DAVE
Blood and Politics
The Bentley purrs through Kentucky hills like oil over silk, Mom's car moving with the kind of quiet power that whispers rather than shouts. I drive while she provides commentary from the back seat, Kat beside me looking like divine feminine wrapped in midnight silk. The moonstone ring catches dashboard light, reminding me we're bringing revolution to tradition's doorstep.
"Remember," Mom says for the third time, "Cyrill will try to provoke you. It's his favorite power play—needle until someone snaps, then claim superior control when they react."
"I know his games." My hands tighten on the wheel as Blueridge territory markers appear. The scent of home hits through the cracked window—pine and privilege, old money and older blood. "Spent eighteen years learning th
