business and violence I am no longer expected to navigate. Port logistics, union disputes, a new problem with the Volkovs. The words are familiar, the problems laughably simple, but I keep my expression placid and my eyes on my plate.

Riccardo watches me. He always watches. He doesn’t speak to me, but I feel his gaze, a physical weight. He’s searching for a crack in the porcelain. I give him nothing.

The heavy front doors open and close in the foyer. Footsteps click on the marble floor, sharp and unapologetic. Too fast to be a servant, too loud to be a guest with manners.

“Am I late, darling?” a woman’s voice purrs.

The capos fall silent. Logan’s face lights up. “Isabella. You’re right on time.”

She sweeps into the dining room, a whirlwind of red fabric and expensive perfume. Isabella Rossi. A low-level courtesan who saw her chance and latched onto my husband with the tenacity of a starving wolf. Her hair is a cascade of black curls, her lips painted a defiant scarlet. She moves with a predatory grace, her eyes scanning the room, dismissing everyone until they land on me.

A slow, cruel smile spreads across her face.

“Jocelyn. You look… pale.” She glides to Logan’s side, placing a proprietary hand on his shoulder. He covers it with his own, a gesture of ownership for all to see.

“Isabella was just telling me about a charity auction she’s organizing,” Logan announces to the table. “For the children’s hospital.”

“How wonderful,” I murmur, my voice a colorless wisp of sound.

“It is,” Isabella agrees, her gaze still locked on me. “It takes a strong woman to handle such things. You have to be sharp. All there.”

Her hand moves from his shoulder to her own throat, her fingers tracing the line of a necklace I have never seen, yet know intimately. A cascade of teardrop diamonds, anchored by a sapphire the color of a midnight sea. The Jocelyn Sapphire. A stone Logan bought months ago, describing his plans for it in breathless detail in a life I lived before. It was to be my anniversary gift.

The air leaves my lungs. The furnace inside me roars to life, a white-hot inferno. My vision narrows, the edges of the room blurring until only the necklace remains, glittering mockingly against her skin.

*He gave her my necklace.*

“Do you like it?” Isabella asks, her voice dripping with false sweetness. She leans forward slightly, ensuring the diamonds catch the light of the chandelier. “Logan gave it to me. He said it reminded him of my eyes.”

My eyes are brown.

Gianni shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Vito seems fascinated by a spot on the tablecloth. Only Riccardo watches the exchange with a detached, clinical interest.

“It’s… very pretty,” I manage to say. The words taste like ash in my mouth.

“Pretty?” Isabella laughs, a sound like breaking glass. “Darling, this is a masterpiece. But I suppose you wouldn’t appreciate the details anymore.”

She pulls out the chair next to Logan, the one that should have remained empty, the one that used to be reserved for me during these dinners. She sits, her body angled towards him, a clear message to the entire table. *I am the one he listens to now.*

“We were discussing the Volkovs,” Riccardo says, smoothly redirecting the conversation. His eyes, however, flick to me for a heartbeat. Another test.

“Ah, the Russians,” Isabella says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “So dreary. All business and no pleasure. Logan, you should let me handle them. A woman’s touch can be very persuasive.”

Logan chuckles, completely besotted. “I’m sure it can, my firecracker.”

“Jocelyn used to be quite the expert on the Bratva,” Riccardo says, his voice deceptively mild. “She had a theory about their leadership structure being their greatest weakness.”

All eyes turn to me. The room is silent, expectant. I can feel the weight of their collective gaze. Logan looks annoyed at the mention of my past competence. Isabella looks triumphant, ready to pounce on any sign of weakness.

I look up from my plate, letting my gaze drift from Riccardo to Logan, then to Isabella. I blink slowly, as if processing a difficult thought. “Bratva?” I ask, my voice small and confused. “Is he a new designer?”

Vito snorts into his wine glass. Paolo hides a smirk behind his napkin. Logan’s face is a mask of pity and relief.

But Isabella doesn’t look satisfied. She wanted a reaction. She wanted tears, a scene, a confirmation of her victory. My blankness seems to infuriate her.

“No, you silly thing,” she says, her voice sharp as a stiletto. “They’re gangsters. Killers. The kind of people you used to deal with before your little accident. Remember? Or is that part of your brain all scrambled now too?”

The cruelty is breathtakingly direct. The air grows thick and heavy. Even the capos seem to recognize she’s gone too far.

“Isabella,” Logan says, a hint of warning in his tone.

“What?” she protests, turning to him with wide, innocent eyes. “I’m just trying to help her remember. It must be so frightening, being lost in your own mind.”

She turns back to me, her red lips curled into a predatory smile. “Tell me, Jocelyn. What do you even do all day? Wander around this big, empty house? Does it get lonely? Or do you not have enough thoughts left in your head to feel lonely?”

My grip on my fork is so tight my knuckles are white. I picture driving it into the soft flesh of her throat, right below the sapphire that should be mine. The image is so vivid I can almost feel the warm spray on my hand. I imagine the look on Logan’s face, on Riccardo’s. The chaos. The end.

Not yet. The slow burn is the point. The anticipation. Humiliation must be answered with annihilation.

I release the pressure on the fork. I look directly at Isabella, right into her dark, triumphant eyes. I don’t flinch. I don’t cry. I don’t scream.

I smile.

It’s a gentle, serene expression. A smile with nothing behind it. The placid, pleasant smile of a doll. It’s the emptiest, most vacant thing I can create. And I hold it. I let her look into the void I’ve crafted just for her.

Her own smile falters. A flicker of confusion crosses her features. This wasn’t the reaction she was trying to provoke. She was baiting a wounded animal, but the animal isn’t responding. It’s just staring, empty and serene.

“You’re… strange,” she finally says, breaking the eye contact first. She turns to Logan, a little of her bravado gone. “She’s completely broken, isn’t she?”

“She’s delicate now,” Logan corrects, placing his hand on her arm. “We need to be patient with her.”

They dismiss me. The conversation resumes, but the energy has shifted. Isabella has won her public victory, but my non-reaction has unsettled her. She glances at me several more times throughout the meal, a small frown marring her perfect makeup. She can’t understand. To her, my smile is weakness, a sign that the old Jocelyn is well and truly gone.

She’s wrong. It’s a promise.

It’s a promise that when I finally destroy Logan, I will take a special, personal pleasure in dismantling her world first. I will strip her of her clothes, her jewels, her position. I will take everything from her, and I will make her watch as I put on that necklace.

I take a small, delicate bite of my scallop. I chew slowly, my vacant smile never leaving my face.

A new name has just been added to my list. And her destruction will be a masterpiece.

Chapter 3

Jocelyn

The ghost of Isabella’s perfume, a cloying cloud of tuberose and arrogance, clings to the hallway. I walk past the dining room, its crystal and silver mocking me from the shadows. My victory over her was silent, internal. She thinks she broke me with a necklace. She has no idea she just handed me the whetstone to sharpen my resolve.

In my bedroom, I shed the silver dress. It pools on the floor like a dead thing. I need to move. I need to act. The rage is a clean, cold fuel, and it’s time to light the first fire.

I find Logan in his study, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looks up as I enter, his expression softening into that familiar, infuriating pity.

“Sera. I’m sorry about Isabella. She can be… blunt.”

“It’s alright,” I say, my voice a carefully constructed whisper. “She was right. I am pale. This house feels so dark lately.”

I run a hand along the sleeve of his jacket. “I was thinking. Maybe I could go out tomorrow? Just for a little while. To a boutique. I’d like to buy a dress. Something… cheerful.”

He smiles, a genuine, relieved smile. This, he understands. A broken wife seeking solace in fabric and fripperies. It fits his narrative perfectly.

“Of course, my love. Anything you want. I’ll have Antonio drive you. He’ll take good care of you.”

“Thank you, Logan,” I say, leaning in to kiss his cheek. The scent of his scotch is sour. “You’re too good to me.”

He has no idea.

The next morning, I dress in beige. A colour for women who wish to disappear. Antonio, a thick-necked brute with more muscle than sense, holds the door of the Bentley for me. He is one of Logan’s newer men. He is loyal to a paycheck, not to a memory.

“Where to, Mrs. Pierce?”

“Valentina’s on Via Montenapoleone,” I say, naming the most outrageously expensive boutique in the city. A place for trophies to adorn themselves.

He nods, navigating the city with brutish efficiency. I watch the streets pass by, a city that was once mine to command. It will be again.

We arrive. Antonio opens my door. “I’ll be right here, Mrs. Pierce.”

“Thank you, Antonio. I won’t be long.”

Inside, the air smells of money and French perfume. A saleswoman with a plastic smile approaches. “Good morning, Mrs. Pierce. How may we help you?”

“I’d like to see your new collection,” I say, my voice soft. “In the private salon.”

I follow her back into a plush, secluded room. Gowns in a rainbow of colours line the walls. I touch a bolt of yellow silk, letting the fabric slide through my fingers. All for show.

“Could I have a glass of water, please?” I ask, pressing my fingers to my temple. “I’m feeling a little… faint.”

“Of course, right away,” she says, hurrying from the room.

The moment she’s gone, I move. There’s a service exit at the back of the salon, one I made sure existed when I helped the owner secure her lease two years ago. It opens into a narrow alley.

I slip out, the heavy door clicking shut behind me. The air here smells of garbage and rain. Freedom. I pull a simple grey scarf from my handbag, wrapping it over my hair. I melt into the lunchtime crowds, just another anonymous woman in a beige coat.

Ten minutes and one untraceable cash taxi ride later, I’m in a part of the city Logan’s Bentley would never enter. The Pierce family owns a dozen shell corporations, but this one is the most forgotten: a dusty archive for paper records from before the syndicate went digital. It’s a graveyard for old deals and obsolete soldiers.

I push open the door. The air is thick with the smell of decaying paper. A single man sits behind a large metal desk, his head bent over a crossword puzzle. He doesn’t look up.

“We’re closed,” he says, his voice flat with boredom.

“Are you, Leo?”

His head snaps up. Recognition dawns, followed by confusion. His face is leaner than I remember from my past life, the lines around his eyes deeper. This timeline has not been kind to him.

“Mrs. Pierce?” He stands so quickly his chair scrapes against the concrete floor. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

“That depends on you,” I say, my voice losing its fragile edge. It’s still quiet, but it’s the quiet of a blade being unsheathed.

“I don’t understand.”

I walk closer, my heels clicking in the silence. “Your daughter, Sofia. Is her asthma any better with the new inhaler?”

He stiffens. His hand instinctively goes to the worn holster on his belt. “How do you know about that?”

“I know a lot of things, Leo. I know you were my father’s most trusted man. I know you were supposed to be head of my security detail before Logan reassigned you here to count paperclips after the… incident.”

“With respect, Mrs. Pierce, I don’t see what…”

“You need to leave this building,” I interrupt, my voice sharp. “Right now. Do not go to your car. Do not pass go. Walk out that door and don’t look back.”

His brow furrows. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Vito is sending a welcome party. Not for you. For your replacement.”

The name hangs in the air. Vito. The capo who laughed at me at dinner. It connects. Leo’s face hardens.

“Vito and I have no business.”

“He’s making it his business,” I say. “He owes Riccardo a favor. Getting rid of a loyal man from the ‘old guard’ and blaming it on a drug habit is a neat little gift. Convenient, don’t you think?”

He stares at me, his eyes searching my face for the woman he used to know. The fragile doll from the rumors isn’t standing in front of him.

“How could you possibly know this?”

“Does it matter?” I counter. “Go to your car. The blue sedan at the end of the block. Check the rear driver’s side wheel well. You’ll find a little package taped there. About a kilo of pure heroin, I imagine. Then ask yourself how I know.”

I can see the war in his eyes. Doubt versus a primal instinct for survival. For a second, I think he’s going to refuse, to call my bluff.

Then he nods, a single, sharp jerk of his chin. “Wait here.”

He walks out, his back ramrod straight. I listen to his footsteps fade. The silence of the archive is absolute. Minutes stretch into an eternity. He could be walking into a trap. My information could be wrong. This is my first move, my first gamble in a war no one else knows I’m fighting.

My heart is a steady, cold drum in my chest.

The door opens again. Leo stands there, a small, tightly wrapped brick in his hand. His face is pale, his expression a mixture of shock and fury.

“It was there,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Exactly where you said.”

“I know,” I reply, my voice calm.

He strides toward me, stopping just a foot away. The confusion is gone from his eyes, replaced by a burning intensity. “Who are you?” he asks, and it’s a real question. “You’re not the woman they talk about. The broken one.”

“That woman is a ghost,” I say. “A story they tell themselves so they can sleep at night. I am what’s left. I am a memory they should have buried a lot deeper.”

I meet his gaze without flinching. “They left you here to rot, Leo. To fade away. They were about to put you in the ground. Logan, Riccardo, Vito… they are not the family your father and my father built. They’re rotten. And I’m going to cut out the rot.”

He watches me, his breathing heavy. He’s putting the pieces together. The woman in front of him is the Ice Queen from the stories. The strategist. The leader.

“What do you want from me?” he asks, his voice tight.

“What I’ve always wanted. Your loyalty. Not to Logan. Not to the Pierce name. To me. I’m building something new. In the shadows. I need soldiers I can trust. I need my first soldier.”

I hold out my hand. Not in supplication, but as an offer. An invitation to war.

He looks from my hand to my face. He sees the promise there. The certainty. The vengeance. He spent a year in this dusty tomb, forgotten and discarded. I’m offering him resurrection.

Slowly, he places the brick of heroin on the desk. He looks at his own hand, then places it firmly in mine. His grip is like iron.

“I swore an oath to your father to protect his line,” he says, his voice raw with emotion. “That oath never ended.”

He lets go of my hand and takes a step back, his posture shifting. The bored clerk is gone. A soldier stands in his place.

“What are your orders, boss?”

A cold smile touches my lips. It’s the first real smile I’ve had in a year. “Your first order is to disappear. Let them think their plan worked. Let them find an empty office and a missing man. You are a ghost now, Leo. You answer only to me.”

I reach into my handbag and pull out a small, black burner phone and a thick envelope of cash. “This is for you. For Sofia. Find a safe place. Lay low. This phone is for my ears only. Memorize the number and then destroy the paper it’s on. I will call you when I need you.”

He takes the phone and the cash, his movements precise, efficient. The man I remember is back.

“And the package?” he asks, nodding toward the heroin.

“Leave it,” I say. “Let them find it. Let them wonder what went wrong. Let Riccardo think Vito’s men are incompetent. Confusion is a weapon. We’re going to give them a lot of it.”

He nods, understanding perfectly. “I’ll be ready.”

“I know you will,” I say. I turn and walk toward the door.

I pause, my hand on the handle. I look back at him. “It’s good to have you back, Leo.”

“It’s good to be back, Jocelyn.”

I step back out into the grimy alley, leaving my first soldier in the shadows. Antonio will be frantic. The saleswoman will be confused. Logan will be annoyed, then dismissive.

Let them. They’re all playing their parts in a play I’ve already written. And the curtain is just beginning to rise.