Chapter 4: The price of power

“I want to see him,” Camela snapped.

“No,” Cynthia replied, blocking the heavy wooden door. “You’re not ready.”

“I’m not asking you.” Camela shoved past her and stormed into the Mayor’s office.

That morning, Camela had gone to visit her father at his office. He looked up from his desk, like he’d seen a ghost.

“Camela…” he began.

“Don’t say my name like that,” she hissed. “Like you didn’t sell me.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always had a choice!” she shouted. “You chose yourself!”

He stood up. “I made that deal to protect this city.”

She laughed bitterly. “From who? Him?”

Her voice cracked. “Or was it to protect your seat?”

Silence filled the room

Cynthia walked in, sensing the tension. “We need to go. Now.”

“Not yet,” Camela said, never taking her eyes off her father. “Tell me the truth.”

The Mayor lowered his voice. “Vincent owns everything. The police. The judges. The press. You don’t cross the Castellanos. You don’t say no.”

Camela blinked. “So you gave me up because you were scared.”

“No,” he said quietly.

“Because if I didn’t… he would’ve taken your mother’s grave next.”

Camela and Cynthia drove back to the safehouse in silence. Once they arrived, Camela stumbled out of the car, overwhelmed with anger and rage.

As she reached her room, Camela backed away from the red blinking light. The recorder kept playing.

“You always forget the most important part, Camela. You were mine before the wedding.”

She yanked the cord from the wall, her chest rising and falling rapidly

Cynthia rushed in, the beam of her flashlight bouncing around the room. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Camela pointed. “He left a message. A recorder. Right there. Behind the books.”

Cynthia checked the shelf. “How the hell did this get in here? I checked every inch…”

“He’s been inside,” Camela whispered.

Cynthia’s eyes narrowed. “No. We’ve had armed patrols for days. No one has come in or out.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Camela threw the recorder on the ground. It cracked. “He’s laughing at us.”

Cynthia looked around slowly. “He doesn’t need to come in. If he bribed someone on the team…”

Camela sat by the window, wrapping her arms around her knees.

“I have to ask,” she said quietly.

Cynthia, sitting across from her, looked up. “Ask what?”

“You knew him. Before this. Didn’t you?”

Cynthia exhaled heavily. “Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Three years undercover. He never knew who I was.”

Camela stared at her, realization dawning. “But you knew who he was.”

Cynthia nodded.

“Then why didn’t you stop him before I ended up in his house?”

Cynthia looked away. “I wasn’t allowed to interfere. I was there to gather information, not save people.”

“So you watched him ruin girls and just took notes?”

“I wasn’t the one who failed you,” Cynthia snapped. “Your father made that deal. Not me.”

Camela’s voice cracked. “I trusted you.”

Cynthia’s voice softened. “And I’m still here.”

“But are you?” Camela asked.

They stared at each other, neither blinking.

“How long has he been in control?” Camela asked.

Cynthia didn’t answer at first. Then she said, “Since before you were born.”

Camela turned to her. “You worked for him, didn’t you?”

“I worked around him,” Cynthia clarified. “There’s a difference.”

“But you knew. The power, the fear, the deals.”

Cynthia sighed. “Power always costs something, Camela. Your father paid with you. Other people… with their lives.”

“And you?” Camela asked. “What did it cost you?”

Cynthia met her gaze. “My sister.”

Cynthia quickly dismissed the discussion, ignoring Camela's lingering questions and concerns.

Camela grabbed her phone from the charger.“No signal,” she muttered. “Again.”

“I shut it down,” Cynthia said. “He can track your calls.”

“I need to talk to someone,” Camela argued. “My friends think I’m dead. My whole life is…”

“It’s not safe,” Cynthia cut in. “You talk to the wrong person, and he’ll find us again.”

Camela’s fists clenched. “So what now? I hide forever?”

“You survive,” Cynthia said flatly.

Camela turned away. “What’s the point of surviving if I can’t live?”

Suddenly, Camela opened the front door and screamed.

Cynthia ran in, gun drawn, ready for any confrontation.

But there was no one there—only a letter nailed to the door with a blood-stained knife.

Camela ripped it down and opened it with shaking fingers. It was her father’s handwriting and contained only three lines:

“I tried to protect you. But I was never the king.”

“The Fox has always been the one in charge.”

“Run, if you can. He’s coming for his queen.”

Camela dropped the letter in shock. At the bottom was a picture of Vincent, smiling, standing inside her father’s office from that morning. Camela whispered, “He’s already there.”

“He’s watching the Mayor. Maybe that’s good,” Cynthia said

But Camela didn’t hear her. She was staring at the background of the photo.

A mirror.

In it… was her reflection.

Taken from behind. From inside the safehouse.

Camela’s legs buckled as she stared at the photo in her hand. Her reflection, caught in the mirror—taken from behind. From inside.

Her voice cracked. “He was here…” “He’s already inside.”

“Cynthia…” she whispered.

“He’s not watching the Mayor…”

Cynthia snatched the photo, her eyes widening in disbelief. “No… no, this isn’t possible. I watched the place three times.”

Camela backed away from the door, fear gripping her. “Then how was this taken? Cynthia? How?!”

Cynthia didn’t answer. Instead, she locked the front door, checked the windows, and grabbed her gun from under the couch cushion.

Later that day, Camela found a folder on the kitchen table.

“Top Secret,” it read.

She looked at Cynthia.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Cynthia said.

Camela opened it anyway. Inside were photos, news clippings, and Court documents.

“Why are there police officers on his payroll?” she asked.

Cynthia hesitated. “He doesn’t just buy people. He raises them.”

“What?”

“He funds their schools, gets them jobs, makes them loyal—before they even know what they’re loyal to.”

Camela’s hands trembled as she turned the pages.

Doctors. Lawyers. Journalists.

All with one thing in common: tied to Vincent Castellano.

She looked up. “This isn’t power. It’s a cult.”

“No,” Cynthia said quietly. “It’s a kingdom.”

That night, the sound of shattering glass jolted them both awake.

Cynthia reached for her gun, cursing under her breath.

“Stay in the room,” she ordered Camela. “Don’t open the door.”

Camela barely nodded before Cynthia ran down the hall.

She listened—footsteps, crashing sounds, a muffled shout, then silence.

Long, heavy silence.

Her heart pounded in her throat. Then… someone knocked on her door.

Once. Twice.

“Cynthia?” Camela called.

No answer.

The doorknob turned halfway, then stopped. She backed away, grabbing the lamp.

“Cynthia!” she screamed again.

“I’m here,” came the voice.

But it didn’t sound like Cynthia.

Too smooth. Too low.

“I locked the hallway,” the voice said calmly. “Didn’t want to disturb our reunion.”

Cynthia finally burst back in five minutes later, bleeding from her lip.

“False alarm. Some idiot tried to break the window from the outside. I handled it.”

Camela just stared at her. “That wasn’t you at the door.”

Cynthia stiffened. “What?”

“Someone came and spoke to me. The person said the hallway was locked.”

Cynthia pulled out her phone and checked the cameras. “No one shows up on the feed.”

Camela’s voice dropped. “He was right there.”

Cynthia looked around the room. “Is anything missing?”

“No. But…” Camela bent down, confused but sure of what she had heard

Hours later, Camela sat in the hallway with her knees pressed to her chest.

Cynthia patched her up. “We’re moving tomorrow. Somewhere no one knows.”

Camela nodded.

Her phone buzzed in her hoodie pocket.

An unknown number.

She hesitated. It buzzed again.

She answered.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

Then static. Then—

“Camela.”

Her whole body froze.

The voice was soft. Familiar.

“Mom?” she whispered.

It couldn’t be. Her mother had died two years ago.

“Baby, you have to listen. He knows everything. He knows where you are.”

Camela choked out, “Who is this?”

“I love you,” the voice said. “I’m sorry I left. But he made me…”

The line cut.

Camela looked at the screen.

CALL ENDED — “MOM.”

Cynthia stood at the end of the hall. She hadn’t heard it.

Camela’s hands trembled.

Then her phone buzzed again. A new message.

From an Unknown number

“She told me where you are. Isn’t that sweet?”

“You miss her. I’ll bring her back to you… piece by piece.”

Camela ran to Cynthia. “He called. He used her voice.”

Cynthia checked the number. “No signal came through. Not to this phone.”

Camela stared at her screen. It was blank, as if no call had happened at all.

Just then, the TV turned on by itself.

Vincent’s face appeared, blurry and distorted.

He smiled through the speckled appearance on the television screen caused by reception signals.

“Goodnight, my bride.”

The power went out, and the front door unlocked by itself.