7. Chapter 5
Z asha
The door closes behind Viktor, Lev, and me as we leave Thiago Delgado’s study.
Outside, the night air bites cool against my skin, sharp enough to clear the lingering tension from the negotiations. We got what we came for: an agreement, a path forward, the foundations for the alliance we’ve been chasing for years.
It should be enough.
But as we walk toward the waiting car, my mind drifts — not to the deal, not to the territory, not even to the upcoming shipment schedules.
It drifts to her.
Xiomara Delgado.
I remind myself that this marriage is political. Tactical. A calculated arrangement between empires. She’s just a name on a contract, a symbol, a diplomatic bridge. Nothing more.
And yet…
Since she returned from university, she’s become impossible to ignore.
I’ve watched her from the edges of cartel meetings, from the side lines when our paths cross — sharp, headstrong, holding her ground with men twice her age. She’s no pampered little princess. She’s clever, quick, and underneath her polished exterior, I sense a restless, hungry spirit.
And I remember the first time I truly saw her.
Seventeen, tipsy, stumbling out of a party she had no business attending. Her so-called friends were leading her straight into the hands of men who planned to take advantage of her.
I was there on surveillance, scoping the property for an unrelated operation. I hadn’t planned to intervene. But when I saw her, half-dragged inside the back of a car, something primal surged up in me, and I stepped in.
By the time I was done, three men were on the ground. Mara, wide-eyed and trembling, was in my arms as I pulled her free.
I’d handed her back to Thiago that night without a word, letting him deliver the lecture. But the protective instinct lodged deep in my gut never fully went away.
And now, standing here under the weight of our new alliance, I feel something shift. That instinct has changed, and it’s not just protection anymore.
It’s something far more fucking dangerous.
I pull out my phone. My thumb hovers for a moment over the screen, then I dial her number.
She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Mara,” I say, keeping my tone smooth and polite.
There’s a slight hitch in her breath. “Zasha?”
“Yes.” I pause. “I would like to speak to you privately.”
She sounds surprised. “Uh… okay.”
“Good.” My voice stays even, but something flickers low in my chest. “Be ready in the next two hours. I’ll pick you up.”
Another small pause. “Okay.”
She wanted to know how I got her number, wanted to talk some more, but end the call without giving myself time to rethink it, sliding the phone back into my pocket.
“It’s not a date.” I mutter, “It’s strategy.”
The next evening, I pull up to the Delgado estate at precisely six in the evening.
The grounds are expansive and pristine, with guards positioned discreetly along the perimeters, but my gaze is drawn immediately to the front steps.
And there she is.
Mara steps out of the house, framed by the soft gold light spilling from the entryway. She’s wearing a simple peach dress — delicate, understated, and yet somehow it hits me harder than anything extravagant could have.
The color warms her skin, the fabric skimming the lines of her figure just enough to make my breath catch, if only for a split second. Her dark hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, her expression calm, graceful, poised.
But when her eyes lift and meet mine, there’s something electric in the air — a flicker of nervous energy, of restrained anticipation.
I school my face into its usual impassive mask, stepping forward.
“Mara.”
“Zasha.”
I open the car door for her without a word, watching as she slides inside with practiced elegance.
When I round to the driver’s side and settle into the seat, the air inside the car is thick with unspoken tension.
Neither of us speaks right away.
But as I grip the steering wheel, pulling smoothly away from the estate, I’m acutely aware — of her perfume, soft and subtle in the small space between us; of the way her hands rest lightly in her lap; of the quick, almost imperceptible rise and fall of her breath.
I tell myself this is just a meal. A step toward solidifying the alliance.
But somewhere deep inside, beneath the cold, rational part of me, a quiet storm is gathering.
And I know.
This isn’t just business anymore.
Not by a long shot.
The restaurant I’ve chosen is tucked into a quiet corner of the city — the kind of place where power brokers come to make deals and where privacy is guaranteed.
No flashy signs. No crowds. Just soft golden light, polished wood, and an air of quiet wealth.
When we step inside, the ma?tre d’ leads us without fuss to a private alcove near the back. Heavy velvet curtains close off the space, dimming the room until it feels like the rest of the world has been carefully shut away.
Mara slides gracefully into her seat across from me. For a moment, she smooths her dress, her fingers fidgeting slightly at the hem. It’s the first crack I’ve seen in her otherwise perfect composure, and for some reason, it hits me like a punch to the chest.
I sit opposite her, motioning briefly to the waiter to bring the menus.
The silence between us hums — not awkward, but taut.
I remind myself: this is a practical dinner. A chance to clarify the arrangement. Set expectations. Nothing more.
Yet, as I glance across the table at her, I can’t help but notice the way the low candlelight catches the soft waves of her hair, the faint flush of color in her cheeks.
She’s more than I expected.
The waiter returns, murmuring politely, and I watch as Mara scans the menu.
Her face lights up suddenly, eyes darting to mine as I tell her that she can order whatever she likes. And she goes ahead to surprise me.
I raise an eyebrow, surprised. “You want the seafood boil?”
She grins. “Absolutely.”
The waiter barely masks his surprise, but he nods, taking the order and retreating.
When the platter arrives — piled high with crab legs, shrimp, mussels, corn, and potatoes swimming in rich, spiced butter — Mara wastes no time.
With a quick flick of her wrists, she rolls up her sleeves, puts on her gloves, leans forward, and digs in with both hands, cracking shells, pulling meat free, licking sauce from her fingers.
I sit back, watching, genuinely caught off guard.
“You’re not what I expected,” I murmur.
She glances up, her eyes glinting playfully. “You thought I’d pick at a salad all night, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” I admit, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Mara laughs, bright and unrestrained. It’s the first time tonight I’ve seen the polished mask drop — and beneath it, there’s something warm, sharp, and utterly real.
We eat and talk.
At first, it’s the standard topics: the arrangement, the timeline, the political gains. But gradually, the conversation drifts.
She tells me about her years studying at the university. The way she fell in love with art museums and bustling city streets, where no one knew her name.
“I loved the freedom,” she says softly, twisting a shrimp tail between her fingers. “No guards. No whispers. No weight of being Thiago Delgado’s daughter hanging over my head.”
I listen, surprisingly riveted.
It strikes me, suddenly, how lonely her world must be.
How carefully she’s learned to move, to calculate, to balance the image everyone expects.
And yet here, in this quiet corner, with butter smeared on her knuckles and laughter slipping free, she’s not the delicate little princess everyone assumes.
She’s sharp. Messy. Vibrant.
I feel something shift inside me — a quiet, unexpected pull.
She glances up at me, eyes bright.
“What about you, Zasha? You always this quiet, or is this just the brooding Russian act you pull out for dinner dates?”
I huff out a soft laugh before I can stop myself.
“I’m always this quiet.”
She grins. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”
By the time we finish the meal, I realize — reluctantly, inwardly — that I’ve enjoyed myself more than I meant to.
More than I should.
This was supposed to be simple. Tactical.
But as I watch Mara remove her gloves, wipe her fingers with a wet napkin, and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, I realize this is already becoming something far more complicated.
We step out into the night, the air cool and scented faintly with rain. I hand her my jacket to keep her warm, and walk just behind her, watching the soft sway of her dark hair, the way her peach dress clings gently to her.
She turns slightly, her eyes catching mine, warm hazel glowing softly under the streetlights. Something sharp and magnetic coils low in my chest. I tell myself to end the night cleanly. To keep this controlled. To not cross the line.
But with every quiet second, the pull tightens.
We stop near the car, neither of us speaking.
She hugs her arms lightly around herself, her lips curved in a small, hesitant smile.
And that’s when I feel it — the crack.
The one that’s been threatening all evening. The polite conversations, the careful questions, the amused surprise when she rolled up her sleeves at the table — all of it has been circling, pressing, chipping away at the wall I’ve spent years perfecting.
And now, standing here, with her eyes soft and unguarded, something inside me shatters.
I step forward.
Her breath catches.
My hand lifts, fingers brushing the smooth line of her jaw, cupping her face gently but firmly.
She fits perfectly under my palm — warm, delicate, grounding.
For a beat, I hesitate — feeling her pulse flutter under my thumb, sensing the stillness in her body, the way she leans ever so slightly toward me without even realizing it.
And then I close the distance.
The kiss hits me like a jolt of lightning. Her lips part softly against mine, and the moment her hands lift, pressing lightly to my chest, everything inside me twists.