The room was heavy with silence when Stacy entered. The guard who escorted her stepped back, leaving her face to face with Rafael Manuel. The death row convict was leaning back on his chair, hands folded, eyes gleaming with something that looked dangerously close to satisfaction. The overhead light flickered faintly, throwing shadows across his face that made him appear half angel and half demon.
Stacy sat down slowly, her notebook resting on the table between them. She pressed the pen against the paper as though it would anchor her nerves.
“You look tired,” Rafael said with a sly smile. “Late night, perhaps? Or did you spend it thinking of me?”
“Neither,” Stacy replied, keeping her voice firm. “I am here for the sixth confession. You said yesterday you would not hold back today.”
Rafael leaned forward, his elbows brushing the cold metal table. His voice dropped into a near whisper. “I told you that each confession cuts closer to the bone. Today, you will bleed with me. Today, I will confess to killing someone who trusted me more than anyone else.”
Stacy felt her stomach twist. She adjusted her recorder, though her hand trembled slightly. “Who was it?”
Rafael chuckled softly. “Always rushing. You want answers like a child unwrapping gifts. But some truths are poison, Stacy. They must be sipped slowly, otherwise they choke you.”
“Then sip,” she shot back, her voice sharper than intended. “But speak.”
Rafael’s smile widened. He seemed to enjoy her impatience, savoring the control he held. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though tasting the memory.
“There was a man who called me brother,” Rafael began. “He and I grew up together in the gutters. We fought side by side. We shared hunger, and when fortune came, we shared blood. He trusted me with his life, and I trusted him… until I did not.”
Stacy’s thoughts snapped instantly to Andrew Macavinta. The loyal enforcer, the shadow that always followed Rafael’s name. Her pen scratched across the paper, though the weight in her chest pressed harder.
“You mean Andrew,” she said.
Rafael opened his eyes. They were sharp, gleaming like blades. “Do I?” He tilted his head. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it was someone else entirely. You see, trust is a currency. I took it, and then I burned it.”
“Stop playing with words,” Stacy insisted. “Did you kill Andrew?”
Rafael tapped the table lightly with one finger, rhythmic, almost hypnotic. “Do you think Andrew would sit idly while I rot here? If he were alive, he would have stormed these walls already. He was never subtle. He was fire. So where is he now, Stacy?”
Stacy’s breath caught in her throat. Rafael had not confirmed it, but the implication dug under her skin. She could feel the manipulation tightening like ropes around her mind.
“You killed him,” she whispered.
“Or he killed himself by trusting me,” Rafael replied, his tone smooth. “That is the essence of betrayal, is it not? A blade slipped into the back by the very hand you once held.”
Her eyes burned, but she kept her composure. “Why? If he was your brother in everything but blood, why would you destroy him?”
For the first time, Rafael’s smile faltered. His eyes flickered with something raw, something unguarded. “Because love makes you weak. Andrew was loyal, yes, but loyalty can be a noose. He began to question my choices. He began to doubt me. And I could not allow that. Doubt is contagious, Stacy. One seed of it and the whole garden withers.”
Stacy leaned forward, her pulse racing. “Or was it because of Trisha?”
Rafael’s silence was louder than any confirmation. He stared at her, his jaw tightening.
“You do not know when to stop,” he finally muttered. “Trisha was a storm neither Andrew nor I could control. She was beauty that burned, and fire demands sacrifice. Andrew saw her as danger, and perhaps he was right. He tried to pull me away from her. He said she would ruin everything. He said she would be the death of us.”
“And was he wrong?” Stacy asked softly.
Rafael laughed bitterly, a hollow sound that echoed against the concrete walls. “Look at me now. A man waiting for death, telling bedtime stories to a journalist with sharp eyes and a soft heart. Tell me, Stacy, was he wrong?”
She did not answer. The silence stretched, and Rafael leaned closer until his breath brushed her ear.
“I killed the one who trusted me most,” he whispered. “But I will not tell you how. Some deaths are sacred. Some sins must remain cloaked.”
Stacy pulled back, shaking her head. “No. If you want this to be a true confession, you cannot hide behind riddles. Did you kill Andrew yourself? Or did you let someone else do it?”
Rafael’s gaze darkened. “Sometimes the line between letting and doing is so thin it disappears. I may have pulled the trigger, or I may have handed him to wolves. Either way, the blood was mine to carry.”
Her hands trembled over the notebook, the pen smudging ink across the page. The weight of his words pressed on her chest like iron.
“You said he trusted you,” Stacy murmured. “How did he look at you in the end?”
Rafael’s eyes softened with a fleeting pain. “He looked at me like a child who realizes his hero is a monster. That is a gaze you never forget.”
Silence fell again, thick and suffocating. Stacy felt her throat tighten. The recorder clicked faintly as it captured every word, but she wondered if the world should even hear them.
Finally, she asked, “And what about Trisha? Was she part of this?”
Rafael smirked again, but it did not reach his eyes. “Trisha was always part of everything. She was the flame between us, the reason we fought, the reason we bled. Did she want Andrew gone? Perhaps. Did she whisper poison into my ear? Maybe. But in the end, the choice was mine. It is always mine.”
“Do you regret it?” Stacy asked.
Rafael leaned back, folding his arms. “Regret is for the weak. I do not regret. I endure. But sometimes, when I close my eyes at night, I hear his laughter. And it is not forgiving.”
Stacy’s chest ached. She saw the cracks in his armor now, faint but undeniable. Behind the charisma and manipulation was a man haunted by the ghost of the one he betrayed.
“You are cruel,” she whispered.
“And you are drawn to cruelty,” Rafael countered, his eyes glinting. “That is why you keep coming back. Do not lie to yourself, Stacy. Every time I open my mouth, you lean closer. You want to understand me, even if it destroys you.”
Stacy stood abruptly, her chair scraping the floor. Her hands were trembling. “This is not about me. This is about truth.”
Rafael rose slightly from his chair, the chains clinking against the table. His voice was velvet and venom all at once. “Truth, Stacy, is what I make of it. Today I confessed that I killed someone who trusted me most. Tomorrow you may discover it was not Andrew at all. Perhaps it was Trisha. Perhaps even Eleonor. Or perhaps it is you, Stacy, because here you are, sitting across from me, offering me your trust in pieces.”
Her heart pounded in her chest. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thinner. She clenched her notebook against her chest as though it could shield her.
“You will not twist this,” she said firmly. “You confessed. The world will know. And no matter how you dress it with riddles, blood speaks louder than charm.”
Rafael smiled again, softer this time, almost tender. “Ah, Stacy. You do not realize it yet. My last confession will not be about Andrew or Trisha or any of the ghosts behind me. My last confession will be about you.”
Stacy turned away, her pulse roaring in her ears. The guard opened the door, and she stepped out quickly, needing air, needing distance. Yet even as the door shut between them, she could still hear Rafael’s voice echoing in her mind.
“I killed the one who trusted me most,” he had said. And for the first time, Stacy wondered if the one he truly meant was not Andrew, not Trisha, not anyone else. But himself.
ns216.73.216.46da2
and then Add to home screen.