Chapter 2 - The Symphony of Spite
My first forty-eight hours in Topanga Canyon were an absolute war zone.
The quadruplets did not attack with fists; they attacked with terrifying, coordinated intelligence.
On Wednesday morning, Mateo hid a wireless jammer in my bedroom ceiling that set off an ear-splitting 80-decibel alarm every time I closed my eyes for more than ten minutes. By Thursday afternoon, Leo had hacked the estate’s smart-home system, locking my room’s temperature at a freezing fifty degrees while routing my mother’s hospital emails to a spam folder.
When I walked into the grand music room on Friday morning, I found the estate’s ninety-thousand-dollar Steinway concert grand piano completely ruined.
The heavy lacquer top had been covered in thick, sticky black engine grease. Standing near the window, holding a tub of mechanical lubricant, was Mateo, while Valentina sat nearby on a window bench, watching me with a cruel, triumphant smirk.
“Oh dear,” Valentina drawled, pretending to look shocked. “It seems the piano suffered an accident, Ms. Castillo. I guess you can’t teach us today. You might as well pack your bags and leave.”
I didn't scream. I didn't run to Ricardo.
I walked over to the piano, dipped my forefinger directly into the black grease, and examined it. It was heavy industrial axle grease—the kind used for armored vehicles.
I turned around, walked over to Mateo, and wiped the black grease straight across his pale, pristine cheek.
Mateo gasped, dropping the tub of grease onto the rug. “Hey! You can’t touch me!”
“You ruined a Steinway,” I said, my voice dead calm, stepping directly into his personal space. “A instrument that took five master craftsmen three years to build. You think you’re showing me how tough you are? You’re showing me that you’re a coward who hides behind your father’s money to break things you aren't strong enough to create.”
Valentina jumped off the window bench, her face red with anger. “Our father will fire you for touching Mateo!”
“Let him,” I challenged, stepping toward her. “Go get him. Tell him I rubbed grease on your brother after he destroyed a master instrument. Go on, Valentina. Run to Daddy.”
Valentina froze. Her hands clenched into fists, but she didn't move toward the door.
From the shadow of the doorway behind us, a voice rasped out.
“He doesn't need to be summoned, Valentina.”
Ricardo stepped into the music room. He was wearing a dark charcoal suit, his coat open, revealing a leather shoulder holster housing a black semi-automatic pistol—a stark reminder of who he really was.
He glanced at the ruined piano, then at Mateo’s greased face, and finally at me.
“Ms. Castillo,” Ricardo said, his tone ominously soft. “You lay hands on my son?”
“I taught your son a lesson about respecting tools,” I answered, not backing down an inch, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. “If you hired me to be a punching bag for four spoiled children who think their trauma gives them the right to destroy everything around them, fire me right now. But if you hired me to teach them, let me do my job.”
Ricardo stared at me for five agonizing seconds.
Then, to Valentina and Mateo’s absolute horror, Ricardo walked over to the ruined Steinway, picked up a rag from the maintenance kit on the shelf, and handed it to Mateo.
“Clean it,” Ricardo commanded his son flatly.
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“Dad!” Mateo whined. “She put grease on my face!”
“Clean the piano, Mateo. Now,” Ricardo repeated, his voice dropping into a register that admitted no argument. He turned to me, his silver eyes flashing with something that looked dangerously close to admiration. “My office. Ten minutes, Ms. Castillo.”
