Blood and Vows.

Chapter 22 – Lines in the Ashes

The villa had gone quiet, but it was the wrong kind of quiet. Too sharp, too expectant, as if the walls themselves waited for the next shot. Sebastian shoved the heavy door of his study shut, the echo carrying like a rifle c***k. He paced once, twice, then stopped at the liquor cabinet. The whiskey sloshed violently as he poured, hand shaking with the rage he wouldn’t show outside.

He downed half the glass before the burn even registered. Rage dulled taste. Rage dulled everything.

Samanta had almost been executed under his mother’s roof. Elma had fired shots like she owned the night. Alex had burst from hiding, revealing herself when she should have stayed invisible. And he—he had drawn his gun on his own men. He had killed them without hesitation to clear a path. The villa still smelled of gunpowder because of him.

His mother would never forgive it.

The glass hit the desk too hard and cracked down the stem. Whiskey bled into papers scattered across the surface. Sebastian pressed his palms flat against the desk, forcing the tremor out of his arms.

The door opened without a knock. Martin slipped inside, closing it firmly behind him. He studied his boss’s face, then the broken glass, then the blood on Sebastian’s hand.

“You can’t keep breaking things,” Martin said evenly.

Sebastian barked a laugh that had no humor in it. “You’d rather I broke people?”

“You already did,” Martin replied. “And Selma saw it.”

Sebastian turned sharply, but Martin held his ground. “She knows you killed two of your own tonight. She won’t forgive defiance, not even from her favorite son.”

“I stopped being her favorite when I grew a spine,” Sebastian muttered.

Martin stepped closer, lowering his voice. “This was different. You didn’t just bend orders. You disobeyed in public. You drew blood in front of her allies. You showed her you’ll protect someone she marked.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. He hated how true it sounded.

Before he could answer, the door opened again. Leila entered, limping slightly, her jacket ripped at the shoulder. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“Samanta’s alive,” she said. “For now. Alex kept her breathing long enough to drag her out. But Elma won’t stop hunting. You know what she’s like.”

Sebastian’s silence was answer enough.

Leila studied him for a beat, then added, “Selma won’t stop either. You embarrassed her. You turned her theater into a battlefield. She’ll find a way to make you pay. And Alex—”

“Don’t,” Sebastian cut in, voice too sharp.

Leila didn’t flinch. “Fine. The woman doesn’t matter. But your reaction does. If you keep choosing the wrong lines to cross, sooner or later Selma won’t need Fernando or Elma. She’ll cut you down herself.”

The words sat heavy between them. Sebastian forced himself to stillness. He had spent his entire life curving around his mother’s gravity, dodging her pull. Tonight, for the first time, he had pushed back.

And now everyone saw it.

He crossed the room to the desk phone. His hand hovered above the receiver, then dropped. He picked up his mobile instead. It was safer. Quieter. The number had lived in his head for years, a line never meant to be dialed. He pressed it anyway.

Two rings. Then a rough, familiar voice. “Stevens.”

“It’s me,” Sebastian said.

The pause was long enough for him to imagine the colonel’s face tightening on the other end.

“You’ve got nerve calling this line,” Stevens said.

“I’m not calling for you,” Sebastian answered. “I’m calling for containment.”

“Containment?” Stevens’s voice was skeptical.

“My mother wanted Samanta dead tonight. She almost got her wish. Your agent interfered, revealed herself, and now both of them are targets. If Selma or Fernando find them first, you’ll be digging bodies out of the river. I can’t allow that. Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Stevens pressed. “Sounds like you’re deciding who lives and dies.”

“I always decide,” Sebastian said coldly. “That’s what keeps the balance. But tonight the balance cracked. If word spreads that Selma lost control under her own roof, vultures will come. If word spreads that I let two women slip through her fingers, the vultures double. Neither of us wants that chaos.”

Stevens’s breath hissed through the line. “So what are you offering?”

“Thirty minutes of truth,” Sebastian said. “You give me surveillance, safe routes, whatever crumbs you can without tipping your hand. In return, I’ll tell you where Selma plans to move next. I’ll keep her empire predictable long enough for you to plan your strikes.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you get war in the streets,” Sebastian replied. “Bodies stacked on corners. Journalists sniffing at doors. And two women butchered for theater. Do you really want that headline?”

Stevens was silent a long time. Sebastian could almost hear the man’s conscience grinding against duty. Finally: “You’ve got nerve, bargaining with me like this.”

“I’ve got leverage,” Sebastian corrected. “Decide quickly.”

Another pause. Then Stevens’s voice, low and grudging. “Fine. I’ll play. Thirty minutes. Don’t waste them.”

Sebastian exhaled, a long, quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Send the data to the usual drop.”

“Understood,” Stevens said. His tone hardened. “But hear me: if Alex dies under your watch, there won’t be a hole deep enough for you to crawl into.”

The line went dead.

Sebastian lowered the phone slowly, staring at his reflection in the dark window. His hand still trembled, blood drying along his knuckles. Behind him, Martin and Leila waited, silent witnesses to his choice.

Leila finally broke the quiet. “You know what this means.”

“Yes,” Sebastian said. His voice was flat, almost calm now. “It means I just declared war. On my mother. On Fernando. On anyone who stands in the way of control.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “And on yourself. You can’t serve two masters forever. One day soon, you’ll have to decide whether you’re her son… or her executioner.”

Sebastian didn’t answer. He looked down at the shards of glass on his desk, glittering in the lamplight like fragments of a broken crown.

For the first time in years, he felt the weight of choice pressing heavier than his mother’s shadow.

And he knew: there was no turning back.