Camila Books Novels & Stories

Camila The taste of cold lemonade filled my tastebuds as I gazed over the beach. It has only been a week since we've been in Italy, and it wasn't all that bad. Elijah wasn't a total scum as I thought, but I will never let my guard down. He's a Camorra, I never trust one, except Mira, you can't not trust Mira, she's one in a million and will most definitely fight for your trust.

Let her fill it. Camila’s mom must’ve taken my pause as thoughtful, because she gave me that motherly kind of smile. Gentle. Warm. A little sad, like she was remembering something that hurt. She turned to the counter and picked up a small tray of cookies, holding them out to me like I was a guest instead of the thing stalking her daughter in the dark. I took one. Mostly to keep her talking. “Oh, you know,” she started, brushing invisible crumbs off the tray. “Camila finds it really hard to trust people. To get comfortable.”

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ I got back to Camila’s cottage by almost midnight because I had paid an anonymous visit to Mathilda at the hospital to make sure she was doing fine, and I had to trek back to the cottage. To my surprise, I met Maia waiting outside with a torch and her eyes glued to a book. “Don’t you know you shouldn’t be reading novels at night, especially with dim lights.” She let out a smile as she looked up. “Finally, you’re back.” “What are you reading?” I said, attempting to snatch the novel from her hands but she quickly hid it behind her. “Oh, is that a romance book or an erotic novel?” “Eww,” She grimaced. “I don’t read those, they’re boring and cringe.” She rose the book up in the ai

Camela’s stomach churned as the words bled onto the paper and dripped on the floor, forming letters that ran red and shaped themselves into words that weren’t written in just ink anymore. Her name appeared: Camela Castellano. She gasped, stepping back in shock. “It knows me,” she muttered. The book twitched, its spine cracking ominously as if something inside wanted to crawl out. Vincent quickly slammed the book shut with his hand, and his flames flared up again as the blood sizzled and evaporated away. But when he turned his attention to Camela, he clenched his jaw as he realized where they were. “This place writes about you,” he warned, “It's rewriting you…don’t touch anything.”

Chelle turned. Camila stood there, posture elegant, smile delicate. “Oh—hi.” Chelle stretched out her hand. Camila looked at it. Then at her. Her smile dropped and her fingers didn’t move. “I don’t like you.” The words slid out smooth and flat. Chelle’s hand slowly lowered. Camila stepped closer. Close enough for Chelle to smell her perfume. Close enough that the balcony railing pressed into Chelle’s lower back. “I know about you,” Camila whispered. “With the little shit you did with Simon in the past .”

“Sure. Maybe you’ll be living with her not too long later?” “Really?” Tinkerbell was delighted. Camila nodded and wiped Tinkerbell’s tears, saying with a smile, “Of course. When have I lied to you?” “You never lie to us,” Tinkerbell said and hid back behind Camila timidly after she turned to look at Esther and Jasper, who stood at the side. Camila noticed her reaction and told her, “Tinkerbell, read some books first. I have things to talk to them about.” Tinkerbell waved at Camila understandingly and said cutely, “Bye-bye, Mama Madam.”

Now I don't know who's the dumbest among us three! "Why would you believe that lying bitch?" "I said stop it!" he growled. My chest heaved up and down with uncontained emotions. I felt like a ticking bomb ready to explode at any given time. "Stop? Why don't you ask her to stop instead?" I snapped, not wanting to back down. "I'm sorry, Camilla," Sofia meekly butts in. "I just wanted to be close to Mira. She must not be in the mood. She pushed me, but it's okay. I forgive her. She's just a kid. She still doesn't know better."

Damn, she was good at this. Camila had studied catering before she went to business school, and it showed. Everything she made tasted like it came straight from a five-star restaurant. She sat across from me, her brown, puffy hair catching the soft light of the dining room. Her complexion was a warm, rich brown, and her deep brown eyes always seemed to hold a spark of kindness. I couldn’t help but admire her beauty. Camila was a Black American, with her roots tracing back to Africa through her mother, who had moved to the U.S. and met her white father. Her features carried the best of both worlds, and her presence always had a comforting warmth to it.

It also wipes all the serenity from her pretty features. Crinkling her nose, Camila storms over to a nearby shelf of books. “I guess you’d rather I stay inside until I turn pale as a ghost. Should I spend my hours in here like you?” She pretends to read the spines of my collection, foot tapping all the while. Her moment of quietly sulking doesn’t last. Hurrying back to me, she throws her arms in the air. “I don’t understand why you won’t let me leave!” “Because it’s not safe,” I say flatly.

Camila made an excuse, her footsteps hurried as she headed toward the kitchen. Arriving in the spacious kitchen, Camila hid behind a large pillar. Her eyes darted toward Margareth, Natasya’s housemaid, who was preparing a small tray with an empty crystal glass. As Margareth began pouring water from the dispenser, Camila fumbled in her gown pocket. Her fingers brushed against a small paper packet containing a fine powder—a gift from Edgar, her son. Taste this, Natasya. You think you can trample over us forever? Camila thought with a sly, wicked smirk. I’ll make sure you don't just fall into a coma, but burn straight in the fires of hell!