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I laugh under my breath as I follow him, one hand bracing the doorframe as I lean around it, pretending to search like a spy.
“Where did my little bandit go? Hmm…” I tease, narrowing my eyes.
He giggles from under the kitchen table, not even bothering to hide properly.
A beat later, I lunge—and he bolts again, shrieking with laughter, the plastic truck forgotten. I chase him through the narrow corridor, adrenaline and joy mingling in my chest, my steps quick, breath light, and my heart full.
And in this moment, a sense of déjà vu hits me. It crashes into me like a wave against bone, and I freeze mid-step.
Maksim’s laughter distorts, fades, as if sinking underwater, and suddenly, I’m no longer in Alicante. Instead, I see my mother. Her face is younger, her smile wide and full of mischief as she chases a much smaller version of me through the arched hallways of our childhood home. Her bare feet slap against the marble floors. I remember the smell of orange blossom perfume and the flutter of her skirt.
“¡Te voy a atrapar, Xiomara!” she shouts.
I scream and laugh, wild and free. But as I turn the corner, the world shifts abruptly, and I’m not a child anymore. Rather, I’m kneeling beside my father’s grave. My palms are dirty, pressed into soft, wet soil. The headstone is new, the flowers are fresh, and my shoulders are shaking.
I am sobbing so hard my ribs hurt. The earth beneath me feels too heavy, too final. I turn to my Mum for comfort, but I find her also walking into a freshly dug grave with a sad smile on her face.
“Mama…” I whisper aloud.
And just like that, the dream fades, and I’m back in my body, back in my tiny hallway, still holding the towel.
Maksim is at my feet, his arms wrapped around my leg. He looks up at me, confused, his big gray eyes searching mine.
“Mama?” he says softly, the word sounding worried.
I blink and force a smile, even though it feels like it's cracking my face open. I gently brush his hair back, but my fingers tremble.
“I’m okay, mi amor,” I whisper. “Just thinking too much.”
But I’m not okay. Not even close. I can feel it that something is wrong, but I don’t know what, or why, or how—but the feeling sits inside me like a block of ice.
A cold chill crawls up my spine, settling at the base of my neck.
33
Ileave the towel on the floor.
Maksim is content for now—back to rolling his truck across the coffee table, muttering sounds that are half-Spanish and half-nonsense. His world is still small and safe, filled with toys, hugs, and stories.
Mine is suddenly full of dread.
I move to the corner of the apartment where I keep my laptop tucked beneath a stack of cookbooks I rarely touch. The small desk barely fits beside the bookshelf, but it’s where I come when I want to peek at the world I left behind.
I open the screen and log in, each keystroke stiff. My hands are still trembling. I blink past the blurriness forming in my visionand type in the name of the news site I’ve used for three years—the one that covers New York’s elite, the kind of publication that calls my father a “philanthropic visionary” in one sentence and a “controversial powerhouse” in the next.
Thiago Delgado.
I press enter and wait.
The search loads slowly, and when it finally does, I scan the results but find nothing new. No charity event appearances. No quotes from public speeches. No updates on Delgado Group expansions, political donations, or even sightings at his usual cigar lounges.
I scroll all the way but still find nothing new. It’s been over a month since he was last mentioned. It is an article about a shipping deal, posted with a recycled photo from an early spring gala. That was the last time he appeared in front of a camera.
Fear grips my heart because Thiago Delgado doesn’t just disappear from headlines. Not unless something’s very, very wrong. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
I close the laptop with a shaky hand and stand. My legs feel too thin to hold me as I walk to the shelf above my dresser and pull out my tiny blue leather jotter. The cover is smooth and worn with time. I slide into the back, past the lines of fake names and coded notes, until I find what I need.
Papá.