REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 101: Chapter 101

He liked that. “Dangerous name.”
“Only to men who lie,” I replied with a wink and a graceful step backward.
As I returned to our booth, Jhing Jhing whispered, “He’s completely tangled.”
“I know,” I said, sipping the wine we couldn’t pronounce but pretended we drank every Thursday.
Mylene raised her glass. “To the first number collected by sass and sequins.”
We clinked.
The trap had teeth now.
Joe’s voice came through our tiny comms tucked into our earrings:
“He’s got your scent. Next step?”
I leaned back, eyes on Santiago now surrounded by his men again, but clearly distracted.
“Now we let him call me first,” I said coolly.
“Men like him love the chase.”
And I had just handed him the illusion of control—
which meant we were already winning.
The next few days were pure chaos, the glamorous kind held together by caffeine, bronzer, and an expensive stroller wheel that refused to roll straight.
Kids had school. Uniforms had to be ironed. Lunchboxes packed. Homework signed. Nannies were briefed like they were going to a UN summit. And between every school drop-off and math quiz tantrum, I was trying to piece together the puzzle of Santiago McCray—the velvet-voiced mafia boss with a bloodstained smile.
Mylene, hair in a messy bun and eyebrows in perpetual stress-mode, stormed into my kitchen one morning with her youngest in one arm and a cappuccino she didn't order in the other.
“I swear,” she hissed, “if my husband watches another fishing documentary while the dishwasher cries for help, I will slap the remote straight into next week. I asked him to help with folding clothes and you know what he said? ‘But they’re just gonna get dirty again.’ I am this close to—”
“International manslaughter?” Jhing Jhing offered helpfully, sipping from a mug that said ‘Chaos Coordinator.’
“Exactly.”
“Girls,” I warned, “less murder, more mafia.”
Just as Mylene began a graphic threat involving socks, bleach, and her husband’s gaming chair, Joe entered the room holding a phone with the seriousness of a spy uncovering a missile silo.
“Call came in,” he said. “It’s him.”
We went quiet. Even the children paused mid-argument over who got the glitter crayon.
Joe placed the phone on speaker and plugged in the tap. He motioned us to hush with a sharp finger in the air as Santiago’s slow, whiskey-smooth Irish voice filled the room.
Santiago: “Delilah. I had a dream last night. You were in it.”
Me (in a measured, amused tone): “Oh? Was I haunting you or seducing you?”
Santiago (with a chuckle): “A bit of both. I’d like to see you again. Dinner. My place. Thursday night. No excuses.”
I covered the mic on my end and mouthed to the girls: “Play along?”
They nodded with twin evil smiles.
Me: “Well, I never dine alone. What if I brought some friends?”
Santiago: “You trust your friends with your secrets?”
Me: “Only the ones who can keep a body in a freezer and still show up on time for preschool pickup.”
Silence. Then a slow, charmed laugh.
Santiago: “I like that. Bring them. The more the merrier. Though I can’t promise your hearts will make it out untouched.”
“Too late,” I muttered as we ended the call and the room erupted into squeals and gasps.
“Oh my god, did he just say hearts?” Mylene shrieked, grabbing her latte like it was a mic. “I haven’t heard flirting like that since high school prom and the guy had braces.”
“He sounds like sin in a suit,” Jhing Jhing added. “I’d marry his voice and leave my husband for it.”
Joe cleared his throat. “Glad you’re all entertained. But be careful. Dinner at a mafia boss’s mansion isn’t a double-date with candlelight. It’s a test.”
“Oh we know,” I said, turning toward the hallway. “Which is why we’re dressing for war.”
Mylene tossed her hair. “And war looks fabulous in heels.”
Thursday arrived like a slow heartbeat wrapped in silk and gunpowder.
The nannies were briefed again like they were preparing for battle—emergency contacts, bedtime routines, snack placements, backup glitter in case of sibling drama. Maya insisted on wearing her princess crown during dinner even though she wasn’t coming. “Just in case I have to save the kingdom,” she said, very seriously.
We left in one black SUV and one pearl-white sedan that looked like it belonged in a Bond film. Joe and two of his men followed discreetly in another car, eyes sharp, comms hot. We were tracked, tapped, and ready. But God did we look like sin.
I wore a blood-red satin dress with a slit high enough to question morality and heels that could double as a murder weapon. My blonde bob was sharp, lips matte black cherry, eyes a smoky warzone.
Mylene wore emerald green silk and diamonds she claimed were “real enough to fool a man.” Her curls were pinned up with attitude, and she walked like every hallway belonged to her.
Jhing Jhing? Purple velvet, a neckline so low it bordered on diplomacy, and perfume that smelled like secrets and betrayal.
We pulled up to Santiago McCray’s estate—because it wasn’t a house, it was a castle pretending to be subtle. Black iron gates. Dozens of windows like watching eyes. Fountains. A valet who looked like he could kill with a breadstick.
We were led inside. Marble floors. Gold frames. Tension thick enough to butter.
Santiago met us at the top of the grand staircase, wearing a black suit tailored within an inch of its existence. His smile was slow. His eyes were colder than the wine.
“Delilah,” he greeted me. “And the queens.”
“Oh please,” Mylene waved a manicured hand. “We’re just humble moms who needed a night off from diapers and mediocrity.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Santiago said, motioning for us to follow him to the dining room.
It was straight out of an art heist movie. Long mahogany table, soft jazz playing, expensive wine already poured. I could feel Joe’s bug working. Tiny, discreet, lodged in my clutch next to my emergency gloss and foldable knife.