The prison was quieter than usual. The air in the hallway felt heavy, the kind of silence that pressed against the walls and settled into the bones. Stacy walked slowly toward the visiting chamber, each step echoing louder than it should. Her recorder was in her bag, her notepad clutched in her hand, but for the first time since this project began, she did not feel like a journalist. She felt like someone arriving at the edge of a story that might consume her entirely.
The guard unlocked the final door and gestured her in. Rafael was already seated. His wrists were chained to the table, but he looked relaxed, almost regal, as though the cold metal was nothing more than an accessory. He smiled the moment she entered.
“Stacy,” he said softly, his voice warm and unsettling. “I was beginning to wonder if you would come.”
She set her bag down and sat across from him, her heart beating fast. “Of course I came. This is the last chance I will ever have to speak to you. Tomorrow you will be executed.”
Rafael tilted his head, studying her. “You say it so plainly, like it is just another detail in your notes. But does it not stir something in you? The thought that this is our final conversation.”
“It stirs everything in me,” she admitted, her voice shaking slightly. “But I am not here to indulge your riddles tonight. I want answers. Real ones.”
His smile widened. “Ah. The truth.”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “The truth about Trisha. About Andrew. About my father. I want to know how deep your confessions run and how much of them were lies.”
Rafael leaned back, his chains clinking. “Do you really believe there is such a thing as truth? People cling to it as if it were a jewel, precious and unshakable. But truth is only a mirror. Tilt it one way, it reflects light. Tilt it another, it reflects shadow. Which one do you want from me?”
“I want the truth that will let me finally understand,” Stacy whispered.
Rafael’s gaze softened, almost tender. “Then ask, and I will answer. Not because I owe the world clarity, but because I owe you connection.”
She took a deep breath. “Trisha first. Did you love her?”
His lips curved faintly. “Love is a dangerous word. Trisha was a storm, and I am a man drawn to storms. We consumed each other, yes, but love… no. I never promised her forever. I promised her fire. She wanted to believe fire could last forever, but it only burns until there is nothing left.”
Stacy’s fingers tightened around her pen. “She said you destroyed her.”
“I did,” Rafael admitted easily. “But destruction was not mine alone. She chose to step into the blaze. She wanted the thrill, the rebellion, the taste of something forbidden. When it ended, she blamed me because I was the flame. But she always knew what I was.”
“And Andrew,” Stacy pressed. “He told me you betrayed him. He said you left him broken.”
Rafael’s expression shifted, his eyes darkening. “Andrew was my brother in everything but blood. We survived the streets together, we built our empire side by side. But loyalty is only strong until the moment survival whispers in your ear. He betrayed me first. He cut deals, made promises behind my back. Do not let his story fool you. He calls me traitor because it eases his guilt.”
“So you admit you used him.”
“I admit,” Rafael said calmly, “that I use everyone. That is what power demands. But do not mistake use for lack of affection. I cared for Andrew. He was part of me. When I killed, when I lied, when I carved my path, he was always there. But in the end, brotherhood is an illusion when the gallows waits.”
Stacy’s throat tightened. “And my father?”
Rafael’s smile returned, sharper now. “Ah, the honorable Filemon Bendoy. A man of clean suits and dirty hands. You want to know how many of my crimes carried his shadow? Enough to make you question every speech he ever gave about justice. Your father was not just aware of men like me. He benefited from us. I hid blood for him. I buried names for him. When scandals threatened his career, I made them vanish. I was his monster in the dark.”
Stacy’s breath caught. “You are lying.”
“Am I?” Rafael asked gently. “Think of how often he scolded you for chasing my story. Think of how desperate he was to keep you away. Was it only because he feared for your safety? Or was it because he feared his own truth would surface in my words?”
Her chest ached. She remembered her father’s warnings, his anger, his insistence that her work would ruin their family. Could it have been more than reputation he was trying to protect?
Rafael leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her. “This is what you wanted, is it not? Answers. But truth is not a balm. It cuts. It leaves scars. Do you regret asking?”
Stacy swallowed hard. “I regret nothing. But I do not know if I believe you.”
“Good,” Rafael said softly. “Doubt is honest. Blind belief is dangerous.”
She exhaled shakily and pressed her hands flat on the table. “So why tell me all this? Why not go to your execution with your secrets intact?”
His smile softened. “Because truth was never the point. You see, Stacy, confession is not about clarity. It is about intimacy. Every time I told you a story, every time I revealed a piece of myself, I was not giving the world answers. I was giving you my soul. Connection is the only real confession, and you have it all now.”
Her throat tightened. “You are saying this was never about justice. It was never about setting the record straight. It was only about me.”
“Of course,” he murmured. “You are my last crime. My most dangerous one. I loved you in the way only a man who has nothing left can love. Recklessly. Entirely. Do not mistake it for manipulation. This time, it is the only truth I know.”
Tears pricked her eyes, but she forced herself to stay composed. “What am I supposed to do with that? You leave me with nothing but chaos. How do I carry this?”
Rafael’s eyes gleamed. “You carry it because it is yours. You wanted to carve your own path apart from your father. Now you have it. You are no longer just Stacy Bendoy, the daughter of Filemon, the ambitious journalist. You are Stacy Bendoy, the woman who heard my last words. You are part of me now, whether you wanted it or not.”
She shook her head. “I never asked for that.”
“No,” he agreed softly. “But the most dangerous gifts are never asked for. They are given.”
The guard at the door cleared his throat. Time was nearly up.
Stacy stared at Rafael, at the man who had confessed murder, betrayal, and corruption, and yet spoke of love as if it were the ultimate sin. Her heart felt torn between revulsion and something she refused to name.
She stood slowly, gathering her things. “This is the end, Rafael. Tomorrow you die.”
He smiled faintly. “And yet, tomorrow I live inside you.”
She turned and walked toward the door, her steps unsteady, her vision blurred with unshed tears. The sound of his chains echoed behind her, fading with every step until only silence remained.
Outside, the night air was cold against her skin. She pressed a hand to her chest, where his words had lodged like shards of glass. She had come seeking truth, but what she carried away was far more dangerous.
It was connection.
And it terrified her more than any confession ever could.
ns216.73.216.46da2
and then Add to home screen.