44. Chapter 35
X iomara
I hear sounds of commotion before the door is kicked open to reveal Cristóbal.
His eyes are wild, nostrils flaring, and his hair is damp with sweat. His shirt is unbuttoned, stained with a dark substance, possibly blood. His mouth twists into a cruel, desperate sneer.
“Move,” he barks, and when I don’t because of the pains in my ribs, his hand lashes out, seizing a fistful of my hair.
I scream as he yanks me forward.
“Cristóbal, stop—please—what are you doing?”
“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, dragging me into the hallway. My feet stumble to keep up, but the pain in my scalp makes it impossible to focus. I claw at his wrist, nails breaking, but he doesn’t let go.
His other hand jabs something cold and hard into my side.
A gun.
My blood goes ice-cold.
“Walk,” he snarls. “You’re not going to be the reason I die in this goddamn house. Instead, you are going to be my ticket out.”
I twist against him, trying to shove back, but he tightens his grip and leans in to speak into my ears.
“Even though you’re my insurance, querida. One wrong move and I’ll blow your fucking brain out.”
Tears prick my eyes from pain and fury. I hate that I’m shaking. I hate that part of me is terrified. But most of all I’m shaking with fear for my son.
“Wh….what is going on?” I manage to ask, feeling breathless.
Cristóbal doesn’t answer. His face is a twisted mask of rage and fear. That tells me everything I need to know.
Whoever is coming has him petrified
We turn a corner, and I catch a glimpse of the bodies—two guards lying motionless in a pool of dark crimson liquid. One has a blade still buried in his throat. The other’s eyes are open and glassy.
Hope claws up my throat because someone is finally here for me.
Cristóbal pulls me tighter against his chest, walking backward now, keeping the gun firmly pressed under my ribs. I hear the sound of voices ahead—low, commanding. I can’t make out the words because they are speaking in Russian. But I know one of them. That voice is carved into my soul.
Zasha.
I want to scream his name. I want to cry out. But Cristóbal’s arm is like a steel vice around my neck. He’s dragging me like a shield toward the central corridor. I can see the entryway now, the dim emergency lights flickering red. Shadows move at the far end of the hallway.
And then they step into view.
Zasha. Viktor. Lev.
Zasha’s eyes lock onto mine instantly, and the rest of the world disappears.
He’s here; He came for us. Relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle—but Cristóbal’s grip keeps me upright.
He jerks me tighter, gun now against my throat. “You come any closer,” he shouts, “and I’ll kill her. Right here.”
Zasha’s eyes narrow. His hands are down, but I see the way his fingers flex. He’s ready.
My chest is heaving, lungs burning, but I manage to look at him—just him. Don’t do anything stupid, I beg silently, because this maniac is crazy enough to pull his trigger.
Cristóbal starts moving again, dragging me back, trying to pivot toward the exit. His focus flicks to Viktor, to Lev—and just as he shifts to scan behind him. And in that split-second of distraction, Zasha lunges.
I feel the rush of air as Cristóbal’s grip is ripped off me. His arm wrenches back, and suddenly I’m flying free—staggering into Viktor’s arms.
I wait for gunfire, but it doesn’t follow. Just grunts, fists, and the cracking of a bone. By the time I blink the sweat and tears from my lashes, Zasha has Cristóbal pinned against the wall.
My heart is thundering with the knowledge that I am finally free from this self-inflicted nightmare.
Cristóbal is panting, bruised and bleeding. But he still manages to sneer. “Cowards. All of you. Ganging up on me like fucking weaklings.”
Zasha doesn’t flinch. “You’re not facing all of us,” he says. “Just me.”
Cristóbal laughs, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “You think you can take me down on your own, grandpa??”
Zasha tilts his head and smiles. And in this moment, I become sure of one thing: Cristóbal is not leaving this house alive.
The blade gleams, catching the low hallway light as it arcs through the air—but Zasha isn’t there. He dodges left, then drives forward like a storm unleashed. His fist crashes into Cristóbal’s jaw with a sickening crunch.
Then the second punch lands—harder, meaner. The knife slips from Cristóbal’s grip, clattering to the floor.
“You wanted me?” Zasha snarls, breath ragged, eyes wild. “You got me. Big mistake.”
Cristóbal lunges again, but he’s sloppy now—bleeding, and unbalanced. Zasha doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Cristóbal by the collar and drives him back against the corridor wall. The plaster cracks. Cristóbal spits blood and rage.
They brawl.
No rules. No structure. Just two men tearing each other apart.
Cristóbal tries to gouge Zasha’s eye. Zasha shoves him off, then delivers a brutal knee to the ribs. The impact echoes, and Cristóbal stumbles, gasping. Blood paints the tiles beneath them in messy arcs. The walls rattle with every slam.
Zasha fights like a man who’s waited years for this. He’s silent now, deadly. Every movement is laced with fury and precision. And still Cristóbal keeps coming—grunting, snarling, biting like a cornered animal.
Then Cristóbal’s hand disappears into his jacket. I don’t even have time to shout.
Another knife.
He swings upward and slices across Zasha’s forearm.
Blood blooms instantly. A line of red opens against Zasha’s skin, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t back down. Doesn’t stop.
Instead, he grabs Cristóbal’s wrist mid-swing, twists it until the knife drops—and slams his forehead into Cristóbal’s face.
Cristóbal lets out a strangled cry.
Zasha throws him to the ground. Hard.
Before he can rise, Zasha pins him there with a boot to the chest. A knife appears in his hand—I don’t even know where it came from—but it’s pressed to Cristóbal’s throat in the blink of an eye.
Bloodied. Panting. Beaten.
Cristóbal is done.
I can’t breathe.
It’s over. It’s over.
Viktor steps into the hallway, gun still in hand. His voice is low, calm. The kind of calm that sends shivers. “Mara.”
I blink. Look at him.
“You want him dead?”
My gaze drops to Cristóbal. He’s trying to smile, teeth red with blood. His body shakes under Zasha’s hold, but the arrogance hasn’t drained out of his eyes. Not yet.
And that’s what tips me over.
I think of Maksim.
My sweet boy—cowering in a room alone because Cristóbal thought fear was a better teacher than kindness.
I think of the nights I couldn’t sleep because of what Cristóbal might do.
The bruises hidden beneath long sleeves.
The tightness in my chest every time he walked into a room. The secrets. The torment.
And I remember the moment he told me—smiling like it was a joke—that he had been the one behind the kidnapping attempt when I was seventeen.
All these years, and he never stopped hunting me
I turn to Zasha.
My voice comes out even. “Yes. But make it slow.”
Cristóbal’s eyes widen. “You wouldn’t—”
Zasha doesn’t wait for the rest. He drags Cristóbal up by the front of his blood-soaked shirt and slams him into the wall again—hard enough to make the whole corridor shudder.
Then, methodically, he drives one of his knives through Cristóbal’s shoulder—pinning him to the wall like a grotesque insect.
Cristóbal screams.
“Yuri. Roman.” Zasha doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. “Get me gasoline.”
They’re already moving before the sentence ends.
Cristóbal thrashes, panic finally overtaking him. “You can’t do this! You’re not—she won’t let you!”
He looks at me.
I meet his gaze.
“I’m the one who asked for it.”
Zasha’s lips twitch, not into a smile—but into something far more dangerous.
“I told you,” he whispers, leaning in close. “You’d beg for death by the time I was done.”
I don’t look away as they pour the gasoline over him. Not once.
Zasha doesn’t speak again. He lights a match with a casual flick of his wrist—like he’s done it a thousand times—and watches it burn for a second.
Then he drops it.
Flames roar to life, licking up the wall. Cristóbal’s screams are immediate, high, and terrible. He kicks, jerks, but the long knives hold him in place. His cries turn into gargled sobs. Then, eventually, to nothing.
I don’t flinch.
I won’t.
Zasha steps back, the orange light painting his face like war paint.
Viktor finally exhales and nods. “I want the report to say fire started as a domestic accident, and unfortunately, the occupants of the house were killed in it.”
We leave the corridor behind, smoke trailing after us. The fire will take the rest of the estate soon. I can smell it already, feel the heat chasing our heels as we head for the exit.
When we reach the gates, the cool night air hits me like a wave. It tastes like ash.
The gates creak open, and the world outside blinks into view. For a moment, I just stand there, frozen. I turn back once, only once, to look at the building behind me. Or rather, what’s left of it.
The flames light up the dark sky, casting long shadows.
I’ll never forget the sight.
Zasha steps beside me. His eyes don’t leave me. “You’re safe now.”
I nod, but all I want is to hold Maksim. “Please take me to my son.”
His expression softens, and I see something behind it. Regret. Relief. Love.
He opens his arms. I don’t hesitate.
He pulls me in, wraps me tight, and for the first time in what feels like years—I let go. The tears fall fast and hot down my cheeks, soaking into his shoulder.
He lifts me without effort, like I weigh nothing, like I’m everything.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
I close my eyes and believe it.