40. Chapter 31
M ara
I dab the corner of my eye with a tissue, careful not to smudge the shadow I’ve spent the last ten minutes perfecting.
My bruises are fading—Cristóbal made sure of that.
Not because he regrets hitting me, but because he wants to parade me without raising questions. He prefers his cruelty to be hidden.
I gaze at myself, at the smooth facade I’ve created from powder and polish. The woman in the reflection resembles a cartel princess: elegant, composed, untouchable. But I know better. The girl beneath the sheen is crumbling.
Today, I’ll see my parents. Today, I look at some of my parents men and try to read how far Cristóbal’s rot has spread into his kingdom. My mother’s words come back to me like static in my brain: “Disloyalty reeks in the cartel now, even in our own house.”
She’d spoken with a pained tone, expressing disbelief at how swiftly the very cartel members they had once defended betrayed them at the first sign of vulnerability.
Mom told me this when I was in Spain, and now, after witnessing the extent of power Cristóbal has amassed, I begin to wonder how much deeper the decay has gone now.
I’m not sure if I can trust anyone within the organization anymore.
Tears sting behind my eyes, but I blink them away. Crying is a luxury. So is honesty. I’ve learned to trade both for survival.
And Maksim—
My stomach twists.
I press a hand flat against the vanity to keep myself grounded. This isn’t just about me. I’m going to get him out. Whatever it takes. I’ll smile and kiss arses and pretend to be a devoted wife if it buys me the time to save my son.
I reapply my blood-red lipstick because it's bold enough to hide how pale I feel.
Then the door opens without a knock, and the sense of control I’d been clinging to disappears like smoke.
Cristóbal walks in like he owns the walls around me—and maybe he does. He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches me through the mirror like I’m his favorite painting.
“You look perfect,” he says finally.
My shoulders stiffen, but I don’t turn. “I’m ready.”
“You’re beautiful when you behave,” he adds, stepping closer. His tone is smooth, but I feel the edge beneath it. Like always.
I manage a polished and empty smile.
“I’ll go get Maksim ready,” I say evenly.
That’s when he laughs. A soft, mocking sound that lands like a slap.
“Do you take me for a fool, Mara?”
The smile fades from my lips.
“He’s staying here.”
I turn to face him, slowly, careful not to let my expression crack. “He has never seen his grandparents, and going without him may raise suspicions.”
Cristóbal’s eyes gleam. “Well, that is your problem.”
I go still.
“If you so much as blink wrong at your parents' house,” he says, voice dipping into something darker, “He’ll be punished here. You understand me?”
My nod is mechanical, but my insides are screaming. I watch him turn and stroll out like this conversation meant nothing. Like he didn’t just hand me a loaded gun and dare me to fire at myself.
As the door clicks shut, my knees threaten to buckle. I grip the edge of the vanity once more. There would be no freedom today—just the suffocating truth that my son is bait, and I’m the hook Cristóbal is dangling in front of everyone.
I apply a final touch of powder to my face to conceal the truth. Then I stand, straighten my dress, and wish I were walking out of this hellhole with my son.
The hallway stretches before me, long and cold. I walk beside Cristóbal without a word. He doesn’t touch me, but I feel the weight of his presence pressing into my side like a loaded weapon.
I glance once, just once, over my shoulder toward the hall that leads to where I think Maksim is being held. I don’t stop. I don’t linger. But my heart stays back there.
He’s probably coloring right now. Or waiting by the window like he does when I leave the room. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. He still believes that this is part of our adventure.
As we walk towards the main exit, my heels echo in time with Cristóbal’s steps. I notice he is humming under his breath, and I want to vomit. For the millionth time, I berate myself for informing him of my return.
The sun is bright, but the chill in my bones doesn’t melt. I stand at the edge of the driveway, one polished shoe placed in front of the other, waiting for the car door to open. Cristóbal stands beside me, too close. His cologne clings to the air like a warning.
“You’ll need to up your game today,” he says smoothly. “Play the happy wife. Laugh at something I say. Touch my arm. And at some point during the visit”—he turns to me, voice dropping—“you’ll kiss me. Spontaneously.”
I don’t flinch. But I do look him in the eye.
“I’d rather kiss a poisonous snake.”
His smile fades. Slowly.
His hand lifts—open palm, midair—and I brace for it. The sting. The humiliation. But he stops.
He lets his hand hover for a breath longer. Then he lowers it. “It would be a shame to give you new bruises,” he murmurs. “They take time to fade, and you’ll need to look radiant going forward.”
I exhale quietly, just as his other hand slips into his pocket. He pulls out his phone and dials without breaking eye contact.
A familiar fear coils in my gut.
“Put me on speaker,” he says when the person on the other end answers.
My heart thunders.
“Maksim’s misbehaving again,” Cristóbal says casually. “Remind him how we handle that.”
There’s a nauseating pause. Then a loud, echoing smack of flesh hitting flesh, followed by my son’s scream.
I crumble.
My feet move before I think. I stumble into Cristóbal’s arms and press my mouth against his. My stomach turns. I hate him. I hate myself. But I keep kissing him.
His lips twist into a smirk as he kisses me back. I feel nothing but revulsion.
After a few seconds, he pushes me away like I’m something cheap he’s grown bored of. “Easy, baby,” he says mockingly. “I know you can’t keep your hands off me, but let’s not forget that we are outside.”
I am going to kill this bastard myself.
He turns to his second-in-command, lounging beside the vehicle. “Did you get that?”
The man blinks awkwardly. “No, sir.”
Cristóbal sighs. “What a shame. Mara, again. Smile this time.”
My face burns, but I obey.
I step back toward him, press my lips to his, and pull away slowly. I let my smile bloom like a practiced lie, but inside, I feel dead as the camera clicks again and again.
Cristóbal grabs his phone, scrolls through the shots, and holds one up. “Not bad. Here. Pick one and set it as your screensaver.”
I take the phone with steady hands, select the one with the brightest smile—the one that looks most real.
I send it to myself and set it.
I will play along. I will laugh. I will kiss him again if I must. I will endure every cruel demand until I find a way to contact Zasha because I know he is my only hope, the only person who can bring this to an end.
The only one ruthless enough to match Cristóbal.
The only one who would burn the world for a child, that’s his—even if he hates me for hiding the truth.
And he will hate me.
But what is one more ounce of Zasha’s disdain if it gets Maksim out of this living nightmare?