Rev looked away from her mother. She was quiet for a moment, just smoking—her eyes distant, lost in the question her mother had just asked.
Red watched her, one perfectly manicured brow arched, an waited.
When two minutes passed and Rev still hadn't spoken, Red snapped.
"Ay, Dios mío, speak already, niña. You want me to drop dead guessing?"
Rev's eyes flicked to her, then back down.
She didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
Just smoked.
Red's eyes narrowed. Her voice dropped low and firm.
"I said—how is your sister?"
Finally, Rev exhaled. Smoke curled from her lips like a slow confession.
"She's been living in that house since she was eight," she said, her voice razor-sharp. "With those people. She thinks she's alone, Mama. She doesn't know about me. About you."
Red's fingers curled around the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white. She knew all that already.
Rev looked straight at her, voice bitter. "And all that time, I couldn't say a word. Couldn't show her I was there. Do you know what that feels like?"
"I do," Red replied, her voice hard but trembling at the edges. "They didn't just take her from me, Rev. They tried to kill us. I didn't walk away—I was ripped out."
Rev flinched. Her mouth opened as if to ask something, but she swallowed it back.
Red exhaled, her cigar burning low.
"I survived. I vanished. And I stayed quiet. Waiting. Watching. Until I was strong enough to come back."
Rev reached into her coat and pulled something out. She dropped it on the desk. It landed with a soft, heavy thud.
A collar.
Leather. Polished. A diamond tag glinting.
PROPERTY OF KNIGHT.
Red stared at it, silent, her eyes darkening.
"He gave it to her," Rev said coldly. "Like she's some prize pet."
Red's voice dropped to a growl. "He treats her like she belongs to him."
"She wore it for weeks," Rev murmured, her jaw tightening. "But I got in her head, Mama. I made her take it off."
Red didn't speak. She simply reached out and crushed the collar in her fist like it was paper.
"Mama… we need to get her," Rev whispered. "She's too weak."
Red looked at her daughter. "No. She's not ready."
Rev growled. She pulled a knife from behind her and flung it. It struck the center of a painting on the wall. She let out a scream, head thrown back.
"Mama, we can't keep waiting! It's been fifteen years! She needs to leave the Blackwood estate—and I can't go back to being a servant, not when I want to kill all of them!"
Red studied her daughter, then moved out from behind her large mahogany desk. She walked past Rev, heels clicking, and stopped at the painting. A small smile touched her lips as she looked at where the knife was embedded.
"You make me sad, mija," she said softly.
Then, she grabbed the handle and yanked the blade free without effort. She pressed a hidden button on the side of the painting. A quiet whoosh filled the room as the wall shifted.
Paintings appeared—Monica and her sons, all lined up in perfect portraits.
Red stared at Monica's smiling face. She squinted one eye, lined up her aim, and hurled the dagger again. It landed right in the middle of Monica's face.
She turned back to her daughter.
"If you want to hit something," she said with a flick of her long red nails, "don't hit my darling painting. Hit her."
Rev rolled her eyes. "Ugh, Mama. I'm tired of hitting what's not real. I want the real thing."
"And you will."
"When, Mama?" Rev shoved away from the desk and moved toward her mother, who towered over her in those ridiculous stilettos.
Red smiled slowly. "I think it's time we give that boo-boo kitty a little scare."
Rev's eyes went wide. "What are you saying, Mama?"
Red placed a hand on her shoulder. "I heard the kitty's throwing a party. For one of her bastards. And I thought... why don't Delores Sanchez rise from the dead?"
Her smile turned sharp. "After all, Monica Caldwell never did recover from the last time I burned her life down."
"She tried to bury me, mija. But that woman forgets—I taught her how to dig graves."
Rev began trembling with glee. "Oh yes. Oh yes," she cried, practically bouncing.
Her mother shook her head with amusement, then turned, slipping an arm around her daughter's waist as she guided her toward the door.
"You are," Red began, eyeing her daughter with a knowing smile, "just like me."
Rev let out a low, wild laugh. "What? You mean evil? Dramatic? Addicted to cigars and chaos?"
Red grinned. "All of it."
Revelation's voice softened, a crooked smile forming. "I learned from the best, Mama. The bear that raised me."
Red's eyes twinkled. "The bear, huh? I remember when you bit that guard for touching your candy."
Rev shrugged, unapologetic. "He shouldn't have touched my chocolate. That was personal."
Red snorted. "Ay, mija, you were always a little demon. Now come—let's eat. All this plotting's made me hungry."
Revelation's eyes lit up. "Ooh, yes. I want empanadas. And those spicy ones with beef—what do you call them again?"
"Picadillo empanadas," Red said with a smirk. "I'll make them myself. And maybe some arroz con pollo."
"And plantains," Rev added quickly. "Don't you dare forget the plantains."
Red mock-gasped. "Forget the plantains? What do I look like—an amateur?"
They both laughed, sharp and real, the kind that comes from blood and history.
As they stepped out of the room, Revelation glanced back at the painting still hanging on the wall.
"We're coming for you, kitty," she muttered under her breath.
Red didn't even look back. "And this time, we won't be quiet."
****
Las Vegas – The Diamond Siren Casino
The chandeliers of The Diamond Siren glittered like captured stars, casting golden light over the casino floor. But tonight, the air in The Queen's Vault—the casino's most exclusive room—held no luck, only tension.
Closed to the public, guarded by velvet ropes and sharp-eyed security, the room buzzed with whispers and camera clicks. Reporters mingled with power brokers, not for cards or dice—but for Monica Caldwell.
She stood at the center like a queen on her throne, draped in a shimmering emerald gown. On either side, her sons stood tall.
Jimmy Caldwell, the elder, bore the marks of survival. Pale, with a scar near his collarbone and a stiffness that no tailor could disguise. Mark Caldwell, younger and broader, mirrored his mother's steel-eyed intensity.
Monica's hands were clasped in front of her. Her voice, though calm, rang with fire.
"My son," she began, motioning toward Jimmy, "was stolen from us. Not his life—but his strength. His will. For weeks, he lay in a hospital bed, barely breathing. And we all know who did this."
The room fell still.
Mark gave a sharp nod, his jaw tight.
"We will not rest," Monica declared, her voice rising, "until he pays for it."
Cameras clicked. Reporters scribbled furiously.
A bold voice from the back broke the silence.
"Mrs. Caldwell—who do you believe did this?"
Monica turned slowly, her signature red lips curling into a practiced half-smile. She parted her lips to answer—
Then froze.
Her gaze locked beyond the crowd.
Her eyes widened.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Color drained from her face.
She didn't blink.
Didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just stared, unblinking, toward the rear of the room, where the security guards had suddenly tensed—shifting, stepping aside.
She looked as though she'd seen a ghost.
Because..... she had.