I think a lot of white people (and others who lack nuance) don’t see Sinners as a horror movie because they’re so desensitized to racism.
I need everyone to conceptualize: they all were going to die when the Klan popped up in the morning if Remmick hadn’t gone to that club and fvcked it up.
They were looking for them come sunrise. Thousands of black people have family they never saw again because of racism, to this day it still happens. Tamla Horsford never being seen alive after a sleep over with her friend group that was all wh!te women. Horror. Tory Medley being found hanging from a tree in a golf course in Wisconsin in early November. There are so many sundown towns around the US to this day. Look up the reason picnics are called picnics.
That’s horror.
plus the gore, blood— a vampire who’s been around for centuries wanting to take black (and asian) people’s culture to live longer and take their culture— horror.
# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist
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The van's interior smelled of cigarettes and cheap pine air freshener, the combination creating a nauseating cloud that did nothing to steady your already churning stomach. Miami. That's where they were taking you. To Suarez.
Suarez's man sat across from you, zip ties and duct tape still in his hands, though you'd chosen "the easy way" for now. He studied you with clinical detachment, like a scientist observing a lab specimen. Jensen drove, occasionally meeting your eyes in the rearview mirror with a smug satisfaction that made your blood boil.
Your mind raced through potential escape scenarios, each more desperate than the last. The doors were surely locked, probably reinforced. The man was armed—you'd glimpsed the pistol beneath his jacket when he'd shifted to accommodate the van's sharp turn. Even if you could overpower him, Jensen would still be a problem. And then what? Jump from a moving vehicle onto a highway?
No. Strategic thinking, not emotional reaction. Lewis's voice seemed to echo in your head. Assess the situation. Identify leverage points. Create opportunities.
"¿Ya terminaste de planear tu escape?" the man asked suddenly, his mouth curving into a knowing smile. "No vale la pena, señorita."
You kept your expression neutral, not confirming that you understood his assessment that you were planning an escape that wouldn't be worth the trouble. Knowledge was power, and your fluency in Spanish might prove useful if they didn't realize you comprehended every word.
"She wouldn't do something as stupid as that, mate," Jensen offered from the front seat, his tone dismissive. "Rich daddy taught her better than that."
The man raised his eyebrows but said nothing, returning to his silent observation. You focused on your breathing, trying to calm the adrenaline still coursing through your system. Naomi's blood still stained your hands, dried now into rust-colored crescents beneath your fingernails. The image of her dying on that concrete floor kept flashing before your eyes, the betrayal so absolute it still seemed impossible.
Jensen. The mole all along. How had none of them seen it? How had Lewis, with his careful calculations and strategic mind, missed the threat directly in his inner circle?
The van took an exit, the change in road surface jolting you from your thoughts. Through the tinted windows, you caught glimpses of what looked like an airport.
"Almost there," Jensen announced, his voice carrying a satisfaction that made your skin crawl. "Excited to see your admirer, Mrs. Hamilton? Or should I start calling you Ms. Ricci again? I imagine the marriage won't last much longer, under the circumstances."
You remained silent, denying him the satisfaction of a response. Your fingers instinctively sought the wedding bracelet on your wrist—the one Lewis had given you on your wedding day. The gesture wasn't just sentimental; it was strategic. If what you suspected was true, the bracelet contained a tracker. As long as you had it, Lewis had a chance of finding you.
The van slowed, turning onto what felt like a private road judging by the sudden smoothness beneath the tires. Through the windshield, you glimpsed a chain-link fence topped with razor wire, a security checkpoint with armed guards, and beyond that, the unmistakable shape of a private airfield. A sleek white jet waited on the tarmac, stairs already lowered in expectation of your arrival.
This was it—your best chance before being taken completely out of Lewis's reach. Miami was one thing; if Suarez decided to take you to Cuba or elsewhere in the Caribbean, retrieval would become exponentially more difficult.
The van stopped thirty yards from the plane. Jensen killed the engine and turned to face you, that insufferable smirk still playing at his lips.
"End of the line, princess. Time to meet your true admirer."
As he opened his door and circled around to the side panel, you gauged distances, calculated odds, and made your decision. When the door slid open, revealing Jensen's expectant face, you didn't hesitate.
"Out you go," he said, reaching for your arm.
You spat directly in his face, the glob landing squarely in his left eye. His expression transformed from smug satisfaction to blind fury in an instant. He raised his hand, clearly intending to strike you, but Suarez's man intervened.
"Cuidado," he warned sharply. "El jefe la quiere sin marcas. Sabes cómo se pone."
Jensen froze, visibly struggling to control his rage as he wiped your saliva from his face. "You're going to regret that," he promised, voice low with menace.
"I regret not putting a bullet in you when I had the chance," you replied coldly.
His eyes narrowed. "Tough talk from someone who's captured. You're not in the Ricci mansion anymore, princess. Daddy's not here to protect you, and your husband's too busy mourning Naomi to save you."
The casual reference to Naomi felt like a physical blow. Jensen noticed your reaction and smiled.
"Feeling sentimental? Don't worry, Lewis will join her soon enough. Suarez has special plans for him once he inevitably comes looking for you."
Before you could respond, Jensen grabbed your arm and yanked you roughly from the van. You immediately dropped your weight, making yourself as difficult to move as possible. When he tried to drag you toward the plane, you kicked out, catching him hard in the shin.
"Fuck!" he swore, nearly losing his grip. "A little help here?"
The other man emerged from the van, signaling to two men waiting by the plane. Within seconds, you found yourself lifted bodily between Jensen and one of the newcomers, your feet barely touching the ground as they carried you up the stairs despite your continued struggles.
"¡Suéltame, cabrones!" you shouted, reverting to Spanish in your fury. "¡Pagarán por esto!"
Your demand to be released and promise that they would pay for this earned you only tightened grips as they manhandled you into a plush leather seat, immediately securing your seatbelt with practiced efficiency. Jensen took the seat opposite, rubbing his shin with a murderous expression.
"Didn't know she spoke Spanish," the newcomer commented to the man from the van, who had followed you onto the plane.
"Apparently she does," he replied with an assessing look. "Interesante."
He leaned down, his face uncomfortably close to yours. "Listen carefully, señorita. On this plane, you can shout and fight all you want. But when we reach El Jefe? I suggest a different approach. Suarez has special rooms for women who displease him. Understand?"
The threat hung in the air between you, all the more effective for its oblique delivery. You'd heard rumors about Suarez's treatment of women who defied him—whispers within your father's organization about punishments that made hardened criminals blanch. Whether the stories were exaggerated or not, the warning was clear.
You said nothing, but your silence was apparently answer enough for him, who straightened with a satisfied nod. "Smart girl."
As the plane taxied down the runway, you turned your face toward the window, watching New York grow smaller beneath you. Somewhere below, Lewis would be mobilizing every resource at his disposal to find you. You just had to survive long enough for that to matter.
The flight passed in tense silence, the men exchanging occasional comments in Spanish. Their conversation revealed little of strategic value—mostly complaints about the hurried timeline and speculation about how much Suarez had paid Jensen for his betrayal.
You cataloged every detail of your surroundings, searching for anything that might be useful later. The plane was luxurious but modest by the standards you were accustomed to—newer than your father's jet but smaller than Lewis's. Four men total including Jensen and the man from the van. Two visible weapons, though likely more concealed. No flight attendant or additional staff.
As Miami appeared beneath you, the familiar skyline glittering in the afternoon sun, you steeled yourself for what was coming. Survival was the immediate goal. Everything else—escape, reunion with Lewis, revenge against Jensen—would have to wait.
The plane touched down with barely a bump, taxiing to a private hangar where another vehicle waited—this one a gleaming black Escalade with tinted windows. Jensen flanked you as you descended the stairs, their grips on your arm tight enough to bruise.
"Remember what I said," Suarez's man murmured as they escorted you to the waiting SUV. "El Jefe doesn't like damaged property, but he makes exceptions for disrespect."
The drive from the airport took you across causeways and through Miami's exclusive neighborhoods, eventually turning onto Palm Island—home to some of the city's most extravagant estates. Suarez's compound sat at the far end, a Mediterranean-inspired mansion surrounded by towering palms and lush tropical gardens. The security was immediately apparent—high walls topped with subtle but unmistakable surveillance equipment, guards positioned at strategic intervals throughout the grounds, and a gate that could likely withstand a small explosion.
As the Escalade pulled through the ornate iron gates, you caught your first glimpse of Suarez's notorious peacocks. The birds roamed freely across the manicured lawns, their iridescent plumage shimmering in the afternoon sun, their occasional cries carrying across the otherwise silent grounds. The display of wealth and eccentricity was exactly what you'd expect from a man like Suarez—ostentatious, exotic, and slightly menacing.
The vehicle stopped at a grand entrance with marble columns and massive wooden doors. Jensen opened your door, his expression making it clear that further resistance would be unwise. You stepped out with as much dignity as you could muster, your legs stiff from the journey and your wrists raw from the zip ties that had finally been removed during the flight.
"Welcome to paradise," Jensen said mockingly as he guided you up the steps. "Your new home."
The interior of the mansion was cool and dim after the bright Miami sunshine, the air heavy with the scent of lilies and something else—a masculine cologne that triggered an immediate visceral reaction of disgust. Suarez's scent. You recognized it from the few occasions you'd been in his presence during his visits to your father's home.
A stern-faced man in a crisp suit stepped forward, addressing Suarez's man in rapid Spanish. "El jefe está en el estudio. Dice que la lleven a su suite para refrescarse primero."
The instruction to take you to "refresh yourself" in your suite before meeting Suarez was delivered and acknowledged with brisk efficiency. He gestured toward a sweeping staircase. "This way."
You were escorted through opulent hallways decorated with a strange mixture of valuable art and tasteless excess—Renaissance paintings beside gaudy gold-framed mirrors, priceless antiques sharing space with tacky modern sculptures. The overall effect was jarring, like the home of someone trying too hard to demonstrate their wealth without the refinement to do so convincingly.
Your "suite" turned out to be a large bedroom with an adjoining sitting area and a luxurious bathroom—all decorated in various shades of crimson and gold. The windows offered a stunning view of Biscayne Bay, but a quick inspection confirmed they were sealed and likely bulletproof. A beautiful prison was still a prison.
Music was playing softly from hidden speakers—a playlist that made your blood run cold because it contained several of your favorite classical pieces. The personalization of the space, the clear preparation for your arrival, suggested this had been planned for far longer than just the few days since Jensen's betrayal had been activated.
Three women waited in the center of the room—one older, perhaps in her fifties, with a severe bun and watchful eyes, flanked by two younger women with identical bland smiles.
"Bienvenida, señorita," the older woman greeted you with a formal nod. "I am Carmela. I manage the household for Señor Suarez. These are Lucia and Valeria." She gestured to the younger women. "We are here to help you prepare for lunch with El Jefe."
"I don't need help," you replied coldly.
Carmela's expression didn't change. "Nevertheless, it is what Señor Suarez has instructed. He wishes you to be comfortable and... appropriately presented."
The emphasis on the last words carried unmistakable meaning. Jensen and the other man withdrew, leaving you alone with the three women.
"First, a bath," Carmela announced, already moving toward the bathroom where the sound of running water could be heard. "Then we will dress you for lunch."
"And if I refuse?" you challenged, testing boundaries.
Carmela paused, turning back with an expression of practiced patience. "Señorita, I have worked for Señor Suarez for fifteen years. I have seen what happens to those who defy him. Please, do not make this more difficult than it needs to be."
The quiet warning, delivered without drama or threat, was somehow more effective than an earlier intimidation. This woman had seen things she didn't wish to see again.
"Fine," you conceded, following her into the bathroom where an enormous sunken tub was filling with steaming water. The two younger women immediately began to assist with removing your clothes, their efficiency suggesting this was not an unusual task for them.
When they reached for your wedding bracelet and rings, however, you instinctively pulled back.
"No," you said firmly. "These stay."
"Lo siento, pero El Jefe fue muy claro," Lucia murmured to Valeria. "Nada que la conecte con el inglés."
Their instruction to remove everything connecting you to "the Englishman" confirmed your suspicion that Suarez wished to erase all physical reminders of Lewis.
"Entiendo perfectamente lo que están diciendo," you informed them in flawless Spanish, taking satisfaction in their startled expressions. "Y estos se quedan conmigo."
Carmela's eyebrows rose slightly at your assertion that you understood everything they were saying and that the jewelry would stay with you. "You speak Spanish."
"And Italian, French, and Latin," you confirmed. "All the Romance languages."
"Las lenguas románicas," Valeria repeated with something like admiration. "A El Jefe le encantará eso."
"Señor Suarez already knows," Carmela corrected her, addressing you again. "It is one of the many things he admires about you."
The idea that Suarez had been cataloging details about you made your skin crawl, but you kept your expression neutral. "Nevertheless, I'm keeping my jewelry."
Carmela's expression hardened. "I'm afraid that isn't possible. Señor Suarez was very specific." She nodded to the younger women, who moved with sudden purpose to grasp your wrists.
You could have fought them—you'd had enough training from Lewis and your father's security team to handle two untrained women—but strategic thinking prevailed. This wasn't the battle worth fighting. Not yet.
With rigid control, you allowed them to remove Lewis's bracelet and both rings, watching as Carmela placed them in a small ornate box which she then locked with a tiny key.
"These will be kept safe," she assured you, though whether that was truth or placation was impossible to determine.
The bath that followed was efficient rather than luxurious, the women working with professional detachment to scrub away the evidence of your ordeal—the dried blood beneath your fingernails, the faint gunpowder residue from the church shootout, the lingering scent of Lewis's cologne on your skin. By the time they helped you from the water, you felt stripped not just of physical reminders but of the protective armor your identity had provided.
"Now, your outfit for lunch," Carmela announced, leading you back into the bedroom where a garment had been laid across the massive four-poster bed.
The dress was objectively beautiful—a pale blue silk that would complement your complexion perfectly, cut to flatter without being overtly sexual. The accompanying shoes and jewelry were similarly tasteful. It was exactly the sort of outfit you might have chosen for yourself under different circumstances, which made it all the more disturbing.
"Señor Suarez selected this himself," Carmela informed you, confirming your suspicion. "He has excellent taste, no?"
"Remarkable," you replied, the word dripping with sarcasm that either went unnoticed or was deliberately ignored.
As Lucia helped with your hair and Valeria applied subtle makeup, they conversed quietly in Spanish, apparently forgetting or not caring that you understood every word.
"Es mucho más hermosa en persona," Valeria commented to her companion. "Ahora entiendo por qué está obsesionado."
"Cuidado," Lucia cautioned in response to the observation about your beauty and Suarez's obsession. "Recuerda lo que pasó con la última."
Your blood chilled at the reference to "the last one," but before you could find a way to probe further, Carmela returned to inspect their work.
"Perfecto," she declared, surveying you with critical eyes. "Señor Suarez will be pleased."
"My primary concern," you replied dryly.
A flicker of something—perhaps sympathy, perhaps warning—crossed Carmela's features before her professional mask returned. "This way, señorita. El Jefe awaits."
You were escorted down a different corridor, this one opening onto a sprawling veranda overlooking the bay. The afternoon sun glittered on the water, sailboats drifted in the distance, and colorful tropical flowers spilled from planters positioned at strategic intervals. In another context, it might have been paradise.
Raúl Suarez rose from his seat at a glass-topped table as you approached, his expression transforming from polite anticipation to naked adoration. At forty-eight, he remained handsome in the conventional way of men who invested heavily in their appearance—a tailored linen suit perfectly fitted to his still-athletic frame, salt-and-pepper hair artfully styled, smile practiced to display expensive dental work. Only his eyes revealed something unsettling—an intensity that bordered on mania, pupils slightly too dilated for the bright afternoon light.
"Mi ángel," he breathed, stepping forward to take your hand before you could evade him. "Finally."
You allowed the contact without returning his smile, your expression carefully neutral as he pressed his lips to your knuckles in an old-world gesture that made your stomach turn.
"Raúl," you acknowledged, using his first name deliberately to avoid any honorific that might suggest respect. "This is quite the production you've orchestrated."
He laughed, the sound warm and rich and utterly at odds with the coldness in his eyes. "Always so direct. It's one of the many things I admire about you." He gestured to the table. "Please, join me for lunch. We have much to discuss."
As he guided you to your seat, you noted the man from the van standing at a discreet distance, his watchful gaze never leaving you. Jensen was nowhere to be seen—perhaps relegated to less prestigious duties now that his primary value as a mole had been expended.
"Ah, I don't believe you've been formally introduced to Julio," Suarez said, following your gaze. "My most trusted associate. Julio, aunque ya la conoces, permíteme presentarte formalmente a la señorita Ricci."
Julio inclined his head in acknowledgment of the formal introduction. "Un placer, señorita."
"I'm sure," you replied coldly.
Suarez chuckled as he took his seat opposite you. "You must forgive Julio's professional demeanor. He takes his responsibilities very seriously—your safe delivery being chief among them today."
A server appeared silently, pouring champagne into delicate flutes and presenting a first course of seafood so artfully arranged it resembled a coral reef in miniature.
"A celebration," Suarez explained, raising his glass. "Of new beginnings."
You left your glass untouched. "Is that what you call kidnapping these days?"
Something flickered across his features—a momentary hardening quickly replaced by indulgent amusement. "Such drama. I prefer to think of it as... a correction of course. Returning you to the path that was always intended."
"And what path is that, exactly?"
Suarez gestured expansively, taking in the opulent surroundings. "This. Us. The alliance that should have been formed when your father first considered potential partnerships." His expression darkened slightly. "Before Hamilton interfered."
"Lewis didn't interfere," you corrected coolly. "My father chose him as the better strategic partner. A decision that seems increasingly validated by current events."
It was a calculated provocation, and Suarez's reaction confirmed its effectiveness. His knuckles whitened around the stem of his champagne flute, though his smile remained fixed in place.
"A temporary lapse in judgment," he said after a moment's visible effort at control. "Hamilton is a pretender—a street thug with a British accent playing at sophistication. What can he offer that I cannot provide a thousandfold?" He gestured again at the surroundings. "This estate, my global operations, my political connections—all would be at your disposal as my wife."
The delusional certainty with which he outlined this imagined future sent a chill through you despite the warm Miami air. Suarez truly believed there was a scenario in which you would willingly leave Lewis to be with him.
"You do understand I'm already married," you pointed out, deliberately emphasizing the present tense.
Suarez waved this away as though it were an insignificant detail. "A technicality easily resolved. Hamilton's days are numbered—surely you realize that." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to an intimate tone that made your skin crawl. "I've been patient, mi ángel. Waiting for you to see through his manipulations, to recognize the artifice of the arrangement your father forced upon you. When that didn't happen, I realized more direct intervention was necessary."
"By having Jensen betray Lewis and murder Naomi," you stated flatly.
"Regrettable," Suarez conceded with so little genuine remorse it bordered on parody. "But necessary steps toward your liberation." He reached across the table as if to touch your hand, but you withdrew it to your lap before contact could be made.
His expression tightened momentarily before smoothing into practiced charm once more. "You're angry now. I understand. You've been under Hamilton's influence for weeks—subjected to his control, his manipulations. It will take time for you to see clearly again."
The irony of Suarez accusing Lewis of being controlling while he had literally kidnapped you might have been amusing under different circumstances. Now it only confirmed the dangerous disconnect from reality that governed his thinking.
"And if I never 'see clearly'?" you asked, testing the boundaries of his delusion. "If I continue to prefer my husband?"
Something dangerous flashed in Suarez's eyes—a glimpse of the violence that lay just beneath the sophisticated veneer. "You will," he said with absolute certainty. "Once Hamilton is removed from the equation permanently, you'll be free to recognize what you truly want. What you truly deserve."
The implication was unmistakable. Suarez didn't just plan to separate you from Lewis; he intended to kill him. The knowledge should have terrified you, but instead it crystallized your resolve. Suarez had gravely miscalculated if he believed Lewis would be easily eliminated—or that you would be a passive participant in whatever scenario he had constructed in his deranged mind.
"Now," Suarez continued, his tone shifting to something almost businesslike, "I've arranged for a small gathering this evening—just a few close associates I'd like you to meet. Nothing too taxing for your first day here."
The casual presumption that you would be performing the role of hostess at his social event—as though you were a willing participant rather than a captive—bordered on the surreal.
"And if I say no?" you asked, more to gauge his reaction than out of any genuine belief you had a choice.
Suarez's smile remained fixed, but his eyes hardened. "I would be deeply disappointed, mi ángel. And I think we both know it's in everyone's best interest—your family's included—if I remain... content with our arrangement."
The threat toward your family hung in the air between you, all the more effective for being delivered with such pleasant intonation. Suarez was making the parameters clear: your cooperation in exchange for your family's safety.
For now, you need time to understand the layout of the compound, to identify potential allies or weaknesses, and to formulate an escape plan. Playing along with Suarez's delusion—to a point—would buy that time.
"I see," you said finally, lifting your champagne flute in a gesture that could be interpreted as a concession. "To new beginnings, then."
Suarez's expression brightened with genuine pleasure as he raised his own glass. "I knew you would understand, mi ángel. This is just the beginning of our story together."
As you sipped the expensive champagne, you maintained eye contact with your captor, your mind already calculating odds and mapping escape routes. Suarez might believe he had won, but the game was far from over. Lewis was coming—of that you had absolute certainty. And when he arrived, Raúl Suarez would discover exactly how catastrophically he had underestimated both of you.
The afternoon passed in a blur of forced pleasantries and careful maneuvering. Suarez had business to attend to—phone calls conducted in rapid Spanish, meetings with associates who came and went through side entrances, the kind of organizational maintenance that kept criminal empires functioning despite external pressures.
As evening approached, Carmela returned to your suite with another carefully selected outfit—a deep navy dress that would photograph beautifully against the estate's elegant backdrop. More costumes for Suarez's elaborate performance.
"The guests will arrive at eight," Carmela informed you as Lucia began preparing your hair. "Señor Suarez expects you to be on you rbest bahavior for dinner with his most trusted associates."
"Naturally," you replied, recognizing another test. How you performed in front of Suarez's inner circle would determine his next moves—and possibly influence your chances of survival.
The dinner was held in Suarez's formal dining room, a space that managed to be both opulent and intimate. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over a table set for eight, while servers moved with practiced efficiency to present courses that belonged in a five-star restaurant.
You were seated at Suarez's right hand, the position of honor that announced your importance to everyone present. The other guests were exactly what you'd expected—expensively dressed men with cold eyes and careful manners, the kind of people who discussed murder over perfectly prepared seafood.
"Gentlemen," Suarez announced as the first course was served, "I'd like you to meet my dear friend. She's been kind enough to join us this evening."
The careful phrasing—"dear friend" rather than anything more possessive—was calculated to avoid challenging their assumptions while establishing your protected status. You smiled with practiced grace, playing the role of willing companion despite the circumstances.
"A pleasure," murmured a silver-haired man to your left, his Colombian accent marking him as one of Suarez's cartel connections. "Raúl has spoken of you often."
"All good things, I hope," you replied, maintaining the performance.
But your attention was caught by a figure entering the dining room with casual confidence that immediately set your nerves on edge. Jensen moved with the same professional bearing you remembered from weeks of security detail, though now his loyalties had shifted to the man who had orchestrated your kidnapping.
Seeing him here, in Suarez's dining room, made you sick. The betrayal cut deeper than you'd expected—this man had been in your home, had sat at your family's table, had pretended to protect you while planning your destruction.
"Ah, Jensen," Suarez greeted him warmly. "Please, join us. I believe you're already acquainted with our guest of honor."
Jensen's smile was the same one you'd seen countless times in your father's house, though now it carried undertones of mockery that made your skin crawl. "Miss Ricci, so good to see you again."
The formal address was a deliberate insult. You met his gaze steadily, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a visible reaction.
"Jensen," you replied coolly. "You look....comfortable after betraying someone's trust."
His smile widened at your composed response. "Sometimes better opportunities present themselves. A man would be foolish not to pursue them."
"Indeed," you agreed, filing away his arrogance for future use. "Though I've always found loyalty to be somewhat... undervalued in today's market."
The subtle insult landed exactly as intended—Jensen's expression hardened momentarily before returning to practiced neutrality. Around the table, the other guests watched this exchange with the interest of predators evaluating potential prey.
"Please, sit," Suarez gestured to an empty chair. "We were just discussing tonight's... developments."
As Jensen took his seat, another figure entered the dining room—one that made your blood run cold despite your efforts to maintain composure. Alexei Petrov moved with the fluid grace of a career predator, his expensive suit unable to disguise the violence that seemed to radiate from him like heat.
"Alexei," Suarez rose to greet him, but you noticed the Russian didn't return the warmth. "Thank you for joining us tonight."
"Raúl," Petrov acknowledged, his English heavily tilted from his Russian accent. "I trust the evening has been... productive."
There was something in his tone that suggested criticism, though whether of Suarez's methods or results was unclear. As he took his seat across from you, Petrov's pale eyes studied you with clinical assessment.
"The famous Mrs. Hamilton," he said, his accent making your name sound foreign. "Pleasure to see you once again."
"I bet it is," you replied, trying to read the complex dynamics playing out around the table.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Petrov's smile was thin, predatory. "It all depends on who is watching."
The observation carried weight beyond its surface meaning, and you sensed undercurrents between him and Suarez that went beyond normal business relationships. Whatever alliance had brought them together, it was built on calculation rather than trust.
"Gentlemen," Suarez interjected, clearly eager to move past whatever tension was developing, "let's focus on the future rather than dwelling on past achievements."
As the meal progressed, you found yourself studying the dynamics around the table with growing interest. Suarez clearly saw himself as the dominant figure, orchestrating conversation and making pronouncements about future plans. But Petrov's responses carried subtle contradictions—agreement that sounded like tolerance, support that felt conditional.
"Hamilton's organization has been significantly weakened," Jensen reported during the main course, his tone carrying professional satisfaction. "Loss of key personnel, compromised security protocols, leadership distracted by personal concerns. They're vulnerable in ways they haven't been in years."
The clinical discussion of Lewis's emotional state made your stomach turn, but you kept your expression neutral. Let them underestimate him—their arrogance would be their downfall.
"Emotion is weakness," Petrov observed quietly, his pale eyes finding yours across the table. "But desperation can make weak men do... extraordinary things."
Something in his tone suggested he spoke from experience. The Russian's assessment carried more respect than Suarez's dismissive confidence.
"Maybe," Suarez agreed with less certainty. "But desperation also creates opportunities. When Hamilton comes—and he will come—we'll be ready."
"Will we?" Petrov asked, the question, carrying a subtle challenge. "Your compound is impressive, Raúl, but it's not a total fortress. And Hamilton has resources you may not have known."
The tension between them was becoming more apparent, their alliance showing stress fractures under pressure. You filed this information away—potential leverage if the situation deteriorated further.
"My preparations are good," Suarez replied, his tone carrying an edge now. "I've survived challenges before."
"Indeed," Petrov agreed with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Though past performance doesn't guarantee future results, does it?"
The dinner continued with similar undercurrents, and you played your role perfectly, contributing just enough to seem engaged while gathering intelligence about the power dynamics that might determine your fate.
As dessert was served, Jensen leaned forward with obvious satisfaction. "The beauty of this situation is that Hamilton can't win, regardless of his response. If he comes after you, he's walking into a trap. If he doesn't, he loses everything that matters to him."
"And if he surprises you?" you asked quietly, the question drawing sharp attention from around the table.
Jensen's smile was cold. "Then he dies, and you get to watch. Either way, the outcome serves our purposes."
The casual cruelty in his voice reminded you exactly what kind of man you were dealing with—not just a traitor, but someone who took pleasure in the suffering he caused. When Lewis finally caught up with him, Jensen would learn that some betrayals carried consequences beyond calculation.
"Enough business talk," Suarez announced, apparently recognizing the need to lighten the mood. "Tonight should be about celebration."
But as the evening wound down and guests began making their departures, you noticed Petrov lingering near the terrace doors, his pale eyes fixed on the dark water beyond. When he finally approached to say goodbye, his words carried subtle warning.
"Be careful, Mrs. Hamilton," he said quietly, his accent making the words sound almost like a threat.
Before you could respond, he was gone, leaving you to wonder whether his warning was genuine concern or calculated intimidation.
"Time to sleep, mi angel," Suarez announced as the last guest departed. "Sweet dreams," he added, pressing another unwelcome kiss to your hand. "Tomorrow we'll have more time to discuss our future together."
Isabella appeared to escort you back to your suite, her demeanor having shifted subtly since the morning. Something in her expression suggested she'd witnessed things during the dinner that changed her perspective on her employer's methods.
As you were led back through the mansion's corridors, you couldn't shake the feeling that tonight had been a turning point. The dinner had revealed cracks in Suarez's coalition, Jensen's arrogance, and Petrov's growing disdain for his supposed ally. All useful intelligence—if you lived long enough to exploit it.
Back in your suite, you waited until Isabella's footsteps faded before moving to the windows overlooking the bay. The compound seemed quiet now, guards maintaining their rotations while the estate settled into its nighttime rhythm.
You tested the windows again, confirming they remained sealed. The bathroom offered no better options—no accessible vents, no weaknesses in the construction that might allow escape. Whatever way out existed, it wouldn't be through conventional means.
The weight of your isolation finally began to break through the composed facade you'd maintained all day. You were alone in a hostile environment, surrounded by people who saw you as property rather than person, completely dependent on your own resources for survival.
Tears came without warning, hot and unwelcome as they tracked down your cheeks. You sank into the chair by the window, finally allowing yourself to process the full enormity of your situation.
Lewis felt impossibly far away, though you knew he was mobilizing every resource to find you. You knew him well—knew the cold precision that emerged when something threatened what belonged to him, the strategic mind that had built his empire from nothing, the absolute refusal to accept defeat when the stakes were personal. You'd seen it in Geneva when he'd protected you from the attack, in the pool house when he'd promised to handle the threats circling your family, in the way he'd looked at you after your confession in the darkness.
He would come. The question was whether you could survive long enough for rescue, and whether you'd be strong enough to help when the moment arrived.
You wiped away the tears with angry determination, refusing to let despair undermine your resolve. Lewis was coming, and when he arrived, you'd be ready. Until then, you had to remain strong, had to play whatever role was necessary to stay alive.
These pictures are to draw attention in principle and to urge you to stand by me 🍉
Hello everyone .
It's been a whole year since my dear friend made me this art for the first time
But I still suffer from the same risks since the beginning of this genocide. These days, I still talk to her daily via WhatsApp and I am still consistent and positive in the face of all my problems
That's what my friend said about me:
For a long time, he has put aside promoting his own campaign in favour of helping others:
• Vetting campaigns on the ground to assure everyone of legitimacy
• Creating the hyaa Society @ihyaasociety which provides a space for students to continue their education online despite the genocide
It is very important that he himself is supported, given how much he has done for others. Please consider donating to him today. Any amount, no matter how small, will help him.
Now it's your turn to stand by me in these very difficult days, which is to donate any amount you can donate.
As of July 13 th 2025:
Hi my name is Shelley and I am fundraising on behalf of the Ayesh family. Here is their story
My … Shelley Gordon needs your support for
“Actions speak louder than words. Let your words teach and your actions speak.” — St. Anthony of Padua
SUMMARY: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly.
PARTS:
part one: Forced into a strategic marriage with the enigmatic Lewis Hamilton, you navigate a world of power, danger, and unspoken attraction.
part two: You and Lewis solidify your strategic marriage, sealing an alliance built on necessity rather than love. As vows are exchanged, the weight of your new reality sets in. But there's no time to dwell—within hours, you are en route to London, stepping deeper into Lewis's world and the dangers that come with it.
part three: As you settle into life with Lewis, tensions rise when a security breach exposes a deadly threat. With enemies closing in, trust becomes a dangerous game—one neither of you can afford to lose.
part four: You and Lewis travel to Geneva to meet with Mueller, a key contact to help Lewis's financial plans. Over shared glances and quiet moments between strategy briefings, your connection deepens.
part five: The past catches up with Lewis when Petrov makes an unexpected appearance. The encounter is tense, laced with veiled threats and warnings that the danger they’re in is far more personal.
part six: Arriving in Scotland, you and Lewis’s relationship begins to take a turn from a simple strategic alliance to something more.
part seven: The hunt for the mole begins, but with the danger from Suarez still lurking around every corner, it doesn’t deter your budding feelings for Lewis.
part eight: An intruder attacks the house, putting Lewis’ interrogation skills to the test.
part nine: Lewis’ close Army friend joins the team to help with intelligence. During that time between meetings and planning next steps, you and Lewis’ relationship gets closer.
part ten: With you and Lewis now back in NYC, the hunt for the mole in both organizations heats up. Lewis is formally welcomed into the Ricci Crime Family.
part eleven: You are Lewis are getting closer, but will jealousy cause a rift between the two of you?
part twelve: coming soon…
part thirteen: coming soon…
CHARACTERS:
Y/N Ricci: 25, The “jewel of the Ricci daughters”, educated at Columbia with B.S. in finance and computer science, she was raised in a world where loyalty is survival and power is absolute. She has spent her life balancing the expectations of her father’s empire with her own ambitions. Unlike him, she prefers intellect over brute force, but she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty when necessary — sharp, strategic, and fiercely independent
Lewis Hamilton: 39, British crime lord specializing in gun running and money laundering, educated at Eton and brief stint at Cambridge before joining the British Army, served one term (4 years) before medically discharged and starting his empire — strong, analytical, enigmatic
Salvatore Ricci: 56, Patriarch of the Ricci Crime Family, “Calabrian traditionalist” — ruthless, brazen, violent
Francesca Williams Ricci: 52, Matriarch of the Ricci Family, “La Donna” — silent but deadly, determined
The Ricci Daughters: Maria (22), Gabriella (19), Sophia (17)
Paolo Ricci: 53, Underboss of The Ricci Crime Family, Uncle to The Ricci Daughters — shrewd, smart mouth, the underdog
The Ricci Crime Family Capos/Associates: Marco (trusted guard), Antonio (driver with longest family ties), Luca (guard), Vinny (Paolo’s guard and nephew), Tommy V, and many others….
Former Associates/Friends of the Family: Giovanni Castellano (Leader of the Castellano Crime Family), Martinelli, and many others…
Lewis’ Associates: Naomi (security), Jensen (chief security official), Claire Chen (CFO), Roscoe (beloved “guard dog”), and many others….
search: blood oath, blood oath quainstory, mob!lewis, mob!boss lewis hamilton, lewis hamilton x black reader
Wales Bonner fashioned Hamilton an ivory suit with a cropped jacket, high-waisted trousers with a tuxedo stripe, coattails, and a white bow tie, with an embroidered ivory sash hanging from his waistband. A beret by Stephen Jones Millinery added a final flourish.
- We brought together a range of influences, from Barkley L. Hendricks paintings to Black spiritual dressing and some of the brand’s craft signatures. There are stories told through jewel adornments and special trims, with symbolism in baobab flower motifs and natural materials like cowrie shells and mother of pearl buttons. - Grace Wales Bonner
Wales Bonner lined Hamilton’s sash with cowrie shells—a protective talisman in African culture—while his ear cuffs, cufflinks, and Baobab-inspired brooches (which Wales Bonner made in collaboration with SNOW Diamonds) contain garnets, a nod to his January birthday, amongst the white and amber emerald-cut diamonds. Even his cufflinks, shaped like the Whirligig African Daisy, were loaded with symbolism.
- Lewis really wanted there to be a reason and a story behind every detail. They felt like a beautiful metaphor for growth, memory, and African heritage. - Eric McNeal
Lewis needs to sit down and talk to someone about keeping his own expectations in check. The season has more or less gone the way it should have with that unbalanced car. He's not gonna be performing miracles in a car that's so very new to him. He's pretty much close to his teammate, he's got 100% Q3 appearances which is good enough in 5 races. I know he holds himself to very high standards but there's no point drowning over this when it clear that he's been gaining incrementally from the first race to now.
kinda agree. but also idk how much of it is just letting them hear what they want to hear. on media day he said that 'we have to protect the team' crap. i'm saying "crap" because well the team hasn't really delivered a perfect package lbr. all his interviews also have that 'it's not them it's me' theme while clearly the car has not been the greatest either. fred himself talked about it being a persistent balance issue and not so much an adaptation issue. look how frustrated sharl was despite his good lap. lewis can't show that, at least not just yet. he also can't be too happy about small wins because they're already calling him a '100m unambitious flop.' same as fred can't agree with media saying 5 races in 6 weeks is plenty of time to unlearn everything. i'd get it if sharl was fighting for pole while lewis knocked out q1 every single race but not this. but anyway, all this word salad to say i agree with you. he's been too negative about himself to these people who just love to see him down. and i'm even more glad angela is back
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