Page 62 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

"Good morning, Ángel."

His voice was smooth, almost affectionate, but I knew better than to mistake it for kindness. My mother did, too. She didn’t greet him back. Instead, she rolled her shoulders, licking her lips like she was tasting the moment, savoring it.

She kissed the baby's forehead and handed her to Ricardo before looking at my father with disdain.

"I am ready to go home,"she whispered.

The words sent a chill through me, one so deep it never really left. It still lingers, even now, creeping up my spine when I least expect it.Home.I remember mouthing the word to myself like a question, as if the place she spoke of didn’t exist. As if she had never belonged to the house she helped build, the life she once ruled over.

My father chuckled, low and knowing, as he pulled a small pistol from his coat. I’ve never seen him use it again.

"I have been betrayed by kings and assassins, jokesters and idiots,"he pondered, almost amused."But you, Jamila… you have shown me that even my queen, even my God, can turn against me."

And my mother—my mother laughed.

Her eyes flickered to mine, dark and steady, and the smile she gave me wasn’t kind. It was venom wrapped in silk, sharp and knowing.

"You have your son, Jefe,"she said, her voice like a blade sliding between ribs."You never said you needed my love as well."

"I did not want your love, Jamila,"my father hissed, stepping closer."I wanted you not to try to kill me."

My mother exhaled, tilting her head like she was studying him, seeing him for the last time. Then she looked at me again, and for a second, I thought she might say something. That she might give me a memory to hold on to, some part of her that was just mine.

But she didn’t.

Instead, my father lifted the gun, and I learned what it meant to be a Castillo.

My mother didn’t flinch.

Even with the barrel of my father’s pistol aimed at her heart, she stood tall, regal, as if she had already made peace with the inevitable. The only sign of fear—if there was any—was the slow rise and fall of her chest.

"And what will happen to my daughter?"she asked.

Her voice was steady, but I caught the way her fingers twitched at her sides, the slightest betrayal of nerves. My sister. The one my father kept hidden away from all of this. I had never met her. Not properly.

My father smiled, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the moment."She will learn to love,"he said."Unlike you."

A look of resignation flickered across my mother’s face then. A crack in her mask. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the same cold acceptance she’d carried since the moment she walked into this room.

"You always were a fool,"she murmured.

My father didn’t take the bait. He only sighed, as if he were disappointed. As if she had lethimdown.

"And you my love, my Jamila,"he said."You were always going to be the death of one of us."

He pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot shattered the silence, and for a moment, everything felt slow. My mother’s body jerked backward, her breath hitching, and then she crumpled to the floor. The scent of jasmine thickened, tainted by the metallic bite of blood.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

My father turned to me, his dark eyes calm, as if he had just swatted a fly, as if this was nothing more than another lesson.

"Remember this, Juan,"he said, lowering the pistol."A woman’s love is a fragile thing. If she betrays you once, she will do it again. And when that happens…"He looked down at my mother’s body, then back at me."You do not hesitate."

My throat was dry, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I wanted to look away. I wanted to close my eyes and pretend none of this was real.

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