CHAPTER 15
Back in Houston, the messages and missed calls from them screamed at me from the phone. Their fear, their panic—I savored it. We sedated Rufus constantly, a chemical leash to keep him unconscious, helpless, while the rest of the world stayed oblivious.
On Saturday, Lupita and I flew to California. The church—Rudolph's little sanctuary—was supposed to be untouchable, a haven. We told the members that Sunday service was canceled because of renovations. The priest refused to comply. We locked him in his own house. Paid actors filled the pews. A fake priest intoned the service, every word a lie, every motion a trap.
After the service, Rudolph went to the confession box. He had no idea I was there, a shadow in the wooden cage, hearing every word, feeling every lie he spilled. Halfway through, Lupita hit him. Knocked him out like a puppet with broken strings. We loaded him into the van and drove back to Houston with Marissa, the three of them now mere pieces of a game we were winning. Two down. One to go.
I returned to Atlanta to see Jordan. My boy. My blood. My heartbeat outside of me. We had ice cream, rollercoaster rides, laughter that felt alien on my tongue, because while I reveled in him, I carried the weight of what I was about to do. The pain, the unrepentant rage, the hatred—it burned in me like molten iron. No forgiveness. Never forgiveness. Only justice. Only retribution. My sisters would handle the rest; I reminded myself. The world did not need them alive.
It was nearly six when I dropped him off. Taylor's path home was predictable. I set a fake checkpoint, disguised so he would never recognize me. His car rolled to a stop. I demanded license and registration, and he obeyed, unsuspecting. Just as he began to move again, choking gas filled the car. His body slumped, limp and unconscious, a marionette cut from its strings. I released the smoke, loaded him into the van, and drove back to Houston.
The ranch awaited. The final act.
We seated them in the center of the wide-open land, mounted our horses, and formed a perfect circle. My sisters flanked me, silent and deadly. I stepped forward, removed my cowboy hat and bandana. Their screams tore through the air the second they saw me—their eyes wide, faces pale, bodies trembling. The men who had destroyed so many lives…looked like nothing more than frightened children now.
I reminded them. Every memory, every act of cruelty, every slap, every insult. I let the weight of it press down on them. And then I offered them a single chance. Survival—but only if they ran. Fail, and the dogs would devour them.
Kora untied them.
The moment came. I fired the revolver Lupita had given me. My hands didn't shake. My heart didn't waver. I had trained for this, dreamed of this, let this rage burn inside me until it became precision. The first shot hit Taylor. The second Rudolph. The last, Rufus. The dogs—hungry, trained, perfect instruments of vengeance—were released.
They ran. They screamed. Limbs were torn. Their faces twisted with panic, fear, disbelief. The power, the absolute control—it was intoxicating. I looked down at them, tears threatening my own composure, and said, "I wanted to be the last woman you ever see in your lives. Even in hell, when you see a woman, I want my face to be your warning. The face of Brandi, the horsewoman, will be your ticket to eternal fire."
And the dogs feasted.
Their screams filled the ranch, echoing into the sky, carrying my past with them into oblivion. I rode away. Never looked back. Never wanted to.
Back in Atlanta, the hollow echo of my revenge didn't bring peace. My son…he didn't know yet that his father had left him broken. But that worked too. I held the law of the land in my hands. I handed Jordan's custody to Indira. She had been a mother before; she would understand the fragility of a child's life.
I left Atlanta with a purpose darker than the night itself. The ranch behind me, Jordan safely in Indira's care, my sisters oblivious to the last steps I was about to take. My mind was razor-sharp, focused, and cold. This wasn't a game anymore—it was a surgical operation, precise, merciless, and utterly mine.
Mexico. The Don's den. Every detail etched in my memory. I walked through that cursed place like a phantom. My fingers traced the walls, over the desk, the chair, the carpet—leaving fingerprints through the burnt place,small and calculated. A knife cut my palm lightly—I let the crimson drip onto a handkerchief, pressed it against the surface of the desk. It wasn't dramatic, it wasn't theatrical. It was me marking my presence, making it undeniable. My own blood. My signature. My declaration.
I moved through the den methodically, placing objects, dropping items that would point to me, timing my actions with precision. I felt the adrenaline in my veins, the familiar rush of danger, but the fear didn't reach my bones. Fear was a tool for others—I was the predator. Every step, every movement screamed control.
Back at the ranch, I repeated the ritual. Footprints leading where I wanted, objects arranged just so, evidence carefully curated to scream Brandi —my name in bold, my presence unavoidable. Every piece a puzzle piece for the authorities to find, every clue a dagger twisting in the stomach of the law.
Then I turned myself in. The courthouse lights were harsh, sterile, but I stepped inside with the same calm certainty I had when riding across the ranch, when watching those dogs feed. My hands were steady. My pulse, though racing, was contained. My face, the mask of composure, hid the wildfire inside.
They arrested me immediately. I felt their eyes on me, measuring, judging, desperate to find cracks. But there were none. The rage, the fury, the satisfaction—they were mine alone. I watched the officers handle me, carefully, like handling a live wire. Every glance I threw them reminded them—this woman wasn't just dangerous, she was untouchable.
My sisters arrived. Anger and betrayal radiated off them in waves. Lupita, furious and confused, wanted to throw herself into the same inferno. I stopped her with a look that could pierce steel. Jordan. That was the key. Their loyalty, their guilt, their soft spots—they were my leverage. My sisters left, hearts pounding, betrayed, helpless, and I let them feel it.
In the court, the sentence fell like a hammer. Seven hundred and eighty-four lifetimes. Death. Numbers meant nothing; the scale of punishment couldn't touch the satisfaction that coursed through me. My vengeance, the culmination of years of suffering, blood, and fire, was now etched into history.
And yet, as they read the verdict, I felt something strange—a flicker of emptiness. Peace? No. It would not come. The world had been cleansed of its rot, but the darkness I carried would never vanish. I had done what needed to be done, yes, but the thrill, the weight, the cold clarity of justice—it stayed with me. Every memory, every scream, every tear—they were mine, my currency, my control.
I walked out of that courtroom, a queen in a cage of my own making. No apologies. No regrets. Only the echo of my power, the taste of my vengeance, and the certainty that even in chains, I was untouchable.