POV: Sofia
Success was a taste, metallic and sweet, like blood on the tongue. The final transfer was complete.
Every last dollar of the that crying, drooling mob Princess—now my fortune—was nestled in untraceable accounts across the globe. My final acts of vengeance were complete poems of destruction.
Burning the Mendoza empire to the ground had been a pleasure.
I'd used their own remaining assets to fund a rival cartel, watching from a safe distance as they tore each other apart. Ray's fate was a mere footnote, lost in the glorious blaze. My father's legacy was ash.
And the Fernandezes? My parting gift to them was a war on a front they couldn't shoot: the FBI. The anonymous tip, laden with just enough truth about their operations to be credible, had been my masterpiece.
Let them spend the next decade fighting extradition, their empire crumbling under the weight of subpoenas and seized assets. A fitting distraction for the men who killed my mother.
It was all so... tidy.
Now, seated in the plush leather of my private jet, the gentle hum of the engines was a lullaby. A crystal flute of champagne sat, untouched, in the holder. I didn't need the drink. The high of my own genius was intoxication enough.
Through the window, the tarmac of the private airfield shimmered in the heat. Beyond it, the endless, brilliant blue of the ocean. Bora Bora. A blank slate. A paradise purchased with a billion dollars of blood money.
The door to the cockpit opened. I expected the pilot to give a final thumbs-up before takeoff.
But it wasn't the pilot.
Leo Fernandez stepped out.
He wasn't in a suit. He was wearing a simple, dark co-pilot's uniform, his glasses reflecting the cabin lights, hiding his eyes.
In his hand was a heavy-looking fire extinguisher, its base stained with a fresh, dark smear.
My heart didn't just skip a beat; it seemed to freeze solid in my chest. The world tilted.
"You," I breathed, the word a ghost.
"Me," Leo confirmed, his voice as calm and flat as if he were reading a stock report. He tossed the extinguisher onto a seat. It landed with a dull thud. "The real pilot is sedated. A minor head trauma. The probability of him regaining consciousness before we crash is zero."
Crash.
The word hung in the pressurized air.
He walked to the main console near the galley, his movements efficient. He typed a few commands.
The gentle hum of the engines didn't change, but I felt a subtle shift. The jet began to taxi, but not down the runway. It turned, bumping roughly over the grass, heading directly for the sea wall.
"You took everything from us," Leo said, not looking at me. "Our sister. Our money. Our freedom. You used our mother's memory as a weapon. There is no variable left where you get to win."
"Leo, you f**king idiot! You'll die too!" I shrieked, scrambling out of my seat, my manicured claws reaching for him.
He didn't flinch. He simply turned, and for the first time, I saw his eyes. There was no anger. No hate. Just a devastating, absolute finality.
"Maybe," he said.
The jet bumped over the edge of the tarmac, its nose dipping onto the sand. The wheels caught, and the whole cabin shuddered. Through the windshield, the blue water rushed towards us, impossibly fast.
I was thrown back into my seat, the champagne flute shattering on the floor. The roar of the engines was deafening as they ingested saltwater.
And in that last, horrifying second, as the cold ocean slammed against the plexiglass, Leo looked at me, a strange, almost peaceful acceptance on his face.
"I might have made one miscalculation, Sofia."
The water exploded into the cabin.
"I can't swim."