Flames Pov.
After the Blood
Ash was gone.
I had told him to wait in the car.
He did exactly what he was told to do.
As always.
I stayed back—not out of duty, not because I had business left unfinished, but because some sick, silent part of me wanted to. Needed to wallow in the silence that followed death. Needed to feel it.
The air was thick, heavy with that copper-sweet scent of violence. The kind that clung to your skin, seeped into your lungs, and your heartbeat slowed, steadied. Concentrated.
I inhaled it like perfume. Like something sacred.
My legs were crossed on the table, arms folded, eyes locked on the body still slumped in the chair. The body hadn't cooled. The blood hadn't completed its slow journey down his chest, staining his shirt like a final confession.
And me?
I didn't flinch.
I didn't blink.
Outside, I was unmoved. Inside, something stirred.
Not regret.
God, no. Never that.
It was hunger.
A dark, gnawing hunger. One that didn't crave food or flesh but power. The kind of silence that was only found after a scream had been swallowed by death.
Was death the only time humans didn't lie?
My fingers clawed into my temple. There it was. The pain. The sharp reminder that I wasn't completely numb. Not yet. There was still something human beneath the rage and ice.
I should have done it myself. Should have wrapped my hand around his throat and watched the light drain from his eyes like sunset over a broken city. I should have felt it—the exact moment life lost its hold.
But I didn't.
I left the job to Ash.
I tested him.
And he passed.
But the manner in which he moved… something was there. Something too calculated. Too deliberate. He did not relish the kill, but did not hesitate either. His hands were calm. His eyes, unwavering. As if he had always done it. As if he would do it again and not lose any sleep.
I exhaled, slow and measured, as I slid off the table. My heels connected with the ground on a muted click, the sound sharp against the stillness. A queen returning to her court of shadows.
The boys would clean up the mess.
They always did.
They'd clean the blood. Burn the clothes. Erase the evidence like ghosts.
But me?
I'd keep the memory.
I always did.
I wore it like a perfume—something rich and invisible. Something no soap could wa
sh away.
It clung to me.
Like everything else I never spoke of.
30 minutes later
The engine rumbled like some beast that had long been tamed as I stepped into the blacked-out car that had stood waiting beneath the private underground tunnel entrance. The door slammed shut behind me, confining me in the kind of silent power that can be—until I saw him.
Ash sat in the corner like a shadow shaped into flesh—a pose of folded arms, impassive face, and brooding with an air that he did, in fact, own the night.
I didn't say a word. Didn't glance at him. I slipped in, crossed my legs, and let the leather envelop my thighs like a lover I didn't have time to give a name.
"This isn't in your job description," I said, voice flat, as cold as cut stone. "But you're already too far in."
His eyes didn't waver. "You're not worried I'll speak?"
I faced him, slowly, cautiously, and allowed my eyes to do something a knife couldn't—cut. "If I were, your tongue would be in a jar right now."
Silence.
He stood his ground against my glare, looking for something I was not offering. Good luck with that.
The car crept along. Two motorcycles ahead, one SUV behind. A security detail dressed in protocol and steel. Casa Perez loomed in the distance like a mausoleum carved out of secrets. My legacy. My war zone.
"When we get there," I said, tone sharp, "you stay outside. No exceptions."
He nodded once. Smart. Obedient.
As we pulled up, the gravel curled under the wheels. I stepped out first. My heels plunged into the earth like they had a purpose. I didn't glance back. Didn't need to.
---
The hallway beneath Casa Perez was colder than memory allowed. Not skin-cold. No—this cold burrowed beneath skin, coming to rest in bone like warning.
The ceiling lights flashed as I walked.
As if the house recalled me.
As if it disapproved.
Last time I was here, I was small—by my father's side, awed by admiration, too young to realize legacy is a crown of thorns.
Two guards stood in front of the chamber door. My sanctuary. Or so I'd believed.
They stepped aside without a word to allow me passage. Eyes lowered. Good men. Trained men. Afraid men.
I did not look at them.
My presence was enough.
The steel door creaked open reluctantly, as though even the damn vault did not wish to impart its secrets.
And there it was.
The Mantio Vault.
Colossal. Silent. Waiting. The Perez crest engraved on its face like a gauntlet.
I pressed my fingers against the scanner. My heartbeat did not flutter. The light flashed green—recognition.
Approval.
I smiled.
At last.
The first door ground open like the heavy breath of fate. I stood prepared—for weapons, papers, maybe corpses.
Instead?
Another vault.
Smaller. Thicker. Sealed.
Mocking.
A single white envelope sat on a pedestal. The room's only inhabitant. My boots echoed off the concrete as I approached it. Each step was surgical. Measured. Controlled.
I tore the envelope open, reading the familiar letters.
"If you're reading this, it means you still think you're ready.
But blood alone doesn't win truth.
Legacy is won in pain.".
To unlock what I left for you, you must first find the key I never spoke of.
Solve the riddle. Or leave it.
—Don M."
I remained there. Breathing. Barely.
My jaw was clenched.
Of course.
Of course he would do that. Leave riddles instead of answers. A test, even from death.
I folded the letter with the care of one who'd learned control before love and pocketed it.
The rage came on whispers.
A seething flood, to rise slowly.
I spun and left the room quietly.
The vault door slammed behind me with a last hiss, slapped from existence.
Ash stood waiting, holding against the car.
He did not utter a word.
Astute fellow.
I settled in. Sat in silence. My fists clenched in my lap.
One vault lost.
One puzzle found.
----
When I reached the surface, the sun was like an insult.
I remained silent during the ride.
Ash made no question.
Peace between us was not silence.
It was a cage, groaning under smothered fury.
We reached earliest at the company. I didn't wait for the car to reach a halt before descending from it.
Heels clinked on marble as shots.
Eyes followed me in the lobby—some with awe, most with terror. Good.
Dalia of Accounts tried to speak.
"Boss, the morning—
"Repair the leak in your department first before I have to do it myself. Don't enjoy having to repeat things."
She nodded hurriedly. "Yes, ma'am."
I walked away.
On the elevator was a junior executive who parted his lips to talk about a budget.
"Do I appear like a secretary to you?" I said without glancing away from anyone.
He clammed up.
They always did.
When the guards opened the doors on the floor containing my suite of offices, they did so in a hurry.
They felt the storm. They always do.
I screamed at my assistant for breathing too hard in my office.
I did not care.
I was not here to be kind.
The letter burned against my skin like a live wire.
The ugliness of it.
I turned. Marched straight into my father's study.
Ash remained behind, still and silent.
At the door, I paused. Looked once at him.
"Stay outside."
He nodded.
I slammed the door shut behind me.
Only then did I allow myself to breathe.
His study hadn't changed.
The maps. The books. The mounted guns. All still in their neat places, as if he might walk in at any moment.
As if he still owned this house.
Owned me.
The anger seethed slowly. Acid under my ribs.
My father's voice lived in these walls. So did his expectations. His judgment. His need to control—even in death.
That damn vault.
That second one.
The letter.
The games.
He never gave me anything without making me bleed for it.
I strode. Once. Twice. My heel caught on the rug, but I didn't halt. Couldn't halt. Anger was my breath.
And I knew what I needed.
Not wine. I'd shatter the bottle.
Not a cigarette. I'd set the room on fire.
No. I needed a Dick.
I had to fuck the fury out of my blood.
Not soft. Not gentle. I craved teeth. Nails. Sweat. The kind of power that stole names and left only the sound of breath and skin.
I laughed. Bitter. Quiet. Honest.
Sex was my medicine. It always had been.
But tonight, I didn't need love.
I needed power.
I took a shot of whiskey from the sideboard—untouched since my father's last breath—and drank it down in one burn.
Then I went back to my office.
Ash remained standing outside like a statue. Always close. Always watching. Always silent.
Good.
He didn't ask where I'd been.
Didn't ask what I was doing.
He knew better.
I passed by him without glancing.
Walked back to my office.
At my desk, I picked up the phone.
"Carmen," I said.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"My dark pill. Two hours. The house."
A pause. She knew what that meant.
"Any preferences?"
"The ones I take on a bad day."
"Understood."
I hung up the phone.
Ash didn't say a word.
But I could feel his eyes.
Felt the unspoken question on his lips.
But he followed anyway.