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She used our marriage like a door—out of a life she couldn’t breathe in, and away from a man she couldn’t learn to love.
And I let her.
That’s what no one seems to understand. I down the rest of the drink and slam the empty glass onto the bar with a dull clink.Thiago might be using this leak to lash out. To remind me that I failed his daughter. That he is still coming for retribution.
Fine. Let him come.
But if he’s behind this—if he’s dragging the Bratva into his family vendetta—then he’s just declared a war he thinks the Bratva won’t answer.
But he’s wrong, because I will answer.
32
Chapter 26
Xiomara
I wake with my heart pounding and my breath lodged somewhere between my ribs and throat. The room is still dark, but pale blue light spills through the shutters, just enough to cast gentle stripes across the floor. My pulse hammers in my ears from the dream I was having. But like fog in sunlight, it slips away from me before I can grab hold of it.
I sit up, pressing the heels of my hands to my temples, trying to will the fragments back, but all that’s left is this vague ache in my chest—like something beautiful was broken just before I woke up. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The silence is heavy. Even the birds seem to be holding their breath. After a moment, I check the time.
It’s still early, and Maksim’s bedroom door is closed. I think about our trip to the beach the previous day, and a smile tugs at my lips. He would always run back to me with anything he found on the beach, saying, “Mama, wook, I found this for you.”
He would typically be up by now, but the trip had worn him out, so his side of the apartment is currently quiet, filled with the hush only a two-year-old can muster when he’s curled up in sleep, his face buried in his favorite stuffed dino.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, stretching slowly, trying to shake off the chill that won’t leave my spine. My body feels off and tense in a way I can’t name.
My routine kicks in on autopilot. I pad barefoot into the kitchen and grind coffee beans by hand, the rhythm familiar and grounding. The aroma is rich and comforting. The small French press hisses as I pour in the water.
Steam curls upward.
The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I walk toward the balcony. I push open the wooden shutters, and the rising Alicante sun floods in—golden, warm, relentless.
The sky is already clear, the sea visible in the distance beyond the red rooftops. It should feel peaceful, like it always does.
But it doesn’t.
Not today.
I take my coffee outside and sit on the sun-warmed tiles, legs tucked beneath me, the breeze catching the hem of my nightshirt. I flip through a tattered children’s book—nursery rhymes in both English and Spanish. Maksim’s favorite. Some pages are wrinkled from his wet fingers, while others have been taped back together where he tore them during fits of frustration or giggles.
I trace the words idly with my finger, mouthing them silently, but not really reading. My mind keeps circling the edge of the dream like a hawk, sensing something there, just beyond view. It’s like waking up from a storm you didn’t know passed over you. The skies are clear, but you still taste rain.
After finishing my coffee, I wash the mug slowly and set it aside. The scent of rising yeast from the bakery below begins to waft in, signaling the start of morning.
I check on Maksim.
He’s still sleeping, arms sprawled wide as if he owns the entire apartment. His dark lashes rest against chubby cheeks, and his mouth is slightly open. I smile despite myself and press a kiss to his forehead.
I push the hunting dream out of my mind as I start my day. I crack some eggs and place them in the pan. Next, I arrange orange slices on a plate and grab Maksim’s favorite spoon. I hum softly while I work, half-hoping the melody will calm me, half-hoping it will unlock my dream, but it doesn’t. And I’m left with nothing but a sense of something unfinished.
Later in the morning, the apartment is alive with sound. Maksim is a blur of motion—his feet thud against the wooden floors, tiny arms swinging as he races through the hallway, clutching a plastic truck that makes far too much noise for this time of day.
“Bath time, Maksim,” I call, chasing after him with a towel slung over my shoulder. “You need to smell like lemons, not crumbs!”
He squeals in delight and ducks around the corner, his laughter echoing off the walls.
“¡No! Nobaño!”he shouts with wild glee, using his whole body to dramatize the rejection.