37. Chapter 29
X iomara
My hand won’t stop pounding.
It’s not just the ache from where they jabbed a needle in or the rough hands that shoved me—it’s everything. The exhaustion. The rage. The hours ticking by with no sleep, no answers, especially no Maksim.
I haven’t seen my son since last night, and I’m on the verge of madness.
I’ve frantically trashed around my new room, looking for an escape route but there is none.
There are cameras tucked into the corners, disguised behind hand-carved wood.
I noticed them within ten minutes of being ‘upgraded to this room.’
The door has no handle on the inside.
I pace the room slowly, jaw clenched, trying to keep the scream buried in my throat. Every inch of me aches with the need to tear the walls down.
Last night, I’d stared at the closed door long after he had gone, my breath trapped somewhere between my ribs and my throat. I don’t know how long I sat there, knees tucked to my chest, heart screaming against the walls of this gilded cage.
Cristóbal.
The name that once meant safety, friendship, and laughter. Now it’s nothing but a noose tightening around my neck.
I press my palm against my forehead, willing the truth to make sense. But no matter how I twist it in my mind, it refuses to become anything other than what it is. He did this. He kidnapped me. He is the one keeping me prisoner.
And suddenly, my whole childhood feels like a lie.
Cristóbal was always there. I don’t remember a version of my growing years where he wasn’t sitting at our kitchen table or tagging along on trips. He was three years older, just enough to make him cooler, wiser, like an annoying big brother without the blood.
His father, one of my father’s rising enforcers, died when he was five. So Cristóbal was mostly raised by his grandfather. But every spare second he had, he was in our house. And my parents… God, they adored him. My father took him under his wing. My mother fed him like he was her own.
I remember him teaching me to ride a bike.
Holding the back of the seat as I wobbled down the long driveway, shouting, "You’ve got it!
Don’t fall!" I remember him holding my hand at my first school dance when I was too nervous to walk in alone.
I remember movie nights—him stealing the popcorn and laughing when I pouted, then pouring it back into my bowl.
I trusted him.
We all did.
I thought of him as family. He was family. But now he’s the man behind the locked door keeping me prisoner.
My stomach twists violently.
I think of my parents. The softness in my mother’s voice when she said, “He’s ours, too.”
How could we have been so blind?
I bury my face in my hands as a sob breaks free. A sharp sound, cut from somewhere deep and raw.
We didn’t just let a monster into our home. We raised him. And now… I’ve walked straight into his trap. Not just me, but my son. The realization makes my blood run cold.
Just then, the door opens, and it’s Cristóbal. I can feel the change in the air the moment he steps inside—like poison gas diffusing through silk. He’s dressed casually. Cream linen shirt, sleeves rolled, loafers without socks. The look of a man on holiday.
His voice is too soft when he speaks.
“Mi rosa,” he says like we’re old lovers. “You look tired. Sit. You shouldn’t be pacing around as much as you have been doing.”
I look at the traitor with a stone-cold expression. “Where is my son?”
He offers a smile that never reaches his eyes. “He’s safe. Eating better than you are, I assure you.”
My fists curl.
“That’s not good enough,” I snap. “I want to see him.”
He waves a hand, as if I’m being dramatic. “You will. In time. But first, you need to stop making this harder than it needs to be.”
I take a step forward. “Cristóbal, I can’t believe you would do this to me.”
His smile fades—just a flicker.
“If only you had given me a chance,” he says, voice suddenly sharp. “If only you hadn’t run off chasing stupid Bratva men and then hiding in countries where no one knew your name.”
My stomach turns.
“You think I didn’t look for you?” he says. “That I didn’t try to find you? You were supposed to belong to me, Mara.”
“I belong to no one,” I spit. “Certainly not a man who kidnaps children to get what he wants.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Careful.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I lie. “I know my father would find out you took me.”
He studies me for a moment, then laughs. Low and wicked.
“Your father won’t find you,” he says simply.
The words hang in the air like a noose.
“My father will burn this city to the ground to get me back,” I whisper.
Cristóbal tuts like I’m a child.
“Your father is dying. Slowly, and pathetically. He doesn’t have that kind of strength or time to spare. And this—” he gestures around the room—“this wasn’t a sloppy snatch job. There are no breadcrumbs, mi rosa. Nothing to trail you back to this house.”
The silence between us stretches.
He crosses the room and picks up a teacup from the cart in the corner, sips it leisurely like we’re discussing real estate instead of my abduction.
“But the ball is still in your court,” he says lightly.
I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean?”
He turns toward me again, this time with a smile that gleams like the edge of a blade.
“It means you have six more hours to make your decision whether you live or die,” he says. “Six hours to agree to marry me.”
“I WOULD NEVER MARRY YOU!” I scream. “The thought of you touching me makes my skin crawl.”
He looks at me with a cruel, yet amused smile on his face.
“You think I want to touch you?” He bursts into an evil smile.
“Maybe I did a long time ago, but knowing you have been fucked by a Russian swine makes you detestable to me. I could never fuck the same cunt as a them. You are already too contaminated for my cock.”
His words punch me harder than any blow can: “You are not worthy to breathe the same air as Zasha.” I say in an icy tone.
He pins me to the wall and looks at me with fury in his eyes. “Don’t push me bitch.”
I swallow the retort in my head and will myself to stay silent.
He pauses, then adds, “If you dare push me again, I will do away with you and your little brat.”
The world tilts. Just slightly. Just enough for the blood to rush to my head. And my heart hammers in my chest, sharp and rhythmic like it’s trying to crack through my ribs.
Cristóbal sees the fear in my eyes and smiles, something cold and triumphant sparking behind his eyes.
“He’s been crying for you,” he says, like it pleases him. “Kept asking for his mamá like a good little bastard.”
The word pierces me like a knife, and my hand moves before I can feel the heat in my veins. The sound of my palm striking his cheek reverberates through the room. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t even flinch. But his smile vanishes. And for a second, there’s only silence.
Then—he hits me. Hard.
The slap comes quickly and without mercy. His palm strikes my face with such force that I crash against the vanity behind me, my shoulder hitting the edge as my skull bounces off the wall. The impact robs the air from my lungs. Pain blossoms behind my eye, radiating outward in pulsing waves.
I slide to the floor. My cheek burns, and my vision pulses black. I raise my head slowly and look up at him from the floor. Cristóbal stands over me, his face cold and blank.
“You think you are here for a vacation?” he rages. Giving me a kick to the ribs. “I’m here to make you understand the position you’re in. You do not want to fuck with me.”
He crouches slightly, voice lowering into a threat wrapped in silk. “You are mine now, Mara. You can either become something useful and something obedient, or I can start pulling you apart piece by piece.”
I breathe through my nose, jaw trembling, but I don’t look away.
“And your brat?” he adds, straightening. “He’s only breathing because I’m feeling generous.”
I clench my fists at my sides, trying to force my breathing into something steady.
“My father will find me,” I whisper. “And when he does, he will burn you out of your own bones.”
Cristóbal laughs.
“Oh, your poor Papi. You vanished, remember? And no one knows who took you.”
He steps closer and leans down again.
“But just in case you’re still clinging to hope… You have less than six hours.”
I stare up at him, barely blinking.
“Six hours to agree to marry me,” he says. “Or I do away with your.”
He pauses, smirking again.
“And your little bastard, too.”
Then he turns and walks out, leaving the door wide open behind him for two guards to step in. I lie still for a moment with my face burning and my ribs aching. But my fury pulses harder than the pain. However, I am now sensible enough to keep my anger tucked away because of my son.
Two hours have passed since Cristóbal slapped me hard enough to make the walls tilt. The ache in my cheek is still there, hot and throbbing. But it’s not pain I feel most—it’s the restraint.
When the door clicks open again, I don’t flinch. I just turn slowly.
Cristóbal re-enters, as casually as he did earlier. Like he didn’t just threaten my son’s life. Like he didn’t strike me across the room like I was worthless.
He smiles at me like a wolf. “I trust you’ve had time to think, mi rosa ,” he says smoothly. “Are we to be newlyweds by this evening?”
I lift my chin. My voice is steady, but there’s sand in it. “I need to see my son.”
Cristóbal’s smile drops an inch. He studies me.
“Before I decide,” I continue, “I need to know he’s okay.”
He is silent for a second, then he pulls out his phone and presses a single button. “Bring the bastard to his mother.”
This word ‘Bastard’ is like bile in my throat every time he says it. The minutes that pass are torturous. Every sound from beyond the door makes my stomach twist. Then the door opens again. And my heart splits in two.