Four years had passed since Alicia Costa ceased to exist. In those years, I had become Francheska Falcon. I had learned everything about her, even with the smallest details, like how she walked, how she spoke, how she carried herself. I had buried Alicia so deep within me that even I sometimes forgot who I truly was.
Hera had been my guide, my anchor. As Francheska’s best friend, she had taught me everything I needed to know, ensuring that every detail was perfected. And Hector—he had shaped me into his wife’s shadow, his silent weapon of revenge. It wasn’t easy, but I adapted, molded myself into the role that fate had thrust upon me.
For those four years, we remained hidden in Bay City, planning every move, every strike. Hector would visit, bringing updates on the De Santis and Russos, feeding my thirst for vengeance. And during those years, I painted.
I poured my rage, my grief, my hatred onto the canvas. Each stroke told a story—of pain, betrayal, and suffering. Of what they did to me. What they did to Francheska. Each painting was a reflection of the darkness that the De Santis had sown into our lives.
And now, it was time.