34. Chapter 27
X iomara
Maksim bounces on the airport bench beside me, swinging his little feet as he clutches his stuffed bear in one hand and a juice box in the other.
“Where are we going again, Mamá?” he asks for the one millionth time this morning.
“On an adventure,” I say, smoothing down his dark curls.
He grins, wide and carefree, accepting the answer like it’s magic.
I wish I could hold on to his innocence for just a little longer, because this isn’t an adventure.
It’s a return to everything I ran from. And he—my bright, giggling son—is about to be thrust into the very world he was born into but never knew.
He doesn’t know about the security details that will soon follow us everywhere. The eyes that will be watching us. The danger that always hides just behind the legacy of our name.
He doesn’t know who his father or grandfather is. Or what I left behind to give him a normal life, and now I’m dragging him back into it.
The check-in line moves slowly.
I keep my scarf tucked low over my face, sunglasses shielding my eyes even in the fluorescent light. I don’t make conversation. I know I look like just another tired mother traveling alone with her child.
Maksim chats with the elderly woman behind us in line, charming her with his stories about “the talking bird he saw in the window yesterday” and how he’s going to “see the clouds from inside the plane.”
They scan our bags. Glance at our documents, and wave us through. Maksim holds my hand as we walk toward the boarding gate, his eyes darting everywhere, wide and curious.
“Mamá, can we live on the airplane?” he asks.
“No, mi amor,” I whisper, brushing my thumb across his knuckles. “But I wish we could.”
We settle into our seats on the flight to Barcelona, just under an hour in the air. Maksim insists on the window seat, and I let him have it. He presses his nose to the glass and gasps as the engines roar to life.
“This is my favorite adventure ever,” he declares.
I smile weakly, the sound of his voice both comforting and cruel because I know the life that awaits him on the other side.
He falls asleep halfway through the flight, head nestled into my arm, his soft breath fogging the collar of my coat.
I stroke his hair gently, watching the clouds drift by outside, golden and cotton-soft in the morning light.
My heart feels heavier the closer we get. The pressure within my ribs builds until I feel like I might burst. As the plane begins to descend into Barcelona, I tighten my grip around Maksim. He stirs but doesn’t wake.
The clouds part. The city stretches out below us, sun-washed and sprawling. This is a temporary stop before the world tilts again. I adjust my scarf. Check our documents one more time, and steel myself.
We find a quiet corner in the layover lounge—far from the crowds, near a wide window overlooking the runway. Maksim munches on crackers and sips apple juice, legs swinging from the chair, humming a tune he made up five minutes ago.
I scroll through the flight app again. Our next leg—Barcelona to New York—is on time. Just over eight hours until we land.
I tuck my phone against my chest and glance at Maksim. He’s making his crackers talk to each other in Spanish, oblivious to the war inside my chest.
I take a breath, then pull up a contact I haven’t touched in years.
Cristóbal.
My finger hovers over the call button, then I press it. It rings twice before he answers.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” I say quietly.
There’s silence on the other end.
Then a sharp gasp.
“Xiomara?!” There is disbelief, surprise, and anger in his voice. “No, I mean Judas. Is that you calling me?!”
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “Yeah. I’m calling.”
“I thought you were dead—or in Mars, or ran off and joined a cult or something!”
“No cult.” I laugh nervously.
“Where are you?!”
“Barcelona airport,” I say. “On a layover.”
He goes silent again as if processing my words, “Wait. Wait. Are you coming back?”
“Yes.”
“Today?!”
“If all goes well,” I affirm. “I should arrive at JFK airport by nine tonight.”
Cristóbal practically booms. “Oh my God, I’m coming to pick you up. Which terminal? Send me your gate—”
“No.” My voice is firmer than I mean for it to be. “I mean—thank you. But no.”
There’s a pause. Then he speaks again, confused.
“What do you mean ‘no’? You’re not letting me come hug you at Arrivals like a good telenovela reunion?”
“I want to go straight to my parents’ first,” I explain gently. “Before I start… fraternizing.”
He exhales, long and dramatic. “Fine. I can see you haven’t changed. Still as stubborn as ever.”
“I’m sure you miss that about me.”
“Debatable,” he teases. Then softens. “You okay?”
“No,” I admit. “But I’m coming home.”
He exhales again, this time quieter. “Call me when you land, okay?”
“I will.”
“There’s so much to catch up on.”
“I know.”
There’s a pause, then we both say at the same time, “Bye.”
We laugh and hang up.
I place the phone face down on the table and close my eyes for a moment.
Cristóbal doesn’t know about Maksim yet, which means either he hasn’t spoken with my parents since yesterday, or they chose to let me tell him myself. Whatever it is, I am grateful he is not yet aware. I’d hate to start explaining myself in public.
I watch my son reach for a napkin to wipe his fingers. He’s so capable, sweet, and innocent. I wonder if people can see Zasha in him once they meet him.
The cabin hums with a steady quiet. Just the low murmur of distant voices, the soft rustle of blankets being adjusted, and the occasional click of a flight attendant’s heels moving down the aisle.
I paid extra to be here—this quiet row at the back of the Airbus A330, away from families, businessmen, honeymooners. It’s just us here—Maksim and I.
He’s asleep, curled across two seats with his head in my lap, his hand clutching mine even in dreams. I stroke his hair slowly and gently, as if I’m trying to memorize his shape before the world changes everything.
He doesn’t know that the ground we’re flying toward isn’t just foreign—it’s dangerous. He doesn’t know the people waiting for us carry power like weapons.
I watch the clouds drift by, thick and glowing white beneath the wing. The sky is endless, but it doesn’t feel freeing. It feels like a tunnel. Like every mile brings me closer to something I can’t outrun anymore.
I lean back into the seat, careful not to disturb Maksim’s sleep. He stirs anyway, lips parting around a sigh, his fingers curling tighter around mine, and my heart aches for him.
I tell myself I’m going home for one reason: to see my father on his sick bed. To stand beside my mother when she needs strength. To stand beside her and nurse my father back to health.
And after that, what will happen to me and my son? Will I take him and disappear again?
The small voice in the back of my mind won’t stop whispering. It won’t stop asking questions like ‘What if I can’t leave this time? I press my palm against my chest, like I can silence it by force because it is asking what will happen if Zasha finds out about Maksim.
It always circles back to him, no matter how far I run. No matter how hard I try to pretend he was merely a detour, just a mistake wrapped in need, timing, and power.
But only I know that he wasn’t.
He was the only man who ever made me feel like a woman. And the same man who made me feel like I was disposable.
I look down at Maksim. At the slight part in his lips. The little furrow in his brow that matches Zasha’s when he’s deep in thought.
I brought you into the world, mi amor, and I would never allow you to feel as unwanted as I did.
And yet… if Zasha ever finds out…and wants him…
My stomach twists with that thought.
The plane touches down with a soft thud, tires screaming briefly against the JFK runway before settling into a smooth roll. The descent was gentle—no turbulence, no jerky drops. Just quiet.
Almost too quiet.
Maksim stirs beside me, groggy, eyes half-lidded and puffy with sleep. His hand is still in mine. I squeeze it.
“We’re here, mi amor,” I whisper.
He blinks up at me, disoriented. Then, his smile breaks through.
“We made it to our adventure?” he asks, voice thick with sleep.
“Yes, we made it.”
Customs is surprisingly smooth, and the agent barely looks at us twice. Maksim yawns dramatically during the screening, and the officer cracks a grin before waving us through.
We collect our suitcase quickly. I strap Maksim’s tiny dinosaur-shaped backpack onto his shoulders and grip his hand tightly. As we walk through the terminal, I take a steadying breath. We're really here. After all this time, we're really back.
Maksim hums to himself as he walks beside me, glancing at every screen, pointing out planes and luggage carts and “giant snack machines.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Soon, we’ll arrive at our destination.”
My heart thumps faster at the thought.
After I’d shared our flight details yesterday, Mom had texted saying they’ll have a car waiting. But she didn’t say who she’d send.
The doors slide open with a rush of warm, humid air, and we step outside. The JFK curb side arrival lane is a flurry of chaos—honking, shouting, rolling bags, kids crying, horns blaring. Maksim holds tighter to my hand as we step to the side to scan the waiting vehicles.
Then I see it.
A sleek black SUV pulls up to the curb, its tinted windows glinting in the light. A man steps out from the passenger side—mid-forties, clean-shaven, broad frame in a tailored suit. He approaches confidently, like he knows me.
“Ms. Delgado,” he says with a polite smile. “Your ride is ready.”
I stop as my entire body freezes. Even though I have been away for years, I still remember the security details that have been drilled into me.
“I don’t know you,” I say carefully.
His smile doesn’t waver. “Your mother sent me. Let me help with your bags.”
“No.” My voice sharpens. “My mother would never send someone I’ve never seen before.”
Maksim presses into my side, and the man’s eyes flick down to him. I take a small step back.
“Stay away from my son,” I say, my voice colder now.
He raises his hands. “Ma’am, this is your ride—”
Just then, a second man steps from behind the vehicle. I don’t even see his face before he grabs Maksim.
“Hey!” I scream at him, twisting violently, my grip tightening on Maksim. He cries out—terrified.
“Mamá!”
“Don’t touch him!” I hiss.
But another hand yanks Maksim from my grip.
“Maksim! No—don’t you touch him—!”
One of the guys lifts his jacket and shows me his gun. If you do anything stupid, that will be the end of your son.
I take one look at my sobbing son, who has already been placed in the vehicle, and decide to cooperate.
As I enter the vehicle, something cracks against the side of my skull. My vision fractures, and just before everything goes dark, I see Maksim scurry beside me.