Chapter 14: Welcome to Lily Estate
Lily Estate, Night
The SUV rolled up to the estate gate like a shadow on wheels. Black-tinted glass, rumbling engine, no headlights. Inside, six figures barely moved. Silence sat with them like a seventh passenger.
Two security guards stepped forward, squinting into the dark.
"ID?" one asked, tapping the window.
The glass came down just enough. The guard leaned in—
Phfft!!.
Silenced round, dead center of the throat. He dropped like a puppet with its strings slashed. The second guard didn't even have time to scream before Allen popped his door and shot him clean through the eye.
Thud !.
Spiro was already out, dragging bodies like trash bags. Allen helped, humming something cheerful as blood smeared across the polished driveway.
"This place fancy," Scar Face muttered from the second vehicle. "They got fountains and flowerbeds and body bags."
"Focus," Silas said coldly. "No theatrics. We clear the estate. No survivors. No noise."
The gates creaked open. The convoy slid in like a scalpel under skin.
---
A Few Minutes Later
Quinn's cab jerked to a stop outside the same gates. She leaned forward, peering through the windshield.
"That the place?" the cabbie asked.
"Yeah..."
She expected guards. Flashlights. Radio chatter. Something. Instead? Nothing. Gate open. Guard post dark.
She stepped out. Paid. Pulled her coat tighter. She walked forward slow, calculating each footstep. Her heels clacked against the driveway like they were trying to warn her.
"Something's wrong," she muttered.
---
Behind Her: Tina Arrives
Tina all but dove out of her cab, slapping bills into the driver's hand with the elegance of a crackhead on a mission.
"Keep the change. Buy a moral compass."
She pulled her hoodie up like she was in a telenovela, immediately tailing Quinn with her phone half-out, recording every movement.
"This is it," she whispered. "The downfall of the tech princess. The Trinity's dirty secret."
She ducked behind a mailbox. Then a tree. Then a rose bush. Her knees got stabbed by thorns but she didn't flinch. She was in too deep.
Whispering like a dramatic detective to herself: "Quinn thinks she's slick. Probably thinks this is just a night stroll to betray the city. But me? I'm the narrative shift. I'm the plot twist. I'm Tina fucking Rodrigo."
Quinn paused up ahead, tilting her head. Distant... was that a gunshot? A scream?
She turned slowly.
Tina, crouched dramatically behind a lawn flamingo, froze.
Quinn stared. Blinked. Shrugged. Kept walking.
Tina exhaled. Whispered: "That was close. Flamingo, you got my back"
Behind them, deeper in the estate— a scream. Then a burst of flame
Silas had just started painting the canvas red.
★★★★★
Dusane, late night
Somewhere downtown, far from Lily Estate
The bar wasn't busy, but it wasn't dead either — just the kind of lukewarm nightlife where lonely people could vanish between the beats of a jazz band, and no one would remember what face was sitting where by morning.
Devon slouched in a leather booth, drink half full, half forgotten. His sleeves were rolled, the top buttons of his shirt open like he was done performing for the world. The air reeked of burnt citrus peels and stale whiskey. Everything smelled like trying too hard.
He blinked hard. But Sage's words were still echoing —
"We're not that close, Dev. You and I—we're just working this case."
Clean. Sharp. Cold.
He downed what was left in his glass like it might drown the memory faster.
Then she arrived.
Like velvet slipping over a blade.
A woman, stunning but not obvious. Not a whore. Not a cliché. No wild colors. No neon gum chewing. No one in the bar even clocked her arrival, but somehow every light bent itself around her. She wore a deep plum trench coat, heels that whispered rather than clicked, and a silk scarf tied around her throat like a secret.
Her eyes locked on Devon like she'd been looking for him all night.
He barely registered her until she was at his table, standing too close and holding a glass already sweating with condensation.
"Mind if I join you?" she asked, already sliding in beside him.
Devon looked up, startled, but he nodded before his brain caught up. She had cheekbones that could slice glass and perfume that melted into the air, thick and honeyed.
"You don't look like you belong in a place like this," she said, her voice smoky with flirt. "You look… too dangerous. Or too hurt."
Devon snorted. "Bit of both, I guess."
She tilted her head and smiled like she already knew. "So, what are you drinking to forget?"
He hesitated. That hesitation was enough.
"Ah. A man, then," she said. It wasn't a question. She leaned in just a little. "Let me guess. Broody. Hot. Gave you the 'I'm broken and unavailable' talk after stringing you along just enough to keep you hoping?"
Devon laughed bitterly. "You psychic or something?"
"Something," she murmured, trailing a manicured nail along the rim of her glass.
They sat in silence for a moment. The jazz band played a slow, aching tune in the background.
Then she made her move.
Her hand slipped onto his thigh, featherlight at first. Testing. Then firmer. Her thumb made a slow, calculated circle against the fabric of his pants.
"Come have a drink with me," she whispered, voice molten and breathy. "Somewhere quieter. I've got a suite across the street. Great view. Even better company."
She reached into her coat and pulled out a napkin — a silky smooth one, too fancy for this bar — and scribbled something on it with a lipstick-red pen.
Room 612 – ask for Rose.
She leaned in, lips brushing his ear as she whispered something filthy and bold — too raunchy to write here. Devon's pupils dilated. His knee bounced.
Then she stood, tugged her coat tighter, and turned away.
She paused at the door, glanced over her shoulder, and smirked. Then she vanished into the night.
Devon sat there. Napkin in hand. Still as a statue. The bartender passed by and gave him a curious look.
"You good?"
Devon didn't answer at first.
Then he muttered, mostly to himself, "Just one night. That's all it is. One night to forget."
He stood. Tossed some bills on the table. And walked out.
---
: Hotel Suite, Room 612
Spice stood by the window in her trench coat, hair now let down in loose, perfect waves. Her disguise still flawless — but her smirk had teeth now.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a blade — not to use. Just to feel it in her hand. Her kind of comfort.
"Let's see what you're really worth, lover boy," she whispered, turning as footsteps echoed down the hallway toward her door.
Then she smiled. The kind of smile you don't come back from.
★★★★★★★
The Lily Estate shimmered under the halo of streetlamps, clean-cut hedges casting long shadows across the sidewalk. Crickets chirped. Security drones blinked lazily across the roofs. A perfect night in a perfect neighborhood. Except it wasn't.
Margret Sanchez's sneakers tapped softly along the pavement. She was sweating from her jog, earbuds still thumping low-volume classical music into her ears. She glanced at the house—number 95, tall and pristine with its glass-paneled windows and a polished door with "Sanchez" etched in gold.
But something was off.
The porch light was dead.
The living room was dark.
And most importantly, her kids didn't race out to hug her like they always did when she got back.
She slowed down, her fingers tightening around the pepper spray on her keyring. Her husband's car was in the driveway, exactly where it should be.
Inside the house: silence.
She stepped through the door, slowly. The hallway stretched out like a tunnel. The family portraits on the wall stared at her with frozen smiles. She moved toward the kitchen, calling out lightly.
"Alejandro? Kids? I'm back."
No answer.
Then she saw it.
The kitchen floor. Blood, glinting like oil under the moonlight pouring through the window. And on it—a pile of bodies.
Her husband. Her two children. Stockpiled. Butchered.
A scream rose in her throat—
Click.
She turned.
Silas.
Emerging from the shadows like he was part of them. Dressed in black, face calm, eyes pitiless. His silencer-tipped pistol was aimed directly at her head.
She froze.
He tilted his head.
"Say your last."
---
Outside, two houses away
Quinn trudged up the quiet sidewalk, breath ragged. Her eyes scanned the identical whitewashed homes. She'd walked here on foot, undetected, no car, no lights.
House 95.
The plaque beside the door gleamed: Sanchez Family.
She exhaled.
Finally.
She crossed the yard slowly, heart pounding, her file tucked under her arm. She raised her hand.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
---
Meanwhile... crouched between manicured hydrangeas and overwatered rose bushes...
Tina Rodrigo was in full James Bond cosplay. Hoodie zipped, leggings on, crouched low with a latte-stained iPhone pressed to her chest like it was CIA-grade gear.
The red record light was blinking.
She adjusted the zoom.
There was Quinn. Blowing her cover. Showing up at the house of a known high prosecutor, file in hand, after hours. Alone.
Tina grinned like a toddler with candy.
"Miss Quinn Quinn," she cooed into her mic, whispering like she was narrating a wildlife documentary. "The stupid blonde has ratted y'all's raggedy ass out."
She could already see the headline tomorrow: Officer Quinn Linked to Vigilante Investigations. Or better yet: Draya's Golden Girl Caught Colluding.
She imagined strutting into Draya's office tomorrow, dropping the footage like it was the key to the kingdom.
Tina Rodrigo. The hero of the hour.
Except—
She didn't know.
Two houses down, inside 95, the barrel of Silas's gun was less than a breath away from turning a prosecutor into a ghost.
And her phone? Recording everything.
Live.
Unknowingly streaming audio from a murder scene.
She smiled wide.
Totally unaware she was about to be the next damn headline.