The dining room was a masterpiece of opulence. A long mahogany table stretched across the room, adorned with fine china and crystal glasses. The chandelier above cast a warm glow, illuminating the faces of my family members as they took their seats.
Father sat at the head, his expression stern. Mother, ever the picture of grace, sat beside him. Ignacio offered me a small smile as I took my seat. Sophia, seated across from me, looked as if she'd rather be anywhere else.
"Valeria," Father began, his voice cold, "care to explain your sudden disappearance?"
I met his gaze, unflinching. "I needed time to think."
Sofia scoffed, swirling her wine glass.
"Got something to say?"
"Must be nice to vanish without a word and face no consequences." she rolled her stupid eyes.
Ignacio intervened, his tone light but firm. "Let's not turn this into a tribunal, Estamos aquí para cenar."
(We're here to have dinner)
Father's eyes narrowed. "Dinner or not, responsibilities were neglected. In times of crisis, we stand together. We don't run."
I felt the weight of his words but refused to let them pierce me. "Running implies fear. I was seeking clarity."
Mother reached out, placing a gentle hand on Father's arm. "Let's focus on the meal. We can discuss matters afterward."
Sophia leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with a mix of resentment and challenge. "Always the favorite, aren't you? The rules never seem to apply to you."
Aquí vamos de nuevo
(Here we go again)
I tilted my head, a smirk playing on my lips. "Perhaps if you focused less on me and more on yourself, you'd find the rules more accommodating."
The tension was palpable, each word a spark threatening to ignite the room. Ignacio sighed, clearly weary of the familiar pattern.
Father spoke up.
"Bastante! Esta familia está al borde y las pequeñas disputas no ayudarán"
(Enough! This family is on the brink, and petty squabbles won't help.)
I had just lifted my glass of red wine to my lips when my father's voice, sharp and commanding, sliced through the low hum of tableware and awkward silence again.
"Samuel!" He waves over his Guardaespaldas
(Bodyguard)
The man was already moving before the last syllable left Santiago Castillo's lips. Samuel—ever the dutiful shadow—stepped forward from where he'd been standing a few feet away, expression unreadable, posture militant. In his gloved hands were several neatly folded newspapers.
He laid them on the table like they were evidence at a trial.
"You see that," my father said, gesturing toward the stack without touching it. "We have big problems."
I stared at the papers like they were roaches that had scurried onto the table uninvited.
My mind immediately thought, 'Yh, we do. Who still uses newspapers?'
But I bit the comment back and settled for a tight-lipped sip of wine instead.
Sofia, of course, snatched the top one like she was the family's self-appointed PR agent. Her eyes flicked quickly across the front page, and her brows furrowed almost instantly. Her lips curled ever so slightly in distaste. Whatever she saw wasn't good.
"What is it?" my mother asked gently, eyes soft but strained.
Like we didn't already know what we're in those papers.
Sofia held it up for everyone to see. And there it was—the Castillo name, slapped across headlines in bold font. Words like "corruption," "investigation," and "drug links" screamed from the print like sirens.
"Val," Sofia said, not looking up, "this is exactly what I warned you about."
What's she saying my name for?
I gave her a bland smile. "Glad to know the world kept turning while I was gone."
Her eyes narrowed, but before she could retaliate with one of her verbal stilettos, the maids entered, carrying silver trays and platters that brought with them the smell of roasted meats, seasoned vegetables, and something warm and nostalgic. At least the food was on time.
"Lomo saltado," one of the servers said as she placed a large platter in the center, "and bacalao a la vizcaína, señor."
My stomach gave a quiet growl, betraying the indifference I was trying to maintain.
Another maid brought out creamy lobster bisque, slices of Spanish tortilla, and a bowl of vibrant ensalada rusa. There was even a tray of grilled ribeye steaks and truffle mashed potatoes—for our more American side, I supposed.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the clinking of cutlery filled the silence. My father cut into his steak with mechanical precision, like the newspaper hadn't just thrown his empire under a spotlight.
"Keep a clear head," he said suddenly, eyes locked on me.
I stilled.
"There are things in motion," he added, tone quieter this time, almost... weary.
I swallowed and set my fork down. "What kind of things?"
"The kind that can either bury us or buy us time," he said, still not looking at me. "But if we don't act—quickly and smartly—everything I've built will be gone. Just like that."
I felt my stomach twist. Not from fear. From the weight of those words. Everything he's built. The empire we were all chained to—by blood, by name, by legacy. A legacy that was starting to feel more like a ticking bomb than a crown.
Ignacio cleared his throat, always the peacemaker. "We'll handle it, Papá," he said with calm certainty. "We've come back from worse."
No, we haven't, Nacho
Then he glanced at me, and our eyes met. His expression was soft—reassuring—but there was something else, too.
I gave him a small nod. It was the only response I could muster with the weight pressing down on my chest.
And through it all, Sofia's voice cut back in, like a dull blade scraping a raw wound.
"Some of us aren't helping matters though, running off to Greece like a spoiled heiress escaping scandal."
She just had to bring this up again.
I didn't look at her. Just picked up my wine glass again and murmured, "Some of us didn't realize the family had appointed you moral compass."
The tension was thick, but my father didn't stop us. Maybe he was too tired. Or maybe he knew this kind of dysfunction was par for the course in the Castillo household.
We ate in near silence after that, only the occasional clatter of cutlery and the quiet sounds of the maids moving around us. And underneath it all, the pressure mounted.
I didn't need to read the paper to know we were in deep. Our name was being dragged, our allies growing wary, and our enemies emboldened.
°°°
I stepped out of my car, heels clicking against the concrete of the underground parking lot like the beginning of a war drum. My Audi's engine purred to a stop behind me, the soft click of the doors locking echoing in the stillness. The city above hummed, but down here, it was just me and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights. I took the elevator up to my penthouse, the familiar ding greeting me as the doors opened.
Quiet. Cool. Clean. Untouched. And absolutely, gloriously, Sofia-free.
I dropped my purse on the entryway table, slipped off my heels with a satisfied sigh, and walked toward the living room, flicking on a lamp. The skyline blinked through the glass walls, twinkling like it was trying to apologize for the circus of a family dinner I just escaped.
And God, what a dinner.
I didn't even finish my dessert. The tension at that table could've snapped a steel cable. Sofia throwing daggered glances like it was sport, my father trying to pretend the house wasn't one bad headline away from burning to the ground, and Nacho—bless his loyal, reckless heart—doing damage control as best he could between bites of paella. At least he tried.
I dropped into the couch with a groan, legs curled under me, and reached for the tablet I'd left on the table a week ago. The home screen lit up to messages—dozens. Some work, some encrypted. A few unmarked, which meant work related. I didn't open them.
I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a glass of wine from the fridge—yes, chilled red, don't judge me—and leaned against the counter, sipping slowly.
The thing is, when you grow up in a family like mine, dysfunction isn't the exception. It's the rule. Santiago Castillo didn't raise children. He bred heirs. Soldiers. Puppets. Sofia stepped right into her role, like it was tailored for her. Ignacio did too—although he still kept his soul, somehow. Me? I questioned too much. Loved too little. And ran too often.
I wasn't born for this life. I was built into it.
But even I knew what was happening was dangerous. My uncle—the great Armando Castillo—was behind bars. Drug trafficking, racketeering, conspiracy to murder. All very on-brand, except now the media had receipts. And worse? So did the feds.
His son—my cousin—was dead. Bullet to the chest. In broad daylight.
It wasn't just messy. It was catastrophic.
And the connections between Armando's "legit" empire and my father's business... they weren't as distant as we liked to pretend. Paper trails. Old accounts. Some shared shell companies. A few people too greedy to stay quiet. It was unraveling fast.
And where was I during all this?
Sipping mojitos in Greece. Hiding behind ocean views and overpriced spa days like the coward Sofia claimed I was.
I set the glass down, a little harder than necessary.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I did run. But at least I didn't pretend everything was fine while Rome burned.
Still... the guilt slithered in.
They were cleaning up the mess. Sofia was taking meetings with lawyers and investors. Ignacio was flying back and forth from Mexico, trying to calm the waters. And my father… he was doing what he always did—boiling just beneath the surface.
And me?
I was sitting in a glass tower, drinking wine.
The thought hit harder than I expected. I didn't like it.
I padded back to the living room, curling into the couch, pulling a throw over my legs. I stared at the city for a while, wine forgotten on the table.
Was it really cowardice that sent me running, or self-preservation? When my cousin died, I felt it—like a physical hit. We weren't close, but he was still family. Still one of us. And Armando? He wasn't just my uncle. He was my father's shadow. The one person Santiago trusted outside of his own children. Now he was behind bars. And everyone was scrambling.
The Castillo empire wasn't just bleeding—it was gushing.
And I left.
God, maybe Sofia was—
I stopped myself. No. Nope.
"What in the emotionally manipulative hell was that?" I muttered aloud, glaring at my own reflection in the glass. "Did the maids put something in my wine? Am I seriously contemplating Sofia being right?"
I shook my head. "I need sleep."
Dragging myself up, I made my way to the bedroom. My sanctuary. Warm sheets, dim lighting, soft pillows. No judgment. No sideways glances. No newspapers slapped on tables like a death sentence.
As I lay down, a thought slid into my mind, uninvited and persistent.
What if we lose it all?
What if Santiago's empire falls? What if the Castillo name is reduced to a headline and a cautionary tale?
And what would that make me?
I didn't answer.
I just let the silence hold me as I fell asleep.