The chandelier still hangs above me like a frozen explosion of crystal and gold. The silk drapes are puddled dramatically against the marble floor, casting long shadows in the late afternoon light. My bed—absurdly large, too perfect, too untouched— sits like a throne in the center of the room, framed in a dark wood carved with angels and wolves. Saints and monsters, The family crest still above the headboard.
The air is cool, perfectly controlled like everything in my father’s life. It smells faintly of aged wood, cologne, and money. Old money, blood money. I walk over to the window and trail my fingers along the desk that sits neatly under it. The same desk I used to write school essays while bodyguards stood outside my door. Still flawless and not a speck of dust.
Because someone had been maintaining it. Keeping it ready. Like they were certain of my return.
Like I had never left.
My eyes flick over to the corner where the large antique wardrobe stands. I could still picture my father sitting in the large leather chair next to it when I was thirteen years old, cleaning his gun, explaining with a chilling calm how to dislocate someone's shoulder with one hand, like it was a bedtime story.
Everything here is beautiful. Grand. Obscene. And underneath it all, it pulses with something cold and violent. It isn’t a home, it’s a museum of silence, of power, of expectations dressed in velvet and gold leaf.
I sit down on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping beneath my weight, and I catch my reflection in the large mirror leaning against the wall.
I look older. Sharper. But I still have the same haunted and unmoving dead eyes.
I don’t belong here anymore.
Or worse—is that I do.
Because I’m cut from the same cloth, the demon's replica.
My father’s son.
21
CARLOS
B efore dinner, I decide to take a walk to the private beach that is hidden beyond the garden at the back of the property. I need
to mentally prepare for dinner with my father tonight. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure it was a wise move bringing Simon along, as he’s a distraction.
As I reach the opening of the beach, a calm washes over me. The sea whispers secrets only the old rocks remember. The sun hangs low above the horizon, bleeding gold and tangerine across the surface water. The beach is shielded by dense planting and stone. The rocks glow like something holy under the fading sun. The tide rolls in soft, lazy, like it knows this place belongs to memory more than time. Here as a child I used to play pretend with the guards who watched me from the palms, that I was king and they were my protectors. I buried a gun here once, right where the sand curves inward near the old boathouse. I wonder if it's still there.
Kicking off my shoes, my toes sink into the warm grains as I inhale the smell of sea salt and flowers. I’ve changed so much since I was last here. It's so peaceful on this part of the property that I notice straight away when I hear the sound of someone else's presence behind me.
“Still playing pretend like you did as a child, Carlos,” a familiar voice says. I turn to see someone I’m not expecting. Pedro. We were friends forever until he left. He looks the same in some ways, while being different at the same time. The transition from boy to man. He has the same dark eyes, the same cute lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips like he knows too much. The difference is, he is so much broader now. Has rougher edges. He is dressed in white linens, his shirt open at the top, and I don’t miss the bruised knuckles.
“Pedro, I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“I didn’t think you’d come back here ever again,” he says with a shrug, walking closer. I try to smile but it doesn’t quite reach my mouth.
“Its just a brief visit.”
“Right. That's not what Gabriel thinks. You know he’s waiting for you to give in and come to your senses. To take your place here at his side.”
I scoff, turning back to face the water. The sun is dipping lower now, spilling fire across the water's surface.
“He’ll be waiting for an eternity. Father will never change, he just wants obedience. He wants to control everything in my life.”
“You were different, even then you hated all this.”
“I still do,” I murmur. “But it still calls to me.”
He chuckles, but there's no joy in it. Just tiredness. “Yeah, well at least you had the chance to run.”
“I didn’t run. I escaped.”
Pedro studies me for a moment. “Same thing.”
