Blood and Vows.

Chapter 17 - The Villa’s Shadows

The villa shone like a crown in the hills, its terraces lit with golden arcs of lamps, marble steps reflecting moonlight. Citrus trees whispered in the warm night air, their blossoms sweet, cloying, almost mocking.

Alex crouched among them, her knees pressed into gravel, the scent of orange flowers sharp in her nose. From here, half-hidden in the darkness, she could see straight into the wide glass doors of Selma’s hall. Every chandelier inside glittered as if trying to outshine the danger gathered beneath it. She pulled her jacket tighter, though it wasn’t the night’s chill she felt—it was dread.

She told herself she’d come here to observe, nothing more. But her muscles were coiled, ready to spring. Every instinct screamed that something here was wrong, more wrong than anything she had walked into before.

Through the tall doors she saw Sebastian. He stood near the end of the long dining table, posture impeccable, eyes hooded. To anyone else, he might have looked calm. To Alex, who had studied him through rage, suspicion, and reluctant alliance, the tension in his jaw betrayed the truth. He was on edge, bracing himself the way a soldier braces for a bullet he cannot dodge.

Martin lingered at his shoulder, sharp and quiet. Leila floated near the wine decanters, her movements polished, graceful—an ornament that could kill. Fernando lounged in a chair as though he owned the villa, smirk cutting across his face, eyes always too bright. And then there was Elma: silent, still, waiting. A predator in silk.

But the center of gravity was Selma.

She wore black that flowed like ink, her smile radiant, her presence magnetic. Alex had heard stories of her—Sebastian’s ruthless mother, the queen of shadows. She had imagined someone cold, sharp, terrifying. Instead, the woman who rose from her chair to greet Samantha Barnes looked like the warmest hostess in Mexico.

“My dear child,” Selma purred, crossing the hall with outstretched hands. Her voice was honey, low and rich, pulling Samantha into its sweetness. “What an honor to have you in my home.”

Alex felt her stomach twist.

She had seen predators wear masks before. Guerrilla commanders smiling at children before they sent their fathers to die. Politicians shaking hands with one man while signing another’s death warrant. But Selma’s mask was perfect—flawless, seamless, terrifying because of its beauty.

Samantha, pale and weary from the journey, almost wilted beneath it. She let Selma take her hands, even leaned slightly into the embrace, like a moth drawn too close to flame.

“Forgive the hour,” Selma went on, smiling as though they were family. “But I could not wait to meet the woman who has caught my son’s admiration.”

Sebastian’s gaze flicked down. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. But inside, Alex could feel his fury. She knew what it meant to live under someone’s control. She knew the weight of playing along. Watching him now, forced into silence as Selma performed her theater, was like watching a man suffocate behind glass.

Dinner unfolded with a deceptive elegance. Silver trays gleamed, crystal chimed, the villa bathed them all in light and warmth. Selma led the conversation, every word effortless, her laugh smooth as wine. She asked Samantha about her work, about her travels, about the books she liked to read. She never asked the questions that mattered—not yet.

Samantha tried. She smiled, she answered politely, her voice wavering on the edges. Her fingers trembled around the stem of her glass. Sebastian sat beside her, giving nothing away but the occasional, grounding glance—an anchor tossed into a storm.

Alex pressed herself tighter against the stone balustrade, fury burning under her skin. She wanted to scream at Samantha: Don’t believe her. Don’t let her touch you. But even through glass, Alex could see that the younger woman was already caught, wrapped in silk threads spun by a master.

And yet it wasn’t Samantha who frightened Alex most. It was Sebastian.

He knew. Alex could see it in the minute flicker of his eyes, in the slight tightness at the corners of his mouth. He knew his mother was playing a role, that this warmth was a performance, a test, a trap. And still he sat there, letting it happen.

Alex’s chest ached. He hated it as much as she did, maybe more. But he was trapped in a web spun since childhood. He had to watch his mother paint herself as a benevolent queen, knowing the poison would come later, knowing Samantha was nothing but a pawn.

For a moment Alex wondered—was this the same role she had played in his life? Another pawn on the board his mother ruled? The thought made her throat tighten, but she shoved it down. This wasn’t about her.

Selma laughed at something Samantha said. The sound was warm, perfect, human. Alex had to remind herself that it was nothing but theater.

The plates cleared. The last glass of wine poured. And then Selma rose, graceful as a dancer, and brushed Samantha’s arm.

“You look exhausted, my dear,” she said. “A room has been prepared. The sheets are fresh, the pillows soft. Rest, and tomorrow we will speak at leisure.”

Samantha murmured thanks, glancing helplessly at Sebastian. He stood, nodded once, and offered to escort her.

Selma leaned in, kissed her son on the cheek. “Take care of our guest,” she whispered, her voice sweet as honey. “She is precious.”

They walked out together—Sebastian steady, Samantha fragile. The heavy doors closed behind them.

And Selma’s smile vanished.

The warmth drained from her face like wine spilled across marble. Her eyes hardened, voice lowering to a tone that chilled the air.

“Elma,” she said. She did not look at the assassin. She didn’t need to. “She does not reach the room. End it before she crosses the threshold.”

Elma rose soundlessly, bowing her head. A blade disguised as a woman.

In the garden shadows, Alex’s heart slammed against her ribs. Rage flared, hot and sharp. She had seen the lie unfold, had watched Sebastian endure it, and now the trap snapped shut exactly as she had feared.

Inside the villa, Martin glanced at Selma with a flicker of unease, but said nothing. Fernando smiled, cruel, as if savoring the game. Leila poured the last of the wine and did not blink.

Alex gripped the stone railing until her knuckles burned. Every part of her wanted to run, to crash through those doors and drag Samantha to safety. But she couldn’t—not yet. One wrong move would doom them all.

So she stayed still, trembling with fury, eyes locked on the villa.

Sebastian had known. Alex realized it with a sick twist in her gut. He had known this was how it would end. That his mother would smile, would kiss him, and then, the moment he turned away, order blood.

And yet he had walked Samantha out, head high, face composed, pretending not to hear the execution order echo behind him.

Alex pressed her forehead against the cold stone, fighting the urge to scream.

This was the game Selma played. A game of shadows, masks, and death dressed in silk. And Sebastian—whether he admitted it or not—was still caught in her rules.