Chapter 22: A Fortress of Lies.

I drove back towards the ranch, the sanctuary built on depravity, the place where law and lust intertwined, where family bonds were forged in sin and sealed with cum, where nurses like Clara, Margaret, and Evelyn had turned from carers to whores since that fuckin’ August 1993 orgy that broke every boundary. My body ached, raw and spent, the sticky residue of Robert Stewart’s cum still clingin’ to my thighs under my tailored black skirt suit—a crisp blazer, knee-length pencil skirt, white blouse with the top button undone hintin’ at danger, and polished black stilettos that clicked with every step I’d taken today. A thin silver chain with a small cross pendant hung at my neck, a mocking nod to the morality I’d abandoned, its cold metal restin’ against my collarbone, shiftin’ slightly with each breath. My badge gleamed cold against my chest, a twisted symbol of the law I’d bent into filth. My pussy throbbed, a constant reminder of the price paid, the deals made with flesh and power at the Stewart estate just hours ago. But my mind was racin’, already plottin’ the next move—pushin’ Ricky Malone at the station, raidin’ the whorehouse on Route 87, huntin’ Leon’s remainin’ lieutenants, securin’ more power, more leverage, more control to shield the Legacy.

The sun dipped below the horizon, plungin’ Lubbock into darkness, the vast Texas sky stretchin’ endless above, stars prickin’ through like cold, indifferent eyes, givin’ no fucks about the human filth below. The ranch loomed ahead, a silhouette of jagged shadows against the night, its saggin’ porch and weather-beaten barns a stark contrast to the Stewarts’ manicured opulence, the air carryin’ the faint stink of livestock, dried sweat, and the sour tang of rusted metal from old farm tools scattered across the yard. My soul ... what little was left ... was a raw wound, bleedin’ guilt and regret with every mile, every sin, the faces of my babies—Libra, Gemini, Aries, Taurus, Pisces, Aquarius—hauntin’ me, their innocence a knife in my gut. But there was no turnin’ back. Not anymore. The Legacy of Sin demanded payment, blood and cum as currency. And I was ready to pay it. Over and over again. Ready to fight, ready to fuck, ready to bleed my way through this war, one brutal sin at a time, prayin’ my children wouldn’t pay the ultimate price for the abyss I’d carved into their blood. The hunt wasn’t over. It had just gotten a hell of a lot dirtier. And a hell of a lot more fuckin’ complicated.

Back at the ranch, I gathered Jessica, Malcom, and the Stewarts’ liaison—a stiff, suit-wearin’ man named Harold—around the kitchen table, the chipped Formica surface scarred from years of use, littered with faint coffee rings and scratches, a faded yellow tablecloth frayin’ at the edges, the air thick with the scent of baby powder, stale coffee, and lingerin’ sin, a faint mildew tang from the cracked window lettin’ in the night breeze. Outside the cracked window, the ranch’s gravel yard sprawled under a sliver of moon, rusted farm equipment loomin’ like skeletal ghosts, their jagged shapes castin’ long shadows across the dry, cracked earth, a cruel backdrop to the plans meant to shield my babies sleepin’ down the hall, their innocence mockin’ the depravity we wove around ‘em. A single, bare bulb hung above the table, castin’ harsh, flickering light that danced across the peeling, nicotine-stained wallpaper, the faint hum of the old fridge in the corner a constant drone beneath our words.

Jessica sat pale and quiet, dressed in a faded gray sweatshirt, the sleeves pulled over her hands to hide their trembling, the fabric loose but unable to conceal her still-soft post-birth curves. Her jeans were worn, frayed at the knees, huggin’ her hips in a way that hinted at her fragility, her nude ballet flats scuffed worse than ever, the toes nearly worn through from nervous pacing. The small silver locket around her neck glinted faintly under the kitchen’s harsh fluorescent light, its delicate chain a stark contrast to the weight of trauma it seemed to carry, her hand tremblin’ in Malcom’s as she gripped it tightly, her eyes hollow from the breakin’ of her mother two days prior on that very fuckin’ floor. Her hair was still in a loose, messy bun, strands fallin’ loose to frame her pale face, accentuatin’ her haunted expression, a ghost of the girl she’d been before the Legacy claimed her.

Malcom, oblivious to the depths of our filth, beamed with naive excitement in a simple plaid shirt, blue and green checks faded from too many washes, tucked unevenly into khaki pants that sagged slightly at the waist, secured with a worn brown leather belt. His brown leather loafers were scuffed, the heels worn from constant movement, a boyish mismatch to the grim stakes of the room. A plain silver watch on his left wrist ticked softly, a practical accessory that seemed too ordinary for the web of lies he’d married into, his boyish optimism almost a slap in the face as he squeezed Jessica’s hand, his eyes bright with hope under the harsh light.

Harold, mid-forties and nervous, wore a cheap navy suit, the jacket slightly too big at the shoulders, paired with a white dress shirt with a frayed collar, a red tie slightly askew, its knot loosened as if he’d tugged at it under stress. His scuffed black dress shoes squeaked faintly on the linoleum when he shifted, and a thin gold wedding band on his left hand caught the light, flashin’ as he adjusted his tie, his eyes dartin’ between me and the Stewarts’ expectations like a deer caught in headlights. His short, thinning brown hair was slicked back with too much gel, a faint sheen under the bulb’s glare, and a battered leather briefcase rested at his feet, stuffed with papers that spilled slightly onto the floor, a testament to his frazzled state.

I stood at the head of the table, my black stilettos planted firm on the cracked linoleum, my badge a cold weight against my chest, the silver cross pendant shiftin’ slightly as I leaned forward, my pussy still raw from Robert’s desk, my mind sharp with control, the ache a dark fuel for the war ahead. Alex lingered near the sink, her presence a quiet storm, dressed in a tight black tank top that clung to her toned curves, faded jeans huggin’ her hips, ripped at one thigh to show a glimpse of tanned skin, and scuffed black combat boots that thudded with every deliberate step. No jewelry adorned her, just a raw, predatory edge in her dark eyes that mirrored my own hunger, her short, dark hair tucked behind one ear, a single streak of silver catchin’ the light, a mark of stress or defiance. A faint scar on her knuckles gleamed under the bulb, a reminder of past fights, her stance ready, coiled, like a predator waitin’ to strike.