Chapter One:
Chapter One: Havana Heat
The streets of Havana steamed under the summer sun. Sweat clung to Kiki's bronze skin as she leaned on the counter of Café Del Sol, eyes half-lidded, mind drifting. She was twenty-one, sharp-tongued, rebellious, and way too pretty for her own good. Trouble always found her, especially with that smile that hid more than it showed.
Camilla, her mother, worked the café's back kitchen. She didn't smile much. Years of running from secrets had hardened her face. She spoke little, but her eyes screamed warnings Kiki never listened to.
"You'll burn this place down with that attitude," Camilla muttered one afternoon as Kiki flirted with a customer. She never looked up from her dough, but the tension in her voice cut like glass.
Kiki rolled her eyes. "Let it burn."
And maybe it did.
A week later, the café was sold. The new owners arrived like ghosts—Mr. Patrick, tall and cold, and his son Diego, eyes sharp like broken glass. Camilla paled when she saw Patrick, her lips tightening. She knew him.
Kiki noticed it. She noticed everything. But she didn't ask.
Patrick smiled too politely. Diego didn't smile at all.
"You don't belong here," Patrick told Camilla. By the end of the day, she was fired. Kiki, too—though not before Diego looked at her a moment too long.
That night, they packed their bags. No one spoke.
Camilla didn't explain why they were moving into Patrick's mansion on the edge of town. "We have no choice," she said. Her voice trembled.
The mansion was massive, silent, old. Shadows moved in the halls. Doors closed on their own. The walls whispered at night.
Kiki wasn't scared. She was curious. And danger was her favorite game.
Especially when it looked like Diego.
He passed her in the hallway, wordless, magnetic. Something about him pulled at her like gravity. It wasn't love. It was something darker.
And when she looked in the mirror that night, something in her reflection shifted. Just for a second.
She wasn't sure who she was becoming.
But she liked it.
Chapter Two: The Mansion on CalleOscura
It was raining when Camilla lost the only thing she thought she could rely on — the café.
El Sol Café had been her prison and her refuge for seventeen years. She had scrubbed its floors, made its coffee, and listened to its regulars complain about their lives while hiding the wreckage of her own.
That morning, the bell over the café door jingled twice — once when the wind blew it open, and again when fate walked in.
Mr. Leon was standing behind the counter, chewing his usual toothpick, when a sleek black Mercedes pulled up outside. The rain didn't touch it. Its windows were tinted, its body gleamed like oil.
From the backseat emerged a tall man in a white linen suit, silver hair slicked back, and beside him, a younger man — taller, broader, sharper.
The café fell silent. Even the fan stopped creaking.
Leon paled. "Camilla… go wipe the tables. Now."
But Camilla stayed frozen as the man in white walked in, took off his sunglasses, and gave Leon a smile that wasn't a smile.
"Long time, old friend," he said in a voice like crushed velvet. "I've come for what's mine."
Leon swallowed hard. "Patrick. I didn't think—"
"You didn't think," Patrick interrupted, stepping inside fully. "That's been your greatest flaw."
Camilla looked at Diego — the younger man. His eyes were as cold as his father's were charming. He scanned the café like he was already redesigning it.
"I left this place under your care," Patrick continued. "And now it smells like cheap beer and broken dreams."
Leon opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Patrick snapped his fingers. Two men in suits stepped inside.
"You're both dismissed," he said flatly. "Effective immediately."
Leon's toothpick fell to the floor. "Please. I—"
"And her," Patrick said, nodding at Camilla. "Out."
Diego turned to his father. "Why her?"
Patrick shrugged. "Why not?"
Camilla stepped forward, voice trembling. "Please, Mr. Patrick. I didn't know. I just worked here. I have a daughter to feed."
Patrick looked her over, intrigued. "A daughter?"
"She's twenty-one."
He paused. "Pretty?"
Camilla didn't answer.
Patrick chuckled. "I admire loyalty. It's rare."
Diego stared at Camilla like she was something under his shoe. "We don't need her."
But Patrick silenced him with a glance.
"Actually," he said slowly, "I do have an opening. My house staff is failing me. You cook?"
"Yes," Camilla said quickly.
"Clean?"
"Yes."
"Keep secrets?"
Camilla hesitated. "Yes."
"Good," Patrick smiled, like a snake. "You start tomorrow. My driver will pick you up at six. And bring your daughter. If you want to keep the job."
Kiki came home just past 3 a.m., eyeliner smudged, phone buzzing with drunk texts, high heels in her hand. Carlos had left her at the club, something about "business," and she didn't ask questions anymore.
When she opened the door to their apartment, Camilla was waiting — awake, packed.
"What's going on?" Kiki asked, tossing her bag.
"I got a new job," Camilla said, softly.
Kiki shrugged. "Cool."
"We're moving."
Kiki blinked. "Excuse me?"
Camilla picked up a bag. "Tomorrow morning. You and me. A new place. Better life."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You don't have a choice."
Kiki laughed bitterly. "You don't get to tell me what to do."
Camilla's eyes flashed. "You live under my roof. You breathe because I kept you alive when no one else would."
Silence.
Then Kiki grabbed her phone and walked to her room. Blocked Camilla out like she always did. But this time… something felt different.
She texted Carlos. No reply.
So she scrolled, hesitated, and typed:"U remember Diego? From the café? We're moving in2 their house. Long story."
Read. No response.
Weird.
The mansion was nothing like Kiki had imagined. It stood at the edge of Calle Oscura — a road that didn't appear on Google Maps. Surrounded by stone walls and iron gates, it looked like a church for rich demons.
The driver didn't speak. Just opened the back door and drove them through winding paths lined with dead trees and perfectly trimmed hedges.
The house was massive. Three stories, old Spanish stone, blood-red shutters. Windows like eyes. Doors like mouths.
Diego was waiting at the entrance. Black sweater. Silver ring on his finger. His stare cut deeper than Carlos ever had.
"You're late," he said.
"We didn't know the time," Camilla said.
"I wasn't talking to you."
Kiki rolled her eyes. "Keep that up and I'll think you like me."
Diego raised an eyebrow. "I don't like anyone."
Inside, the mansion was both stunning and wrong. Gold chandeliers. Velvet curtains. Walls lined with paintings of people who didn't smile.
Mr. Patrick appeared from the shadows like he was made of them.
"Welcome, ladies," he said warmly. "You'll find we're a very… intimate household. Few staff. No visitors. No phones after midnight."
Kiki snorted. "What is this, a cult?"
Patrick smiled. "A sanctuary."
Camilla gave Kiki a look — please, behave — but Kiki was already scanning exits. She didn't like this place. It smelled like secrets.
Their room was on the third floor. Two beds. A single window facing a garden with statues — too many statues. All of them cracked, broken, faceless.
Camilla unpacked in silence. Kiki stared at the ceiling.
Then: "He creeps me out."
Camilla didn't reply.
"I'm serious. That Patrick guy? He talks like he owns people."
Camilla zipped her bag. "Don't mess this up."
"I didn't ask for this."
"You never asked for anything. You just take."
Kiki sat up. "I didn't ask to be born, Camilla."
Camilla turned, eyes wet. "And I didn't ask to find a screaming baby in a trash bin either. But here we are."
That shut her up.
Dinner was worse.
Mr. Patrick sat at the head of the long dining table, wine glass in hand. Diego beside him. Two other staff — silent women in gray.
Camilla served. Kiki picked at her food.
Then Patrick said: "So, Kiki. Tell me about yourself."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"Because I like knowing what I'm keeping under my roof."
Diego smirked. Kiki hated him already.
"I'm a party girl," she said flatly. "I drink, I dance, I make bad decisions. And I don't like being asked questions."
Patrick laughed. "Delightful."
Diego leaned in. "She's going to be a problem."
Patrick sipped his wine. "Problems are interesting."
That night, the lights flickered. The walls whispered.
Kiki woke up to footsteps in the hall.
She opened the door.
Nothing.
Then — at the far end — Diego, shirtless, staring.
She stepped out. "What?"
He didn't answer. Just turned and walked into the dark.
She followed. Down the hallway. Past the statues.
To a door.
He opened it. Inside: a library. Floor-to-ceiling books. Candles. A piano.
She stepped in. "What is this place?"
Diego walked to the window. "My cage."
"You live here?"
"I exist here."
She moved closer. "You talk like you're dead."
He looked at her. "Aren't we all?"
She should've left. But something about the sadness in his voice — the sharpness — felt like something she'd heard in herself.
He turned suddenly. "You're not like them."
"Like who?"
"Those girls Carlos plays with."
Her breath caught.
He smiled. "Yeah. I know about him."
"Don't talk about him."
"Why not? Afraid I'll ruin the fantasy?"
She stepped back.
He moved closer.
"There are worse men than Carlos, Kiki."
"Like you?"
He leaned in. "Worse."
And for a second — just a second — she felt it.
Fear. Attraction. Curiosity. Pain.
She ran.
Back in her room, she locked the door.
Camilla was asleep.
Kiki stared at the ceiling again, heart racing.
This mansion wasn't just strange.
It was a test. A trap. A story that hadn't been written yet — one that could end in blood, lust, or truth.
She didn't trust Diego. But she couldn't ignore him.
And Carlos… hadn't called. Not once.
Maybe this was her fate now.
The bad girl from Havana.
Living in a house full of demons.
Chapter Three: Whispers in the Mansion
The first few nights in Patrick's mansion were far from peaceful. The house was massive — too massive — with cold floors that echoed footsteps like whispers, and mirrors that seemed to breathe. Kiki barely slept, and when she did, her dreams were filled with shadows dragging her deeper into a crimson sea.
Camilla had changed. She wandered the halls like she knew them, her eyes colder than before. She never answered when Kiki asked if they were safe. She never asked if Kiki was okay.
There was a tension now — something unspoken. Something that buzzed under Kiki's skin.
Diego was everywhere. He showed up at breakfast, in the garden, in the hallway when she wasn't expecting anyone. His presence always came before she saw him — like the air shifted. He didn't speak much. He didn't have to. The way he looked at her made her forget her own name.
But Kiki noticed things. The staff never made eye contact. No one entered the east wing. And one night, when she wandered too far, she saw Patrick standing in a room lit only by candles — speaking in a language she didn't understand. Something ancient. Something cruel.
The next morning, she asked Camilla about it. Camilla only smiled faintly and said, "There are some doors you should never open."
Kiki didn't like that answer. She didn't like how Camilla's voice had started to sound like someone else's — someone unfamiliar. She didn't like how the house made her feel like she was being watched, even when she was alone.
But she stayed. Because something about Diego made her stay. And something deep inside her — something wild — was starting to awaken.
One evening, Kiki found herself in the west garden. The air was thick with roses, their petals black like ink. Diego appeared beside her without warning, like he always did.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, his voice smooth but layered in shadows.
"You didn't," she lied.
He stepped closer. "You feel it, don't you? The house. The change. The power."
She turned to him. "What are you talking about?"
"You're not just a girl, Kiki. You never were."
Her heart beat faster, but she held his gaze. "Then what am I?"
He brushed a finger across her jaw. "Dangerous."
She pulled away. "You don't even know me."
"I do," he whispered. "I've known you longer than you remember."
Before she could speak, Camilla's voice rang through the air. "Kiki! Come inside."
Kiki looked back at Diego. "Why do I feel like this place is eating me alive?"
"Because it is," he said calmly. "But maybe that's not a bad thing."
That night, Kiki couldn't sleep. She wandered down the hall and opened the one door Camilla told her never to touch. Inside was a room filled with books bound in skin, jars with things that blinked, and a mirror that showed her a version of herself she didn't recognize.
Her reflection smiled when she didn't.
Behind her, Patrick's voice was calm but firm. "Curiosity is a powerful thing. But power comes at a cost."
Kiki turned. "What are you hiding from me?"
Patrick didn't flinch. "Ask Camilla."
"I already did."
"Then ask yourself — why did she bring you here?"
His eyes glinted with something ancient. "You were never just a guest."
She ran back to her room, heart pounding, but nothing made sense anymore. The dreams, the whispers, the way Diego looked at her like she was a prize… or prey.
That night, the house whispered a name she'd never heard before.
Valentina.
The next morning, Camilla avoided her. She acted normal — too normal. Polite. Robotic. When Kiki cornered her in the corridor, Camilla sighed.
"You opened the door."
"I want the truth."
Camilla finally met her eyes. "Patrick knew your mother."
Kiki froze. "What?"
"Before you were born, they were enemies… or something worse. You weren't supposed to exist. And now he wants what's inside you. That's why he let us in."
Kiki stepped back. "What's inside me?"
Camilla shook her head. "Power."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I needed you to be unafraid."
"And now?"
Camilla paused. "Now, I need you to survive."
That night, Kiki didn't sleep. She stared at the ceiling, wondering who she really was. Her memories felt like someone else's. Her name no longer felt like her own.
The mansion groaned with secrets.
Diego knocked on her door just before midnight. "Come with me."
She followed him through hidden hallways and down beneath the house into a crypt carved into stone. There, carved into the walls, was a name repeated over and over.
Valentina Paloma.
"What is this?" she asked.
Diego turned to her slowly. "It's you."
Then, he kissed her.
And for a second, the world melted. Every fear, every doubt, every wall she built up — crumbled in the heat of his mouth.
But when they pulled apart, she saw it.
Behind him, in the reflection of a silver basin, stood Camilla.
And she was smiling.
Not the smile of a sister.
The smile of a liar.
Chapter Four: Blood in the Garden
Kiki's scream vanished into the mansion's silence.
The statues stared, mouths agape, whispering secrets in forgotten tongues. The ground pulsed under her, alive and warm. She tried to flee, but her legs wouldn't move.
Diego stood still. His eyes—glowing, ancient—watched her not like a friend, but a stranger.
"Where is Camilla?" she demanded.
His eyes cleared. Confusion returned.
"Kiki… what's going on?"
"You tell me! Where's Camilla?!"
"I don't know," he stammered. "I dreamed of fire and blood. I woke up out here—I didn't walk."
Suddenly, mirrors surrounding the garden began to crack, one by one.
A laugh echoed from within.
Carlos.
Her heart jumped. "Carlos?!"
His face appeared in a mirror—wrong somehow. Pale, smooth, with pitch-black eyes. His mouth opened, and a centipede crawled out.
Kiki screamed. Diego tried to shield her, but she pushed him away. "What is happening?!"
"The house is waking up," he whispered. "You've been chosen."
Inside, Mr. Patrick stood over a journal in the library. Camilla's body lay in the basement—drained, but not dead. He smiled.
"She's ready," he said into the shadows.
A female voice responded, "Then let the ritual begin."
By the bloodied fountain, Kiki trembled.
"Why me?" she asked.
"You're not just some party girl from Havana," Diego said. "You're cursed."
She scoffed. "Wonderful."
He hesitated. "Camilla isn't your stepmother. She's your aunt. Your mother—was a witch."
Deep below, Camilla stirred—bound, gagged, and furious. Floating above her was the corpse of her sister—Kiki's mother—gray and marked with a ritual symbol.
Patrick entered. "You said you burned her."
"I did!"
"No. You burned a decoy. She's been here, waiting. And now Kiki carries her blood. And blood remembers."
Camilla screamed. No one heard.
Above, Kiki paced. "This is crazy."
Diego was quiet.
"If it's true, what does Patrick want from me?"
"To finish what he started. He tried to steal your mom's power. Failed. Now he wants you—to open the gate."
"What gate?"
"The one between this world… and what's beneath it."
That night, Kiki dreamed of fire and mirrors.
In the dream, versions of her wept, laughed, bled—and one smiled.
"Let him in," it whispered.
She woke to a knock.
Slow. Measured.
"Kiki…" Carlos's voice.
She opened the door. No one. Just footprints leading down the hallway.
She followed them to the ballroom.
Jazz music played. Carlos stood in the center.
Twitching.
She gasped.
He turned—face cracked like porcelain. "Help me…"
She ran to him. He collapsed in her arms.
"Patrick... he's not—" Carlos convulsed.
A black mist erupted from his mouth.
He fell. Empty. Skin and bones.
Kiki didn't speak for hours.
Diego found her staring blankly out a window, hands bloodied.
He sat beside her.
"You're not crazy. You're awakening."
"I killed him."
"No. Patrick did."
"I brought him here."
"No," Diego said. "I did. I called him—to test you."
She stared. "And if I failed?"
"I'd have buried you like the others."
She slapped him. He took it.
"Why tell me now?"
"Because I'm not like my father. I love you."
"Don't."
"I do. And I'll help you burn this place to the ground."
Kiki looked at him.
And this time… she believed.
Chapter Five: Smoke and Mirrors
The mansion was silent.
Too silent.
Even the walls, which usually breathed, whispered, watched, had gone still. As if the house knew — its prey was slipping away.
Camilla dragged Kiki by the wrist through the east wing, where the windows were always shuttered. Kiki barely had time to grab her coat, let alone think. Her body was still raw from grief, fury, confusion — and something darker. Something she couldn't name.
"Camilla," she hissed, yanking her arm back. "Where the hell are we going?"
"Out," Camilla snapped. "Away from that man."
"You mean Diego?"
Camilla stopped. Turned. Her eyes gleamed under the dim candlelight, feral and wild.
"He's not what you think he is, Kiki."
Kiki laughed bitterly. "Yeah, because you're such a fountain of truth these days."
"We don't have time for this—"
"Carlos was alive. Alive, Camilla! He came back for me. And then he died again. In my arms. You think that's something I can just—"
"I know!" Camilla screamed.
Silence fell.
Camilla's voice trembled. "I know, baby. I saw him too. But if we stay here… he won't be the last one they send."
Kiki stared at her. A million questions choked her throat.
"Why me?" she whispered. "Why this family?"
Camilla didn't answer. She just turned and led her down the last hall — the one that always seemed longer than it should've been.
They exited through the servant's door. Past the garden that still bled. Past the trees that never slept.
They didn't look back.
By sunrise, they were in the city.
Camilla paid a man in a leather coat and no tongue to take them to a bar off the harbor. It was the kind of place where the floor stuck to your shoes and the music never stopped, even during silence.
Kiki stared at her reflection in the bar's cracked mirror. Her once-flawless eyeliner was smudged. Her dress torn at the hem. Her lip still swollen from where Diego had kissed her too hard.
She looked dangerous.
She looked alive.
"Why this place?" she asked, swirling the watered-down rum Camilla had shoved in her hand.
"It's safe," Camilla muttered. "And it doesn't ask questions."
"Unlike me."
Camilla didn't respond.
"You promised me the truth. So start talking."
"I promised to keep you safe."
"Then maybe I should go back to Diego."
Camilla's eyes snapped up. "You think that boy loves you?"
Kiki tilted her head. "He said he did."
Camilla laughed darkly. "And I bet he said it while the blood of your boyfriend was still fresh on the ballroom floor."
Kiki stood, rage bubbling. "Don't talk about Carlos like that."
Camilla stood too. "Then stop acting like a child."
They were toe to toe now, mother and daughter — or aunt and niece — or maybe just two women chained to the same past, bleeding from the same wounds.
Kiki's voice cracked. "You knew he was alive. You lied to me."
Camilla looked away.
Kiki's hands shook. "Tell me why."
Camilla didn't. Couldn't.
Kiki stormed out into the alley, lit a cigarette with shaking hands, and let the night swallow her.
She stayed gone for hours.
Wandered the pier. Flirted with men she didn't care about. Danced to songs she didn't recognize. Pretended her name was Rosa, that she was just a tourist looking for trouble.
And trouble found her.
A man with too-white teeth bought her a drink. Another with tattoos like vines offered her a hit of something sharp. She didn't say no. Not until she felt the ground tilt sideways, like Havana itself had turned its back.
She ran back to the bar. Pounded on the door until Camilla opened it.
Kiki collapsed into her arms.
Camilla held her tight, rocking her gently.
"No more lies," Kiki whispered. "Please."
Camilla nodded into her hair. "Okay."
But she didn't tell the truth.
Not yet.
They checked into the upstairs room that reeked of smoke and sweat. Kiki stripped off her dress and curled into the bed, half-naked, facing the wall.
Camilla watched her. Wondered how the girl had become so much like her sister — beautiful, wild, haunted.
She sat at the edge of the bed.
"Kiki."
The girl didn't respond.
"I need you to understand. Everything I've done… it was to protect you."
Kiki rolled over. Her eyes glistened in the dark.
"Then stop treating me like a kid. Tell me what's happening."
Camilla took a breath. "Diego… lied. Carlos didn't die that night. He ran. He escaped the ritual. Diego found out. And he let you believe he was dead so you'd—"
"What?" Kiki's voice trembled. "So I'd be his?"
Camilla nodded.
"I told you," she whispered. "They chose you."
Kiki stared at the ceiling. "Do you think he loved me?"
Camilla hesitated. "Maybe. But it doesn't matter. Love doesn't make people good."
Kiki closed her eyes.
A tear slid down her temple.
At 3:06 AM, her phone rang.
Kiki sat up instantly. Her hands trembled as she reached for it.
Unknown Caller.
She answered.
Silence.
Then…
"Kiki."
Carlos's voice.
Soft. Raw.
"Carlos?" she whispered.
Camilla shot up from her mattress on the floor. "Who is it?"
Kiki held up a finger. "Carlos… where are you?"
A long pause.
Then: "I don't know. But I remember dying."
Kiki's blood ran cold.
"I remember… your face. Your hands. You kissed me."
"I—I didn't mean to bring you back there. I didn't know they'd—"
"I'm not angry," he said softly. "But you need to leave Havana. Now."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not alone."
"What?"
"There's something inside me. Something that followed me back."
His voice began to distort — like it was underwater. Or possessed.
"They opened the gate, Kiki. And something came through."
"Carlos?" she choked.
"I love you."
Then the line went dead.
Kiki stared at her phone.
A new message appeared.
"Your blood is the key. You can't hide."
She dropped the phone. Screamed.
Camilla grabbed her shoulders. "What did he say?!"
Kiki didn't answer.
Instead, she stood.
Her voice was low. Cold.
"We leave tomorrow."
"Kiki—"
"No more running."
She turned, eyes dark.
"If I'm cursed… then I'll curse them right back."
In the room downstairs, the bartender poured a glass of rum. Didn't drink it.
Just stared at the black smoke rising from inside the bottle.
Then whispered, "She's awakening."
Chapter six: Velvet Shadows
The rain outside the bar slashed down like knives. Havana was drowning in its own sins tonight.
Inside, the lights were dim, the air thick with sweat, cologne, and the sour bite of old rum. A jazz band murmured in the background — too soft to be comforting, too slow to ignore. It wasn't a place you stumbled into. It was the kind of place you hid in.
Kiki sat at the far end of the counter, lips painted plum-red, legs crossed, cigarette perched between two fingers she didn't even try to keep still. Her fake name was "Solana" now. She liked how it tasted — soft, slippery, like a lie that almost felt true.
Camilla was seated at a booth near the back, pretending not to look shaken. She hadn't slept. Her eyes scanned everyone who walked in like they might belong to Mr. Patrick. Or worse — to the ones under him. The ones without faces.
Kiki rolled her eyes as she sipped her drink. "Relax. You look like you're waiting to die."
"I might be," Camilla murmured.
"Not before I finish this," Kiki muttered, flicking ashes into the tray.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Caller.
She froze.
"Don't answer," Camilla warned sharply, voice rising.
But Kiki had already slid her finger across the screen and lifted it to her ear.
"…Hello?"
Static.
Then breathing.
Then—
"Kikiiiiii…"
Carlos's voice.
Alive.
Real.
"No," she whispered.
"I told you I'd find you, baby. You ran. That was mean."
Her chest tightened. Her hand trembled, but she didn't hang up. She couldn't.
"You're dead," she whispered. "I saw you die."
"You saw a shell," Carlos said. "But my soul? It never belonged to that body. Patrick tried to trap it — but guess what, baby? I escaped. I'm coming."
The line went dead.
Kiki lowered the phone slowly.
Camilla was staring at her.
"Who was it?"
Kiki gave a crooked smile. "An old flame."
Camilla stood. "We need to go."
"No," Kiki said. "We just got here."
"Kiki—"
"I'm not running again," she said. "Let them come. Let him come."
Just then, the bar doors swung open.
The music cut.
A group walked in — and the air changed.
The first was a girl with bright blue braids and a cut-throat stare. She walked like a blade — swift and deadly. That was Abby.
Beside her, a tall man with fire tattoos up his neck, shirtless beneath a fur-lined coat. Eyes dark, bored. His name was Movian.
Then came Jazz, a slim figure in all black, eyes ringed in kohl, lips purple, voice silent. She didn't walk; she glided.
Last was Collins — tall, clean, with a gold tooth and a pistol peeking from his waistband.
Camilla whispered, "Trouble."
Kiki smiled. "Fun."
The four took a booth. Movian's eyes immediately landed on Kiki.
He smirked.
She smirked back.
He stood and walked to her, every step slow and arrogant.
"You don't look like a 'Solana'," he said.
"And you don't look like someone who minds his business," Kiki replied.
He grinned. "Touché."
Movian leaned closer. His scent was smoke and spice. Dangerous.
"I'm Movian. Who's your friend?"
"She's taken," Kiki said before Camilla could speak.
Movian's eyes never left her. "And you?"
Kiki sipped her drink. "Depends who's asking."
He slid onto the stool beside her. "Someone who heard there's a girl in Havana who's not afraid of the dark."
She turned toward him, slowly. "What if the dark's afraid of me?"
His smile widened. "Then I'd marry it."
The tension snapped tight between them.
Camilla stood and walked off to the back. She didn't want to see what came next.
Movian leaned in. "You wanna dance?"
"I don't dance."
"Liar."
She didn't deny it.
Moments later, they were on the floor — alone. The others watched from their booth. Abby whispered to Jazz, who never blinked. Collins smoked lazily, watching it all.
Movian pulled her close, one hand on her hip, the other sliding dangerously low.
"You don't run," he murmured.
"Never."
"Even from things that want your soul?"
"I give it willingly," she whispered.
He crushed his mouth against hers.
The kiss was wild. Fire. Teeth. Not love — possession.
Her hands tangled in his coat, dragging him closer, until the world disappeared. Only him. Only now.
The bar faded.
The lights dimmed.
In that moment, she wasn't scared.
She was free.
Back in the shadows, Camilla met someone she didn't expect.
Jazz.
"You're running from Patrick," Jazz said. It wasn't a question.
Camilla's spine stiffened. "How do you know that name?"
Jazz tilted her head. "He burned my brother alive."
Camilla's eyes widened. "Then we're on the same side."
Jazz didn't smile. "Sides don't matter. Only survival."
"What do you want?"
Jazz looked toward the dance floor. "Her. Kiki. She's one of us. And she's waking up."
"She doesn't know the truth."
Jazz met her eyes. "She will. Soon."
The band picked up again.
Kiki and Movian never stopped.
At some point, Abby joined them. Her body was liquid — hips rolling like a spell. She danced behind Kiki, hands grazing skin, breath hot on her neck.
"You're sexy," Abby whispered.
"I know," Kiki smirked.
"You're dangerous."
"I hope so."
"Movian likes you."
"He tastes good."
Abby laughed, low and dark. "Careful. He bites."
"I do too."
Behind them, Collins pulled out a deck of tarot cards.
Shuffled.
Laid three.
Death.
The Tower.
The Lovers.
He stared.
Then looked up at Kiki.
"…Shit."
Camilla was in the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face.
In the mirror — her sister appeared.
Gray-skinned. Hollow-eyed.
"You can't protect her," the dead woman whispered.
"She's mine," Camilla whispered. "Not yours."
"She's his."
"No!"
The mirror cracked.
Blood dripped from the edges.
Camilla staggered back, heart pounding.
In the corner — a black centipede crawled up the wall.
She stepped on it. Hard.
But more appeared.
She screamed.
Kiki kicked open the bathroom door, out of breath.
"What the hell—?"
Camilla turned to her, eyes wild.
"We have to go. Now."
Kiki grabbed her hand.
They ran.
Out the bar. Into the alley.
But the shadows moved with them.
The others followed.
Jazz. Collins. Movian. Abby.
Not chasing — protecting.
Behind them, a car exploded.
The bar was engulfed.
Someone was watching.
A man.
In a long coat.
Eyes glowing red.
Carlos.
Alive.
And smiling.
Chapter Three — Shadows and Lies
The air in the mansion thickened. Kiki felt it in her chest—something wasn't right. Diego's touch lingered on her skin, but it no longer felt comforting. It felt like chains.
Camilla barged into her room, face pale. "He lied," she whispered. "Carlos isn't dead."
Kiki's world shifted. "What do you mean?"
"I saw him. Alive. Locked in the cellar. Diego... he wanted you for himself."
The truth hit like a blade. Kiki stumbled back, memories flooding in—Diego's sudden affection, his protectiveness. All a mask.
Without a word, she packed. Camilla didn't argue. They slipped out under moonlight, vanishing into Havana's shadows. The streets welcomed them, broken and burning with secrets. They took shelter in a grimy bar downtown, assuming fake names.
Kiki cut her hair, dyed it black, kissed a stranger in the bathroom just to feel something. Camilla watched with worry. "You're spiraling."
"I'm surviving."
But survival wasn't enough. Not after betrayal.
Then came the call.
Kiki's phone buzzed. A blocked number. She hesitated, then answered.
"Mi vida…" a voice rasped. "It's me. Carlos."
Her knees buckled. It was him.
He was alive. Diego had lied about everything.
Camilla turned pale. Kiki stared at her. "You knew."
"I was trying to protect you."
"Don't." Kiki's voice was steel. "You don't get to decide that."
The bar's door creaked. Four strangers entered — Abby, Jazz, Movian, and Collins. Their eyes locked on Kiki.
"We've been looking for you," Abby said. "You have power. The kind people kill for. And we're here to keep you alive."
Kiki lit a cigarette with shaking hands. "Good. Because I'm not running anymore."
CHAPTER SEVEN: THE GIRL WHO BURNED (Short Version)
Rain thundered over Havana as the battle began. Kiki stood frozen, surrounded by chaos — Abby shooting blue fire, Jazz whispering deadly chants, Collins and Movian unleashing power.
Carlos smirked. "You came after all."
Spells clashed. The air thickened with blood and smoke. Camilla moved like a shadow, shielding Kiki with dark wind. "I won't let them take you," she hissed.
Kiki tried to fight — but the ground cracked beneath her. A bolt of energy hit. Everything went black.
She awoke in a glowing forest. A woman stood before her — ethereal, powerful.
"Mom?"
Her real mother smiled. "You've always had the power. But you feared it."
"I could destroy everything…"
"You could save everything."
When Kiki opened her eyes again, she wasn't the same. She rose, eyes glowing gold, hands pulsing fire.
She stepped into the battlefield. Carlos backed away.
"You're not her," he whispered.
"I'm more."
She didn't cast a spell. She was the spell.
Carlos lunged — she caught him mid-air. But something inside her cracked. Memories. Pain. Diego's face.
He appeared then — touched her head.
Whispers. Darkness again.
She woke up tied to a burning chair in the mansion. Diego smirked. "You were mine."
He lit the match. Flames rose.
But they didn't burn her. They bowed to her.
She stood — fire swirling around her like armor. "Goodbye, Diego."
The walls exploded as the others broke in. Jazz screamed her name. Movian pulled her into his arms. Camilla cast a shield. They escaped as the mansion collapsed behind them.
Carlos and Diego howled in the smoke.
Kiki never looked back.
CHAPTER 8: THE CURSE KISSES
The moon hung like a bloodstain in the sky as the wind whispered through the cursed jungle. They had reached it — the Temple of Fire. An ancient, crumbling monolith, half-swallowed by vines and shadows, pulsing with a heat that seemed to breathe.
Kiki stood before its stone gates, her chest rising and falling, her fists clenched, heat radiating from her palms like smoldering embers. No one called her Kiki anymore. That name was gone — buried in ash, betrayal, and blood.
"Valentina Paloma," she whispered to herself. It tasted dangerous on her tongue. She liked it.
Behind her, Camilla's face twitched with unease, eyes darting across the carvings on the stone — a prophecy, long forgotten. Jazz trailed behind, her machete glowing faintly red. Collins grumbled something in a forgotten tongue while Abby's power flickered in her fingertips like starlight.
But Movian — he was the only one watching her. Like he was waiting for her to burn the world.
"This is it," Camilla finally said, breaking the heavy silence. "Inside... there are answers."
"Answers you've hidden from me," Valentina said, her voice low, venomous. "You knew who I was before I even knew myself."
Camilla didn't deny it. She looked away.
Inside the temple, torches lit on their own. The air was thick with sulfur and memories not their own. As they stepped through the threshold, the walls shifted, whispers threading through the air like smoke. Visions danced in the flames. A woman cloaked in red. A man with two faces. A child with fire in her veins.
Valentina paused.
The flames showed her a different mother — not Camilla. Someone taller. Stronger. Her eyes held storms. Her voice was the one she'd heard in her dreams — calling her home, calling her "my weapon... or my heir."
She stumbled back. Movian caught her, his hand firm against her waist. "You good?" he asked, his voice husky.
"I saw her again," she murmured. "My real mother."
Jazz stepped closer. "We need to move. Something's coming."
Something was coming. The ground shook. The temple howled. Then came the rumble — not of stone, but of something unnatural.
"Carlos," Collins said grimly. "He's not dead."
Valentina's head snapped up. "I know."
"And Diego?" Abby asked.
Valentina didn't answer.
Because even now, she could hear Diego's voice in her head — smooth, dark, twisted. "You were always mine, Kiki... Valentina... Whatever name you wear, I'll strip it off you."
The flames of the temple rose, reacting to her rage. Her aura exploded, heat blinding.
Jazz shielded her eyes. "You're losing control!"
"No," Valentina whispered. "I'm becoming who I was meant to be."
Then came the betrayal.
Collins reached for his blade — too fast, too sharp. But Abby was faster, tackling him before he could strike.
"He was going to kill you!" Abby shouted, pinning him down.
"He was following orders," Camilla hissed, stepping back.
Valentina turned slowly. "Whose orders?"
Silence.
"Camilla?"
"She was going to take your power," Movian said quietly. "Trade it for safety."
Camilla's eyes went wide. "I did it to protect you!"
"No," Valentina said. "You did it to cage me."
Fire surrounded her. The temple trembled again. Camilla stepped back, terrified.
"You said this place would help me control it," Valentina said. "But you wanted to steal it."
Jazz raised her weapon. "What now?"
Valentina looked at them. All of them. One by one.
"You think I'll keep listening to you?" Her voice cracked like thunder. "I'm not your soldier. I'm not your daughter. I'm not even your friend."
The fire twisted around her form, dancing like a crown.
"I am not Kiki. I am not Kiana. I am Valentina Paloma — and I will write my own ending."
She turned.
"Where are you going?" Movian asked.
Valentina didn't stop walking. "To Patrick's mansion. To end this."
"Alone?" Abby asked.
She turned her head slightly, her eyes burning gold. "You'd only slow me down."
And with that, the jungle parted before her — scorched and trembling — as she vanished into the shadows.
They didn't follow.
Not because they didn't care.
But because they were afraid.
Afraid of the girl who now walked with fire in her blood, vengeance in her heart, and no one left to answer to.
She was not the same.
She was the Queen of Ashes.
And the city would burn.
Chapter Nine: The House That Burned Me Twice
The storm hadn't cleared. Havana wept rain like it was mourning something ancient—something cursed. Valentina Paloma didn't bother to shield herself. She walked through the storm, soaked to the bone, fire still glowing beneath her skin. Her heels struck the cracked pavement with rage. Behind her, the others hesitated. Jazz. Collins. Movian. Abby.
"Valentina!" Jazz shouted, her voice sharp like lightning. "You can't go alone!"
She stopped. Slowly turned. Her eyes burned red-hot beneath her lashes. Her voice didn't shout. It didn't scream.
"I'm not Kiki anymore. I'm not Kiana. I am Valentina Paloma," she said, cold as stone. "And this storm isn't strong enough to stop me."
None of them dared follow.
Patrick's mansion stood at the edge of Havana like a rotten tooth in a broken mouth. Vines had grown over the gates, black roses blooming unnaturally in the rain. The windows glowed dim with gold light—inviting, deceptive. As Valentina walked up the path, the scent of blood and jasmine wafted in the air. It wasn't memory anymore. It was real.
The doors opened for her. No one touched them.
She stepped in.
The air inside was warm. Too warm. Smoke curled along the ceiling like ghosts watching her. Candle flames flickered as if whispering secrets. The silence was heavy—until a voice, smooth as oil and thick with old magic, spoke from the shadows.
"You came home," Patrick said.
Valentina turned her head, slow. He was standing near the stairs, wearing a velvet robe, drink in hand. But his face was paler now. Hollowed. He had felt the touch of the fire—and feared it.
"Where is Diego?" she asked.
Patrick smiled. "Why ask about the boy when I'm the one who made you?"
Her jaw clenched. "You ruined me."
"And yet you returned."
"I came to end you."
Lightning flashed through the windows. For a moment, her silhouette lit up—her skin cracked with golden light, her hair soaked, her eyes wild like a goddess of vengeance. She raised her hand, flame licking her palm, and sent a burning wave toward him.
But it didn't reach.
Patrick raised one finger.
From the shadows, Diego stepped forward. Not the boy she remembered. His eyes were black as ink. His body wrapped in dark tattoos, pulsing with something… alive. He looked at her the way a wolf looks at a bleeding deer.
"Valentina," he said softly. "Still beautiful in fire."
She hesitated.
That voice. That touch of velvet. Her body remembered him. Her lips did too. But the pain… the lies…
"You lied about Carlos," she said, backing a step.
"He wanted to steal you," Diego said, stepping forward. "But I wanted to worship you."
"You wanted to break me."
"No," he said, and his voice was a whisper that wrapped around her like silk. "I wanted to burn with you."
He touched her cheek. For a moment, she melted. For a moment, the pain turned sweet.
And then it twisted.
His fingers moved like claws. The tattoos on his skin slithered. She tried to scream, but he pressed his lips to hers. And something entered her. Not love. Not lust.
Control.
Valentina woke tied to the altar in the center of the mansion ballroom. Candles circled her. Patrick chanted in a tongue she didn't recognize. Diego stood nearby, shirtless, eyes closed, breathing hard. Carlos stood across from him—alive, monstrous, his body part beast, part boy.
"You were the flame, Valentina," Patrick said, voice shaking. "But now, you'll feed the fire."
He lifted the knife.
Carlos licked his lips, hungry.
Diego didn't speak. He just stared at her, like he was drowning.
Valentina smiled.
"You tied me up," she whispered. "Cute."
Patrick froze.
The candles went out.
Then roared back—black fire.
Her eyes opened fully. Her veins glowed gold. The ropes snapped like thread. She rose, floating above the altar, hair whipping in the firestorm she summoned.
"You wanted my power," she said, voice inhuman. "You thought you could steal it?"
She raised both hands.
Carlos flew back into the wall, roaring in pain. Patrick dropped to his knees, eyes bleeding. But Diego—he stood still.
"I never wanted your power," he said, voice shaking. "I wanted you."
"You don't know what love is."
"I do," he said. "And I would burn for you."
Tears slid down her face, but they turned to steam before falling.
"I would have loved you," she whispered. "But you broke me."
Diego took a step forward. "Then let me be the ashes."
She screamed—and the room shattered.
Outside the mansion, the group saw the house explode with fire, black and gold spiraling into the night sky like a dragon. Movian ran forward. Abby followed. Jazz screamed her name.
And then—
The flames parted.
Valentina walked out. Slow. Barefoot. Burned but not broken. Her skin glowed like molten gold. Her eyes were not human anymore.
"What happened?" Jazz asked, breathless.
"They're gone," she said.
"All of them?"
Valentina didn't answer.
Camilla appeared behind the group, cloak drenched, eyes narrowed. She looked at Valentina.
"You found your power," she said carefully.
"I became it," Valentina replied.
"And now?" Abby asked. "What do we do?"
Valentina looked out toward the hills, where the jungle waited.
"We go where the fire leads," she said.
But deep inside her chest… something still flickered.
A whisper.
A voice.
"This isn't over."
Chapter Nine: Ashes Know My Name
The Temple of Fire was behind her, but its heat still pulsed in her chest.
Valentina Paloma walked ahead, the ground cracking with every step as if the earth itself feared what she had become. Smoke curled around her ankles—not real, not fire—but the ghost of it. Power was thick in her blood, too loud to silence now. The sky above Havana turned a sickly bronze, as if the heavens were bracing for what came next.
Behind her, Abby, Jazz, Collins, and Movian followed, hesitant.
"Valentina," Jazz called gently, as if saying her name could remind her of who she was before.
She turned, slow and dangerous, like a lioness.
"I am not Kiki. I am not Kiana. That girl is ash now."
Her voice was thunder, sultry and sharp.
"I am Valentina Paloma. I burn what hurts me. And I'm going back to Patrick's house—to finish what they started."
The group exchanged glances. Movian's hand instinctively hovered near his blade. Collins muttered something under his breath. Abby's eyes shimmered with worry and a flicker of awe.
"You can't do this alone," Abby said.
"I was born alone," Valentina answered. "And when I die—I'll make sure the world remembers it."
The fire behind her flared, then vanished. She didn't look back.
Patrick's mansion had been rebuilt. New walls, fresh wood, false perfection. But the land still remembered. The wind howled like it knew she was coming. Her boots crunched over gravel. The iron gates were open.
No guards.
No chains.
They wanted her to enter.
She did.
Inside, the walls breathed. Paintings blinked. Shadows followed her movements like animals starved for meat. Her reflection in the mirror rippled—hair black like smoke, skin glowing like coals, lips parted in fury and seduction. She was no longer prey.
She was what monsters feared.
Footsteps echoed.
Carlos stepped out of the shadows, his body corrupted. His arms were longer, twisted, scales creeping over one shoulder like cracked glass. His jaw was no longer fully human. Yet his eyes—the same sinful brown she once loved—still held her gaze.
"You came back," he growled, voice deeper now.
"Didn't know how to stay away," she said, tongue sharp with flirtation and venom. "And you didn't burn."
"No. But I changed."
"So did I."
He took a step closer.
"Valentina," he said, testing the name on his tongue like a curse.
Behind him, Diego appeared—perfect, untouched, as beautiful and lethal as ever. He was holding a lit match. He smiled.
"This time," he whispered, "I'll make sure you burn all the way through."
Valentina's pulse didn't rise.
She held her hands out. Fire licked up her arms like bracelets. The walls recoiled. The chandelier above screamed.
"I've already been set on fire," she said. "This time, I am the flame."
Upstairs, Camilla and the others had found a secret passage.
"She went in alone," Jazz hissed. "This is suicide."
"No," Camilla said, her voice low. "It's rebirth."
Abby watched her closely.
"You knew this would happen."
"I hoped it would," Camilla said. "She's stronger than all of us. But she's also... unstable. If she dies, I'll take the power. If she survives—then God help them."
In the ballroom, the lights flickered.
Carlos charged first, all beast and fury. Valentina met him with a laugh that cracked the windows. Her hand lit up, a whip of flame bursting out. She struck him across the chest and he screamed, crashing into the wall.
Diego rushed in from behind.
She turned just in time, but he caught her wrist.
"I still love you," he hissed, "even now."
She looked at him, memories flashing—his lips on hers, the nights in the café, the promises.
But then—his lies.
"You tried to kill me," she said.
"I wanted to save you."
"You lied about Carlos."
Diego's grip tightened. "Because I wanted you to be mine."
"And you lost me."
She drove her knee into his gut and hurled him across the room. His body hit the piano with a deafening crash. Music screamed from the broken keys.
But the fire was too wild now.
The ceiling cracked.
Carlos roared from the smoke, shape-shifting mid-air, his body covered in spines and dark Havana spirit-magic. He tackled her. They hit the floor.
She burned him.
He didn't stop.
The room spun. Her fire weakened. Her vision blurred.
Then—darkness.
She woke in a room made of stars. Floating. Still. A woman with glowing eyes stood before her.
Her real mother.
"You've come far," her mother said. "But you still hesitate."
Valentina looked down. Her hands trembled.
"I didn't kill him. I could have... but I stopped."
"Because you're not just fire. You are love, too. Lust. Fury. Mercy. Don't let them take your choices from you."
Valentina blinked.
When she opened her eyes—
She was back.
The flames were gone. The mansion was falling apart.
Carlos limped toward her, a jagged spear in his hand.
But Valentina stood up slowly, rising like smoke, eyes calm.
"Go ahead," she said. "Kill me."
Carlos charged—
Then stopped.
Behind him stood Movian, sword drawn. Behind Movian—Camilla, Jazz, Abby, Collins.
"You're not alone," Jazz said.
Carlos turned, growled.
Valentina lifted her hand. A sphere of fire spun in her palm.
"Last chance," she said.
Carlos vanished into the shadows.
Outside, the mansion collapsed behind them.
Valentina didn't flinch.
Camilla walked beside her, lips tight.
"You still want to go to the Temple again?"
"No," Valentina said. "It told me everything I needed."
Abby nodded. "What now?"
Valentina didn't answer.
She just smiled—dark, slow, powerful.
And walked into the rising smoke.
The girl from Havana was dead.
Only fire remained.
Chapter Ten: The Birth of a Goddess
Smoke curled from the ruins of Patrick's mansion. The air was thick with ash, sweat, blood — and her power.
Valentina Paloma stood in the wreckage, barefoot, bare-shouldered, her skin glowing with a heat that shimmered like firelight. Her body was different now. Taller. Leaner. Her curves sharpened into the shape of seduction itself. Her hair fell in dark waves down her back, and her eyes—God, those eyes—were no longer brown. They were molten gold, glowing like the sun burning through midnight.
Around her, the world had gone quiet. Patrick was nothing but a memory. Diego lay in the shadows, broken by her hand. Carlos — the monster — reduced to ash and scattered by the Havana wind.
And Camilla? Gone. Her betrayal buried beneath stone and vengeance.
Valentina's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. She had done it. Alone.
Abby, Jazz, Collins, and Movian watched from the courtyard steps, cautious but awe-struck. None dared move closer yet.
It was Abby who finally whispered, "She's not just Kiki anymore."
"No," Movian murmured, his voice low and laced with respect. "She's something else. Something divine."
Valentina turned to them, gold eyes gleaming under the moon. "You can come closer," she said softly, her voice sultry, commanding.
They stepped forward, one by one.
Collins held out his hand like a knight kneeling before a queen. "Is it over?"
She gave him a look. "Does it look like I leave things unfinished?"
Jazz chuckled, eyes glinting. "Damn, girl. You really are her. The one from the prophecy."
Valentina tilted her head. "The girl of fire?"
"No," Jazz said. "The one who burns everything—and still comes out prettier."
They all laughed, nervous but alive. The storm had passed. Or so they thought.
Then the wind shifted.
A gust blew through the broken windows behind her, and a soft, echoing voice filled the air.
"My daughter..."
Valentina froze.
The others turned, unsure of what they were hearing—until a gentle shimmer of blue light formed in the middle of the courtyard.
She stepped from it. Ethereal. Tall. Beautiful. Her real mother.
Valentina's breath hitched. "You came."
"I always come," her mother said, touching her cheek. "When the fire is at its highest. When your soul remembers itself."
She looked at Valentina, eyes soft with love. "You did what I could not. You chose yourself."
Valentina bit her lip. "It hurt."
"It had to," her mother whispered. "You were born from pain...but shaped by power. What they did to us was never meant to last. You broke the chain."
The others stood back, giving them space.
Valentina felt the tears rise — not weak tears, not regretful ones, but tears of release. Of truth. Of becoming.
Her mother kissed her forehead. "It's done now. But your journey isn't over."
She stepped back into the light.
"Wait," Valentina called.
Her mother turned.
"Who am I, really?"
The woman smiled. "You are the storm. The fire. The girl who refused to die."
And with that, she was gone.
Valentina stood alone, again, but this time she felt full, not empty. Whole.
Abby stepped beside her. "You look like a goddess."
"I am," Valentina said.
She looked down at her hands. Flames curled softly between her fingers, obedient now. Her power bent to her will.
"I'm not afraid anymore," she said.
Movian stepped forward, eyes burning with quiet hunger. "What now, Valentina?"
She smirked. "Now? We clean this city."
Jazz raised a brow. "You mean—?"
"I mean we find the rest of the bastards still feeding off fear and magic. We end their stories too."
Collins chuckled. "And then what? You rule?"
Valentina's smile turned lethal. "I don't want to rule. I want to set the world on fire—and see what survives."
They stood with her, one by one. Her crew. Her believers. Her family by force, not by blood.
And as they disappeared into the smoky Havana night, Valentina's voice echoed through the ruins behind her.
"I was never yours to break. Never Kiki. Never your girl."
She turned.
"I'm Valentina Paloma now. And I burn for no one but me."
Chapter Eleven: A Flame for a Flame
The jungle was silent, but not with peace.
It was the kind of silence that hangs just before a storm — thick, knowing, and cruel. The moon refused to show itself. Only the amber flicker of Valentina's eyes lit the shadows as she walked ahead of the group, her body wrapped in silk like fire, hips swaying with divinity and destruction.
She wasn't human anymore. Not completely.
Her skin shimmered like golden ash, her hair wild and long like serpents of shadow and smoke. Abby, Movian, Jazz, and Collins walked a few paces behind her, unsure whether they were following a savior… or a goddess on the verge of collapse.
Then, everything stopped.
A wind too cold for the tropics twisted through the trees. The flame around Valentina dimmed. The leaves above trembled. Collins stepped forward, reaching for his blade, but it was too late.
She appeared — Camilla.
Twisted. Beautiful. Unrecognizable.
Her once-soft face was now a mask of madness. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes bled — literal streaks of blood dripping down her cheeks. Her hands glowed black. Her gown pulsed like it was stitched from nightmares.
"You thought you could kill me," she whispered. "But I feed on what you fear. You left me in the fire, Valentina… and now I am the fire."
"Then burn," Valentina said coldly.
Camilla raised her arms — and the jungle exploded.
Roots turned to serpents. Trees howled. The earth cracked beneath their feet as Camilla summoned the spirits of Havana's underworld — screaming women with mouths sewn shut, children laughing without eyes, shadows that walked like men but dragged screams behind them.
Movian attacked first — fire against fire.
But Camilla sent him flying with a single glance, blood bursting from his mouth.
Jazz screamed as the spirits tore through the air.
Collins tried to bind her with magic, but the moment his spell touched her skin, it shattered into ash. Abby stepped forward, calling Valentina's name, but Camilla raised her hand — and Abby was snatched away by invisible chains, vanishing into the darkness.
"If you want her back," Camilla hissed, "you'll have to give me the flame. The blood. The power. Your name."
Valentina didn't flinch. She walked straight into the chaos, flames licking her thighs, lips curling into a dangerous smirk.
"You want my power, Camilla?""Come take it."
They collided.
It was not a fight — it was a war of gods.
Fire met darkness. Light met the bones of the dead. Valentina screamed, her voice shaking the heavens as she grabbed Camilla's wrists, twisting them until the bones snapped and black blood sprayed across her cheek.
Camilla retaliated, stabbing her with a dagger carved from her own rib. Valentina gasped, but didn't fall. She laughed.
"I bled in fire before I ever bled for you."
And then — it changed.
Valentina summoned her mother's voice. Not with words, but with memory.
The spirit of her mother stood behind her now — not ghostly, but fierce. Proud. Hands glowing. Eyes full of tears.
"You are not what they made you," her mother whispered. "You are what survived."
Valentina grabbed Camilla by the throat.
"You hurt me. You lied. You tried to take what was never yours."
Camilla spat blood into her face. "Because you didn't deserve it."
"No," Valentina whispered, her voice now echoing with power. "You don't deserve to live."
She pressed her hand against Camilla's chest.
Fire burst from her palm — not red, but pure white. Fire that consumed guilt. Fire that burned lies. Fire that loved the truth and punished betrayal.
Camilla screamed — the scream of a thousand haunted years.
Her body cracked. Split. Turned to black stone.
Her last word was "Please—"
And then she was gone.
Silence.
Even the spirits backed away. The jungle bowed.
Abby reappeared behind the trees, eyes wide, bruised, but alive. Jazz, limping, helped Movian up. Collins fell to his knees, whispering something in a language no one could hear.
Valentina stood alone in the center of the clearing. Breathing. Shaking. Glowing.
Then, she looked up.
Her mother stood there — clear as day. Not a ghost. Not a vision. Just her. In the flesh, as if the fire had opened a doorway between their worlds.
She was stunning — tall, dark, and powerful. She walked slowly toward her daughter and smiled.
"You did what I couldn't," she said, brushing her fingers down Valentina's cheek. "You ended it."
Valentina fell into her arms.
No one spoke for a long time.
Abby, Jazz, Movian, and Collins stood around them like a circle of survivors — no, not survivors. Soldiers. Chosen ones. Witnesses.
Valentina stood up slowly.
Her dress was torn, her legs covered in soot, her lips bruised, but she had never looked more breathtaking. The curves of a goddess, the glare of a queen. Her eyes no longer just burned — they commanded.
She looked at them all and said:
"Camilla is gone. Patrick is dead. Carlos and Diego are ashes beneath my heels. But if there's anyone left… anyone who thinks they can own me…"
She let the words fall like knives.
"I'll show them what it means to burn."
The others nodded — quiet. Loyal. Humbled.
They didn't follow her because they had to.
They followed her because there was no one else left to lead.
Valentina Paloma had won.
But the flame?
It still danced in her heart.
And war — the real war — had just begun.
Chapter Twelve: Ashes Don't Cry
Camilla's body collapsed at her feet, crumpling like a withered rose finally drained of its poison. Her scream echoed into silence, cut short by the searing flame that burst from Valentina's hand — wild, golden, unstoppable. It had wrapped around Camilla's throat, lifting her into the air like judgment itself.
Then, nothing.
Just the sound of wind brushing across burnt earth, and Valentina's own breath — slow, steady, dangerous.
Abby stood frozen. Jazz wiped blood from her cheek. Collins leaned on his sword, chest rising and falling. Movian just whispered, "She did it…"
But Valentina didn't move.
She stared at her trembling fingers — not because they were scared, but because they weren't. Because killing Camilla had felt… right.
"Is it over?" Jazz asked carefully.
Valentina didn't answer. She just closed her eyes. Her long lashes fluttered against her cheeks, and for a second, she looked almost at peace.
Then her voice cut the silence like a blade.
"No. It's just beginning."
She turned her back on the group. Her silhouette glowed in the smoky haze — hips swaying with power, bare shoulders dripping with heat. Her black dress had torn in battle, exposing the dark runes etched into her golden-brown skin. She didn't look like someone who had just killed a traitor.
She looked like a queen walking away from an execution.
They followed her back to the hideout deep in the ruins — what used to be a forgotten church, now scorched by magic and war. Inside, candles floated without holders, and the walls bled ivy and secrets.
Abby tried to speak first.
"Valentina, we need to talk about—"
"No," Valentina snapped, her voice laced with fire. "No more secrets. No more 'protecting me.' You all knew what Camilla was planning. You knew. And still… you let me sleep under the same roof as her."
Jazz stepped forward, brave. "We were going to tell you."
"When?" Valentina asked coldly. "After she took my power? After she killed one of you?"
The silence confirmed it.
She shook her head and turned away. "I don't need your protection. I don't even need your loyalty. I only need one thing."
Collins crossed his arms. "And what's that?"
"Revenge," she said. "Not just against those who betrayed me — but against this cursed city. The bloodline. The system that tried to use me."
Valentina raised her hand. Flames circled her wrist like bracelets. Her eyes were no longer red — they were golden. Sharp. Divine. A goddess dressed like a sinner. A sinner who'd seen hell… and liked the heat.
Movian spoke softly, "You've changed."
She turned her head slowly, lips curling into a smirk. "No. I've just stopped pretending to be good."
That night, as the others slept restlessly, Valentina walked alone through the ruins.
Past the crumbling statues.
Past the dried-up fountain where whispers used to gather.
She stopped at the edge of the jungle. The air was thick with smoke and ghosts.
"I know you're following me," she said.
From the shadows, someone stepped out — tall, lean, dressed in torn black, his skin streaked with ash and old blood.
Ezra.
She'd seen him before. In dreams. In the fire. Or maybe he was just a part of her darkness all along.
"You're not afraid of me?" she asked without turning.
"I should be," he said.
"But?"
"I'm not."
He stepped closer. She didn't flinch. When his hand brushed her arm, the flames on her skin didn't burn him — they danced.
Their eyes met.
And something in her chest cracked. Not pain. Not fear.
Just… heat. But the kind that held you.
He didn't ask to touch her. He didn't beg to stay. He just stood there, steady, waiting for her to choose him — or destroy him.
She chose.
She kissed him.
Not out of loneliness.
Not out of need.
But because even goddesses deserve softness.
In the early morning light, as the jungle moaned and the ruins whispered, Valentina stood at the altar alone. Her lips were swollen. Her power thrummed beneath her skin. And her voice was calm as she whispered to the sky:
"Camilla's dead. Patrick's bloodline is broken. Carlos is ash. Diego is dust."
She closed her eyes.
"But I'm still here."
The candles blew out all at once.
Because something else had felt her rise.
Something ancient.
Something older than the bloodlines.
And it was coming.
Valentina smiled.
She wasn't afraid.
Let the old gods rise. Let the underworld tremble.
She had killed with her own hands.
She had kissed fire and tasted love.
She had burned and survived.
And she was still a baddie.
Chapter Thirteen: The Crimson Veil
Valentina Paloma didn't sleep anymore — not like mortals did.She floated between realms, her eyes open yet dreaming, her skin hot with power. Since Camilla's final breath at her hands, the taste of revenge lingered in her mouth like wine — dark, heavy, intoxicating.
But something else was rising.
Her body had transformed. Her hips curved like blades, her legs long and sculpted, her voice lower, sweeter — deadlier. Her hair coiled in obsidian waves down her back, and her eyes had turned into glowing sapphires with a slit of fire at the center. Even the wind obeyed her now.
She walked through the scorched ruins of Patrick's mansion barefoot. Where once the house stood in brutal glory, only ash remained. But beneath that ash… secrets stirred.
Collins stepped forward, cautious. "The earth here's been weeping. Something's still alive."
Valentina didn't flinch. "Let it come. Let it try."
Jazz leaned on a broken pillar. "You say that, but you've changed. You don't flinch, you don't fear, you barely feel."
Valentina turned slowly, her voice velvet. "And yet you still follow me."
Jazz looked away.
They weren't just scared of what she could do — they were obsessed with her. Even Abby, who once dared to challenge her, now stared at her like she was both salvation and damnation. Movian lingered at a distance, always watching. She could feel his heat, his restraint, his craving. He didn't speak much anymore. He didn't need to. Their connection was wordless now — primal.
But none of them spoke of the veil.
The crimson veil had started appearing two nights ago. It would descend like blood-colored mist, especially when Valentina stood near mirrors or flames. Inside the veil, she'd hear her mother's voice — not the soft one from dreams, but a harsher, ancient one.
"The girl of Havana was only the beginning," it whispered. "You were born in fire… but will you end in it?"
Valentina didn't answer. She didn't care for riddles anymore. She was tired of being everyone's prophecy.
They traveled through the dark woods, guided by silent winds and the pull of the Temple's energy. It called to her like a heartbeat in the earth. But the woods were changing — pulsing with sickness. Shadows shifted when no one moved. Trees bled. The air reeked of rot and rebirth.
Suddenly, Collins fell to his knees.
"Something… something's crawling inside my head—"
Valentina reached him in a blink, placing her palm against his forehead. A burst of white flame erupted, driving out the shadow wriggling in his skull. He gasped, staring up at her.
"You—you healed me."
"No," she said. "I burned it."
They reached a clearing. At its center stood an ancient stone mirror, untouched by time, its frame etched with symbols Valentina somehow knew how to read. Bloodlines. Sacrifices. Queens.
She stared at her reflection. The mirror shimmered, then rippled.
Her mother appeared again.
But this time, she wasn't soft. She wore a crown of black fire, her body wrapped in chains made of glowing serpents.
"You have one choice left, Valentina. Be feared. Or be forgotten."
Valentina blinked, her voice steady. "I will be both."
The mirror shattered into dust.
Later that night, under Havana's blood-red moon, Movian approached her. No words. Just fire in his eyes.
She let him take her — not in surrender, but in power. Their bodies collided like two storms. Their mouths devoured one another. Her fingers left scorch marks down his spine. His lips traced her thighs like worship. It wasn't love. It was war disguised as pleasure.
After, breathless and tangled in shadows, he looked at her. "You scare me."
She smiled lazily. "Good."
As they rested, a new sound echoed through the trees.
Applause.
Slow. Mocking. Familiar.
From the shadows stepped a boy wrapped in red and smoke.
Diego.
But it wasn't just him.
Carlos walked behind him, taller now, monstrous — a thing reborn with horns and claws, eyes glowing red.
"You burned us," Diego said. "And still… we came back for more."
Valentina rose slowly, naked under moonlight, but somehow more terrifying than armored gods.
"Then let's finish what we started," she whispered.
The final war hadn't begun yet.
But the board was set.
Valentina stood at the center of it — not a pawn, not a queen.
A goddess in crimson, cloaked in fury, kissed by lust, wielding fire, and haunted by a past that refused to die.
And when she moved, the world burned just to keep up.
CHAPTER 13: SHADOW KISSED
The night clung to Valentina Paloma like silk soaked in blood. The Havana skyline burned behind her, a thousand sins lighting the sky. She walked barefoot through the ruins of the old city, her steps silent, graceful — like a storm that no longer needed to scream.
She wasn't searching.
He was already there.
The dark figure stood by the edge of a broken cathedral, his coat flaring behind him, smoke curling from his fingertips. He didn't turn when she approached — but she knew he felt her.
"I expected you sooner," he said, voice low like a forbidden melody.
Valentina didn't smile. "I move on my own time now."
He turned then — eyes black, skin kissed by shadows. There was a hunger in him, but not for her body. It was her power, her rage, the fire in her veins that called to him.
"You killed your past," he said. "Patrick. Diego. Carlos. Even Camilla."
"They deserved worse."
He chuckled. "And yet you gave mercy… in the form of death."
Valentina tilted her head. "You think that was mercy?"
"No," he stepped closer, slow, deliberate, "I think it was beautiful."
Their eyes locked. Magic cracked the air between them — not soft, not gentle, but primal. His aura wrapped around her like smoke, tasting the edge of her flame. Valentina didn't move.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"No one you should trust," he whispered, stepping even closer.
Her lips curved slightly. "Good. I don't like saints."
He reached out — not to touch her skin, but the fire pulsing inside her chest. Her flames flared, reacting, warning him.
But he didn't flinch.
Instead, he leaned in and kissed her — not her lips, but the space just above her heart, where the fire burned brightest. It wasn't lust. It was a claim.
And yet she wasn't owned.
Valentina pushed him back with one hand, her fingers glowing.
"I'm not some relic to be desired."
He smirked. "No. You're a goddess to be feared."
She stared at him, unsure whether to kill him or kiss him back. But something in her paused. For the first time since she renamed herself, she felt… seen. Not for her pain. Not for her power. But for what she'd become.
A woman born in chaos.
A fire with no leash.
A goddess standing alone at the edge of everything.
Later that night, Valentina stood atop a burning tower, her long black coat trailing behind her like smoke. Below her, Abby, Jazz, Collins, and Movian waited. She descended slowly, her body glowing faintly with heat — even her eyes had changed. Golden-red. Piercing.
They looked at her like mortals who'd watched their friend become something unholy.
Abby stepped forward. "You okay?"
Valentina didn't answer right away.
Then: "I met someone."
Jazz raised an eyebrow. "A threat?"
Valentina shook her head. "A mirror."
Collins frowned. "And is he… safe?"
She turned to him, fire flashing in her eyes. "Was I ever?"
Silence.
Movian, always quiet, just nodded. "What now?"
Valentina looked up at the sky. The stars were bleeding. Havana was rumbling. Somewhere in the distance, ancient things were waking — monsters, spirits, kings from dead realms. The Temple of Fire had opened more than just her power. It had unleashed the end of an era.
She whispered, "We prepare."
Abby stepped beside her. "For war?"
Valentina stared out, lips curling. "For me."
That night, she walked alone through the ash fields. The wind whispered memories she didn't ask for.
And then… she appeared.
Her mother.
Bathed in moonlight, eyes soft but filled with cosmic knowing. She looked at Valentina like a proud queen looks at her heir.
"You did what I couldn't," she said. "You broke the curse."
Valentina dropped to her knees, heart caught between pride and pain.
"I killed them, Mama. All of them."
"And that was mercy," her mother whispered. "You ended the cycle. You became the blade, and the flame."
Tears rolled down Valentina's cheeks — hot, silent. Her mother knelt, touched her face, and the tears evaporated.
"You are not broken anymore, mi amor. You are reborn."
Valentina looked up, fire flickering in her gaze. "Then why does it still hurt?"
"Because you still love."
Her mother kissed her forehead, and just like that — she vanished.
Gone.
But not lost.
Valentina stood alone again — but not empty.
The wind carried whispers of war.
Not one for a throne.
Not even for power.
But for truth. For freedom.
For revenge that never ends, and love that should never begin.
The stars dimmed. The world braced.
And Valentina Paloma — goddess of Havana — walked into the night, her hips swaying, her fire rising, and her enemies trembling at the very mention of her name.
Chapter Fourteen — "Smoke in Her Veins"
Valentina Paloma didn't sleep anymore. Not really.
When she closed her eyes, she didn't dream — she remembered. The fire. The betrayal. The blood-soaked promises and all the twisted faces of the ones who tried to control her.
Patrick. Dead.
Carlos. Gone.
Diego. Ashes in the wind.
Camilla. Shattered.
And yet, something deeper stirred beneath her skin. Power. Hunger. Fire.
The Temple of Fire behind them had collapsed, and now, Valentina stood at the edge of Havana's forgotten district — El Infierno Viejo — where the old spirits still whispered through alleyways, feeding off sin and lust. Smoke curled from her fingertips, soft and elegant like perfume, but deadly. She had become everything they feared. She had become everything she once feared.
"She's not just powerful," Jazz whispered as they followed her into the decaying city. "She's divine."
"Or dangerous," Collins muttered, gripping his blade tighter. "We don't even know what she wants anymore."
But Abby knew. Abby had seen the prophecy. And Movian? He didn't care. He wanted her even if it meant burning for her.
—
They reached the center of El Infierno Viejo by midnight — a square swallowed by darkness, candles flickering on every doorstep, blood-red roses strewn across the ground like offerings.
Valentina stepped ahead. Her hips swayed, her hair like a crown of serpents, her eyes glowing molten gold. Her body had changed — curvier, taller, dripping with divine sex appeal, and power pulsing in every move. She wasn't a girl anymore.
She was a storm in heels.
"You feel it?" she asked quietly, voice wrapped in velvet and venom.
"Yes," Abby said. "But what are we walking into?"
Valentina turned her head, smiling slightly. "A reckoning."
—
They weren't alone.
Someone had been watching. From the broken cathedral ahead, a low growl emerged. Shadows shifted. And out stepped… Sebastián.
Collins gasped. "That's— That's Camilla's brother!"
He looked twisted, corrupted by the same dark energy that once lived in Carlos. His eyes glowed red. His body cracked like obsidian stone. And behind him... stood a woman.
Camilla.
But she wasn't the same. Her skin was laced with runes. Her hair floated, untethered by gravity. And her mouth split into a grin too wide, too wicked.
"You thought I was dead?" Camilla whispered. "You burned my flesh, Valentina. But fire only feeds me now."
Valentina didn't flinch. She stepped forward.
"You've been breathing borrowed power," Valentina said, voice like lightning. "Let me show you what it means to be born of flame."
Camilla lunged — a scream of banshee winds — and chaos erupted.
Sebastián struck at Movian, claws scraping steel. Collins blasted runes. Abby raised a shield. Jazz summoned thunder from the cracked sky.
But it was Valentina who moved like fire.
She glided through Camilla's attacks, each motion like a dance of death, seductive and merciless. She wasn't just fighting. She was devouring.
"You tried to steal my power," Valentina hissed, grabbing Camilla by the throat. "You tried to rewrite my fate."
Camilla writhed, screeching, her body shifting, forming weapons from her arms, but it was too late.
Valentina kissed her on the cheek — soft, deadly — then whispered:
"You shouldn't have touched what was mine."
Her hands ignited, and for the first time, Camilla screamed in fear.
No spell could save her.
No lie could seduce her.
Valentina's flame crawled over her skin, inside her soul, and in seconds — Camilla turned to smoke.
Gone.
—
Silence.
Ash drifted in the wind like black snow.
The others stood frozen.
Collins spoke first. "She… killed her with a kiss."
Jazz whispered, "She's unstoppable now."
Valentina turned to them, eyes blazing.
"You think this is the end?" she asked, voice rich with fury and ecstasy. "This was only the beginning."
Behind her, the ground cracked. From the ashes, a throne of obsidian and fire began to rise.
A throne meant only for her.
Movian stepped closer, blood dripping from his jaw.
"I told you," he said, smirking. "You were never meant to be saved. You were meant to rule."
And she did.
With smoke in her veins, fire in her hands, and the whole of Havana trembling beneath her feet.
Chapter Fifteen: The Final Sleep
Valentina stood on the rooftop of the old Havana cathedral, her dark curls wild in the salty breeze, the city lights shimmering below her like fireflies. Her body no longer felt like her own—too powerful, too dangerous. The power that had saved them all was the same power that now pulsed beneath her skin like a storm, impossible to tame.
Abby stepped forward, hesitant. "You don't have to leave," she whispered.Valentina turned slowly. Her eyes glowed like molten gold. "I do."Collins, Jazz, and Movian stood behind Abby, each quiet, solemn. Movian's gaze lingered longer. He didn't say anything. He couldn't. His silence was louder than any goodbye.
Valentina looked at them one last time—her makeshift family, her battlefield lovers, her broken soldiers who had fought beside her. And then she said it.
"I'm not your savior. I'm your last resort."
Her hands moved gracefully, weaving through the thick air. The spell was old, passed down by her mother, one only she could use. It would seal her powers in deep sleep. A sleep so heavy, it could only be undone by the words of awakening—should Havana ever fall into ruin again.
"You'll protect the city?" she asked.
Abby nodded, tears catching in her lashes. "With our lives."
Valentina stepped down from the edge. Her body glowed faintly now, like dying embers. "If a darkness comes… one you can't face…" she said, voice low, "you know what to say."
Movian's jaw clenched. "Don't do this," he said. "Stay. I—"He couldn't finish. She placed her fingers to his lips. "Don't love a weapon, Movian. It will only hurt you."
She kissed him softly on the cheek. Then turned to Abby, who stared with longing. "Another time," Valentina whispered with a wink.
The group encircled her. The ancient words spilled from their mouths like forgotten music. The air trembled. Light swirled around Valentina's form. She looked like a goddess—untouchable, divine.
And then she was gone.
Lying inside the crystal tomb beneath the Temple of Fire, her chest rising and falling slowly. A beautiful statue of war and sorrow.
The city was quiet.
The girl once called Kiki—who became Valentina Paloma—had fallen into the deepest sleep the world had ever seen.
And above her, carved into stone, were the final words of the spell…
"Let her sleep, until fire falls again."