Blood Roses And Bullet Vows

(Ten years ago)

There are things a child shouldn’t remember. Like the smell of burning flesh. The sound of bones cracking beneath a boot. Or the way her mother’s hand shook when she whispered, “Don’t make a sound, baby. Not even a breath.”

I was nine when I saw my father die.

Not the man who raised me. The man whose blood runs in my veins. The man who built empires out of bullets and betrayal. I didn’t know it then. Only that Mama always said he was “gone” in that vague way grownups say when they mean something deeper.

That day, I learned what “gone” really meant.

It was supposed to be a quick trip. We were supposed to be in and out of Manila in a day. Mama needed to meet someone. “Business,” she said. I was wearing my favorite sneakers. Bright red, scuffed at the toes from schoolyard games. I remember because I kept staring at them when the screaming started. Like if I focused hard enough, I wouldn’t hear the gunfire.

But it didn’t work. You never forget the sound of your childhood ending.

We were hiding in a car, tucked in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse. Mama was gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding her to the Earth. Her lips moved fast. Prayers I didn’t understand. My hand was in hers, small and sweaty. She wouldn’t look at me.

Then it happened.

The black SUV pulled up across the lot. Men in suits, all holding guns, stepped out. And from the second vehicle… him.

He looked like a villain in a movie. Tall, dark suit, gloves. His face was hard, unreadable. Like he wasn’t made of flesh and bone but carved from stone. Cold. Controlled. Dangerous. And walking beside him, handcuffed and bloodied, was my father.

At least, I think it was him. I had only seen pictures. My mother had burned most of them. But I knew. I felt it. My blood recognized him before my brain did.

He was limping, one eye swollen shut. But his chin was up. He didn’t look scared. Just… tired.

The man in the gloves said something. I couldn’t hear the words. My heart was pounding too loud. But my father, he laughed. Laughed like he wasn’t moments from death.

Then they made him kneel.

I looked away. I wanted to run, scream, do something. But Mama gripped my arm so tight it hurt. “Look,” she hissed, voice trembling. “You have to see. Remember this.”

And I did. A single gunshot.

His body hit the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The man in the gloves stood over him for a second longer. Then turned away like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just stolen someone’s whole world.

But before he could leave, he stopped. His head tilted slightly. He turned and looked… directly at our car.

Mama gasped. “He knows.”

I didn’t understand. How could he know? We were hidden. We hadn’t made a sound.

But he walked toward us anyway.

“No, no, no—” Mama fumbled for the gear shift. But it was too late.

He opened the door. Pulled her out like she weighed nothing. She screamed, fought, scratched his face. He didn’t flinch.

Then he looked at me.

I still remember the way his eyes locked on mine. Not like a killer looking at a witness. No. Like someone who already knew me. Like I was a name he’d been waiting to cross off a list.

I was too scared to move. To breathe.

Then something weird happened. He reached inside… and gently touched my hair. Just for a second.

“She looks just like him,” he muttered. “Shame.”

Mama screamed again. “Please, she’s just a child!”

He crouched down to my level. Smiled. But it wasn’t kind.

“One day,” he said softly, “she’ll pay for his sins. That’s a promise.”

Then he walked away. He left us there, in the silence after the storm, surrounded by shadows and blood.

(Present Day)

There’s a kind of silence that follows you forever. Not the peaceful kind, but the loud kind. The kind that screams in your ears even when the world is quiet.

I live with that silence every day.

After that night, my mother and I disappeared. New names. New country. New everything. She never spoke of him again. Never explained what happened. The past became a locked box, and she threw away the key.

But I kept the memories.

The man. The promise. The gunshot.

Sometimes I wonder if I imagined it. If my nine-year-old brain turned a nightmare into a prophecy. But I know better. Because that man’s eyes still haunt my dreams.

And now… she’s gone too.

Cancer. Quick. Brutal. Unforgiving.

She never told me the truth before she died. Never said his name. But on her deathbed, she made me swear something.

“If they come for you, don’t fight. Go. Obey. It’s the only way you’ll survive.”

I didn’t understand.

Until tonight.

Because they did come for me.

Not with guns. Not yet.

They came in suits. Clean-cut. Smooth-talking. One of them called me by my real name.

“Amara Cruz. You’re coming with us.”

I said no. Of course I did.

They didn’t care.

And now… I’m in a car. In the backseat. Hands trembling in my lap. The city lights blur past the window as we head somewhere I can’t escape from.

I glance at the man beside me. Silent. Still. Wearing black gloves.

Not him. But close enough.

There’s something sharp in my chest. Something that isn’t fear, exactly. It’s older than that. Like my blood knows something I don’t.

Like it’s remembering the promise. One day, she’ll pay for his sins. And somehow… I think that day has come.

END OF PROLOGUE