CHAPTER 69: THE ROOK

–Livana–

Sophia examined my eyes as though searching for a truth buried beneath the surface. Her gaze flickered across the room — my study, a gift from my husband, a sanctuary he swore was free of eyes and ears. No cameras. No bugs. Still, Sophia moved like a chess player doubting the silence of the board, her fingers tracing shadows as if secrets might be nesting in the corners.

But today, we wouldn’t be speaking of the veil over my vision.

"About the Bishops," she said, her voice still and deliberate. "They’ve cleaned the jet. The bodies. Not a whisper left. It’s as though they had been waiting... watching while we fueled."

"Then they anticipated the move." I tilted my head, fingers laced in thought. "Call the Pawns. From now on, they will manage every leg of my travel. I refuse to leave anything to misfortune."

"I’m on it." Her voice was steady, but her arm trembled — pale and wrapped in gauze, the bandage peeking from her sleeve like a torn flag.

I turned to her, eyes narrowing. "Rest." The word came soft but firm, like a lullaby with an unsheathed knife beneath the tune. "Logan will handle the rest."

"It’s fine," she insisted.

"I insist harder." My voice darkened, velvet dipped in iron. "Recover, Sophia. I won’t send a bleeding knight back into the storm."

She hesitated, her gaze locking with mine — brown eyes bright as polished hazelnuts, full of unspoken worry.

"You’re not planning to leave again... are you?"

I met her stare in silence. For a moment, the room stilled — only the unspoken moved between us like shadows brushing past candlelight.

"Livana, there are things here we must still unravel. We can’t afford you running off to chase ghosts wearing the Madrigal name."

"Ghosts?" I smirked, arms folding across my chest like a queen contemplating war. "No. I’m not after the Madrigal." I leaned back. "My husband? He said he’d kill him himself."

"Then it will never end. You’ll spark a war with the Spanish Mafia that burns longer than either of you can reign."

"Perhaps," I mused, lips curling into a crescent grin, "I should speak to the old Madrigal. I believe he knew my mother."

A knock disrupted our tangled strings of words.

"Yes?" I called out, and Sophia stepped toward the door.

It opened, and Laura entered, a brown envelope clutched in her hand like an offering. She closed the door behind her — quiet, intentional.

"This arrived a few days ago."

She extended it toward me, and I raised my hand. She placed it in my palm. My fingers swept over its surface, sensing what others could not — the faint braille etched in secrecy.

To: Livana Marie Braxton-Carrington

From: Virginia Morris Petra

Virginia. The name felt sharp in the air. The envelope’s scent hinted of old ink and older institutions — likely the Pentagon. I turned my back to Laura and placed it on the desk. My fingers reached for the cutter — a silver blade used more for symbols than paper.

"I’ll take it from here, Laura," I said smoothly. "Why don’t you start planning the party?"

She didn’t move. Her voice came from behind — soft but riddled with echoes of long-held questions.

"Is it true?" she asked. "Did Mom really have ties to the Pentagon? Is that why she drilled Morse code into us? Her own strange versions of it? Is that why she pushed me into IT, into encryption, into systems?"

I paused.

"I don’t know." My voice broke through the quiet like dusk through fog.

I am the eldest, yet some answers die before reaching the firstborn’s lips. I never truly understood why our mother wrapped our childhood in riddles — math puzzles, binary codes, ciphers laced into bedtime stories. But I know this, whatever my mother was guarding... it drew the attention of giants.

I opened the envelope.

Inside, the letter waited for me — written not in ink, but in the quiet, raised language only my fingers could read.

Braille. Of course.

She always knew the world would try to blind me. So she taught me how to see without eyes.

To the Esteemed Livana,

Time may have eroded the pain, but memory, as you well know, remains untouched by dust or decay. We extend our quiet condolences regarding your mother’s departure — her absence, though aged by years, has not dimmed her shadow in our halls.

There are certain relics she once guarded... documents never meant to vanish, only to wait. Should you wish to reclaim what was once hers — and perhaps, still yours — we can arrange it. But more than parchment calls for reunion.

We believe the time has come to meet, face to face, no veils, no intermediaries. Surely, by now, the quiet brush of our presence has reached you. Rest assured — we do not carry the scent of espionage. Your mother was a force of quiet brilliance; her efforts planted seeds for a world we both know could be better. We honor that. We remember.

We are also not blind to her origins, nor yours — nor to the forces you now stand beside. As once promised, our offer remains: protection, in the old sense of the word.

Should Kentucky be a fitting crossroad, say the word. One of ours can find you.

Watch the hours. Choose wisely.

With enduring regard,

V. M. Petra

I held the letter delicately in my palm. It felt heavier than paper — not in weight, but in meaning. Every fold whispered danger. Instinct said this wasn’t something to keep. But it wasn’t just a letter.

There was more.

My fingers brushed against something else inside the envelope — a small velvet pouch. I brought it to my lap and unfastened the drawstring, feeling the subtle resistance of something metal within.

Gold.

A lighter?

I took it out, ran my fingers along its smooth, brushed surface. No — not just a lighter. It had the weight of something more precise. A compass?

Or both?

I studied it carefully, then flicked it open. A weak flame ignited, casting a dim flicker against the golden shell. Then I turned it over. There was a needle inside — a compass indeed — but one that spun aimlessly, refusing to point north.

Unstable. A misdirection.

A puzzle.

"What is that?" Laura’s voice hovered nearby, hesitant but curious.

I traced the surface, found a groove in the center. I pressed it. The top opened like a locket — a hidden panel.

There, engraved in my mother’s graceful penmanship:

To Livana and Laura, my angels.

The words dug into me deeper than any blade.

"Can I see it?" Laura asked.

I turned toward her voice and extended my hand, holding the open compass-lighter between us. She took it gently from my palm.

"There’s a lavender flower and a butterfly crest on the cover," she whispered. "Our names... in Mom’s curly writing. So small, but clear."

I nodded slowly, withdrawing slightly. "I’ll handle things like this, sis. Focus on your pregnancy."

She didn’t answer right away.

"But Livana... you’ve been hiding so much from me."

My voice remained calm, but cold as marble. "It’s not for your eyes. You’ll be safe, even if I’m not with you."

She sighed — the kind of sigh only a younger sister gives when she knows she’s being protected from something she’ll never fully understand.

She returned the object to me.

"Are you leaving again?"

"Yes." I turned to her and extended my hand again — still in character, still the blind girl in everyone’s eyes. She took my hand, and I let her guide it, then gently moved to rest it on her stomach.

Warm. Full of life.

"Tell Damien I’ll take care of everything. His allowances—"

"He doesn’t want that, Livana," she interjected. "He wants to work for what we have."

"Let him. I don’t care if he toils or rests. But for the twins? I’ll set up an account. He need not worry." My voice turned stern. "His only job is to protect you. You, and the babies."

Laura let out a soft laugh. "You’ve already spoiled them, and they haven’t even met the world yet."

"Naturally." I smiled faintly, though there was little mirth in it. "Now go — plan the party. I’ll handle this."

"Hmm." Her voice trailed behind her as she left, door clicking softly into its frame.

The room breathed quiet again.

I made my way toward the sofa, my fingers trailing against the edges of furniture — a performance for the invisible audience. Once seated, I placed the braille letter before me and set the compass-lighter beside it.

"Do we have a chimney? Or just a bin?"

"Bin," Sophia replied. I heard her steps, light but efficient, as she pulled the stainless-steel trash bin closer and removed the fresh liner.

I stood.

I raised the paper. Flame touched its edge. Orange kissed purple — my mother’s favorite colors dancing into fire. I let it fall into the bin. The letter curled, crumbled, and surrendered to ash. Then the envelope followed — another blaze, another secret erased.

"Sophia?" I asked softly.

She turned to me, smile calm but knowing.

"Let’s call the Rook." I inhaled deeply, fingers brushing the still-warm compass. "I believe I’ll be needing a castle. From Kentucky to Virginia."

"Certainly, my Queen." She bowed her head and retrieved a burner phone from her coat.

She dialed. The line rang once.

"Queen’s Castle," a woman answered crisply.

"We require accommodations in Kentucky and Virginia. That includes the shape on five sides."

"Certainly, Your Grace."

The line clicked off. Silence fell.

I let out a long, steady breath. "Now... rest. We’ll enjoy the party in the coming days."

I gathered the lighter-compass into my palm, its weight familiar now. Not just metal, but legacy.

Outside, Sophia guided me toward my bedroom.

One of the doors was slightly ajar. Inside, I heard my husband speaking fluent Spanish, his voice low and commanding. Then, the call ended with a clipped goodbye.

He turned toward me, smile slipping into his voice.

I returned to the role the world expects — the blind heiress who stumbles gently, gracefully.

He met me halfway, brushing a kiss on my cheek.

And I smiled.

Because beneath the illusion, the game was already in motion.