42. Chapter 33
X iomara
The blacked-out SUV turns onto the familiar private drive of my parents' estate, tires crunching over the gravel that once led to safety, warmth, and home. I clutch my purse like it’s the only thing tethering me to sanity.
Cristóbal lounges beside me, one arm draped along the backseat like he owns the air I breathe. And maybe he does now. He certainly owns the silence between us.
My eyes are sharp and alert because I have no choice but to force them to stay that way. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing fear in them—not now, and hopefully not ever.
The wrought-iron gates creak open, just like they used to, but the sound doesn’t comfort me.
Instead, it scrapes and grates on my nerves.
Two guards step forward to wave the car through—men I grew up seeing in this very courtyard.
Men whose families used to eat from our kitchen, whose wives sent birthday cakes just to stay in my father’s good graces.
One of them now gives a tiny nod meant not for me, but for Cristóbal.
I don't flinch. I don’t blink. But my stomach knots so tightly I think I might choke on it. Not all of my father’s men are loyal anymore. Some have flipped. And worse—they’re comfortable enough to show it.
Which means they are certain that power has shifted from father to this sick bastard.
I swallow down the fear and rage at the crushing realization that, even here under my father’s roof, Cristóbal’s reach is longer than I thought.
“I forgot how grand this place is,” Cristóbal murmurs beside me, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored blazer like he’s preparing to sign ownership papers.
My fingers dig into my purse.
This place used to smell like freshly waxed floors and the scent of cigar smoke. Now it smells like antiseptic and death.
The car comes to a stop in front of the main entrance. The door swings open, and I step out first, forcing my legs to move purposefully. I don’t bother waiting for Cristóbal. I don’t look back. But I sense him by my side, his presence creeping up beside mine like a poisonous shadow.
Inside, the entry hall is dimmer than I remember. The curtains are drawn tighter. The familiar atmosphere of the Delgado household has vanished. It resembles a house in mourning, though the man it mourns still breathes.
What the hell have I done by staying away all these years?
Perhaps if I had stayed, I could have stepped up and taken care of what my parents built with their sweat and blood while they managed my father’s failing health.
Cristóbal or anyone else wouldn’t have had the chance to infiltrate and topple my father.
A nurse walks by with a clipboard and doesn't acknowledge me. That’s new. Her eyes flick from me to Cristóbal, and then she also gives him a respectful nod. Making my heart sink lower.
We turn the corner into the west wing, which is my parents’ wing.
Or what it used to be. Now it resembles a mini private hospital, with portable machines beeping softly.
A dialysis setup looms in the corner, with plastic tubes coiled like veins around the room.
A sharp smell of antiseptic, sweat, and something stale fills the air.
But there’s also the fading scent of my parents.
And then I see him.
Thiago Delgado, once the fiercest man I knew, lies in a hospital bed propped up by pillows.
His skin is ashen and stretched thin. He’s wearing a gray cardigan over his shoulders, the kind he used to mock when other older men wore them.
His eyes flick up when he sees me, and they shine—but not like they used to.
They shimmer like glass catching the last bit of light before it shatters.
“Mara?” His voice is raspy, and my knees nearly buckle at the sound of his voice.
I cross to him without thinking, bending to press my lips to his temple. I try not to cry, but something inside me is screaming with grief.
“Papa…”
He’s grown thinner than I expected. The weight loss is dramatic. His once sturdy hands now appear almost skeletal. A long plastic tube is taped to his arm, connecting him to the dialysis machine. It hums softly, like death whispering lullabies.
“He’s undergoing daily hemodialysis now,” my mother says softly from behind me. I turn and see her standing there, hollow-eyed, dressed in a plain black gown. She’s aged a decade since I last saw her. “Seven days a week. Each session is nearly eight hours. This is what’s keeping him alive.”
I look at her, then back at my father. “Is there no donor match yet?”
I sit gently at his bedside and take his hand. His skin is paper-thin and cold.
“Mija,” he whispers, “you look like your mother when she was your age.”
I try to smile, but my throat burns. “I’m here, Papa. I missed you.”
He coughs. It’s dry and ugly. His entire body shakes with the force of it. Mama’s already at his side, adjusting the pillow behind him. Her movements are frantic and practiced. Obvious that she hasn’t left his side.
Mom turns her gaze on me, her expression strained. “I don’t understand this marriage.”
I freeze.
Her voice softens, but the edge remains. “You and Cristóbal… you never even romantically liked each other. Where did this come from?”
Before I can respond—before I can lie—the door opens and the doctor walks in. I seize the opportunity.
“Doctor Salinas,” she greets, and I also greet the doctor who has been my family doctor for as long as I can remember.
He gives a slight bow of his head, respectful.
“How is he doing?”
“As well as we can expect, Senora.”
The title curdles my stomach, but I nod.
He begins reviewing charts, fiddling with the machine, and speaking in clinical tones. “Senor Delgado has exhausted several treatment options. We tried peritoneal dialysis at first, but he responded poorly. Then short daily sessions—but his body couldn’t recover in between.”
My mother clutches my father’s hand. She doesn’t look away.
“We’ve now placed him on continuous hemodialysis. It’s more intensive—seven days a week. Five to eight hours per session. But it’s the only method slowing the progression.”
Cristóbal steps forward, faking interest. I watch him from the corner of my eye.
The doctor adds, “We’re continuing compatibility testing for a transplant. We’ve already drawn samples from his wife. We hope to have results soon.”
Mama’s voice is barely a whisper. “And if I’m not a match?”
Silence.
“I’d like to be tested,” I say, before I can stop myself.
My mother looks at me like I’ve just handed her a miracle. “You would do that?”
“Of course,” I say, surprised she would even expect anything else from me. “Anything for Papa.”
My father smiles again—just a flicker of pride beneath the haze of pain.
Cristóbal doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his fury vibrating through the air beside me. His smile never fades, yet his hand on my lower back tightens because what I just said isn’t part of his plan. I’ve crossed an invisible line, and now I can’t take it back.
We chat for a little while longer, engaging in small talk and empty words.
Papa tries to bring up business. “There are matters and suppliers that I’ve been meaning to—”
Mama cuts in, sharp and firm. “No.”
Her voice shakes, but her conviction doesn’t. “No cartel business. Not when you’re this weak.”
Papa opens his mouth to argue, but she lays a hand on his chest and he relents.
When it’s time to go, Mom walks me to the door. Her hand brushes against mine, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the mother she used to be—proud and fierce, a force of nature that I always thought could not be tamed.
“Move back home, Xiomara,” she pleads. “Even if you’re married, why not stay here and spend as much time as possible with your father? We don’t know how much longer we have.”
Tears sting my eyes. I want to say yes because I so badly want to stay beside my ill father. But I can’t. Not while Cristóbal has Maksim under lock and key.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Maksim is… energetic. He’d get in the way of the treatments. But I’ll bring him to visit soon. When Papa’s strong enough.”
Mama’s mouth tightens. “Even if your father can’t handle him yet… I would like to meet my only grandchild. Make sure you bring him tomorrow. Or I will come and see him myself.”
Cristóbal steps in then, smiling as if he’s the perfect husband. “We’ll speak to him tonight,” he says smoothly. “Make sure he understands he needs to behave.”
My mother’s eyes bore into me as we walk away, and I feel the fracture in my already wounded soul deepen. Every lie I tell—every word I withhold—is killing me piece by piece. But I can’t stop. Not while Maksim is trapped. Not while Cristóbal has the power to end us both.
I have played right into his hands; now, I am nothing but his puppet, and he is an evil puppet master who knows how to tighten the strings every time I try to breathe.
As we walk to the car, he takes my hand, but the moment the car doors shut and the driver pulls away from the Delgado estate, I feel the restraint over his mood snapping.
Cristóbal doesn’t speak at first. He just sits there, jaw clenched, knuckles whitening on his thigh. His silence isn’t calm. It’s the kind that builds a storm. My stomach coils.
I keep my head turned toward the window, blinking rapidly, and gaze at the passing scenery without truly seeing anything as I think about my father wasting away, while my mother looks on helplessly.
My mind is preoccupied when suddenly I feel the sharp, brutal pain of a blow landing against my ribs. The seatbelt jerks against me as I double over from the impact, a gasp escaping my throat before I can prevent it. Another follows, then another.
I don’t scream; instead, I clamp my arms around my sides, realizing with horror that he’s avoiding my face to prevent leaving visible bruises.
This motherfucker is strategic even in his violence.
“How dare you offer to get tested?” he growls, each word venomous. “You think you can save your father?”