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The name that once meant safety, friendship, and laughter. Now it’s nothing but a noose tightening around my neck.
I press my palm against my forehead, willing the truth to make sense. But no matter how I twist it in my mind, it refuses to become anything other than what it is. He did this. He kidnapped me. He is the one keeping me prisoner.
And suddenly, my whole childhood feels like a lie.
Cristóbal was always there. I don’t remember a version of my growing years where he wasn’t sitting at our kitchen table or tagging along on trips. He was three years older, just enough to make him cooler, wiser, like an annoying big brother without the blood.
His father, one of my father’s rising enforcers, died when he was five. So Cristóbal was mostly raised by his grandfather. But every spare second he had, he was in our house. And my parents…God, they adored him. My father took him under his wing. My mother fed him like he was her own.
I remember him teaching me to ride a bike. Holding the back of the seat as I wobbled down the long driveway, shouting, "You’ve got it! Don’t fall!" I remember him holding my hand at my first school dance when I was too nervous to walk in alone. I remember movie nights—him stealing the popcorn and laughing when I pouted, then pouring it back into my bowl.
I trusted him.
We all did.
I thought of him as family. He was family. But now he’s the man behind the locked door keeping me prisoner.
My stomach twists violently.
I think of my parents. The softness in my mother’s voice when she said, “He’s ours, too.”
How could we have been so blind?
I bury my face in my hands as a sob breaks free. A sharp sound, cut from somewhere deep and raw.
We didn’t just let a monster into our home. We raised him. And now… I’ve walked straight into his trap. Not just me, but my son. The realization makes my blood run cold.
Just then, the door opens, and it’s Cristóbal. I can feel the change in the air the moment he steps inside—like poison gas diffusing through silk. He’s dressed casually. Cream linen shirt, sleeves rolled, loafers without socks. The look of a man on holiday.
His voice is too soft when he speaks.
“Mi rosa,”he says like we’re old lovers. “You look tired. Sit. You shouldn’t be pacing around as much as you have been doing.”
I look at the traitor with a stone-cold expression. “Where is my son?”
He offers a smile that never reaches his eyes. “He’s safe. Eating better than you are, I assure you.”
My fists curl.
“That’s not good enough,” I snap. “I want to see him.”
He waves a hand, as if I’m being dramatic. “You will. In time. But first, you need to stop making this harder than it needs to be.”
I take a step forward. “Cristóbal, I can’t believe you would do this to me.”
His smile fades—just a flicker.
“If only you had given me a chance,” he says, voice suddenly sharp. “If only you hadn’t run off chasing stupid Bratva men and then hiding in countries where no one knew your name.”
My stomach turns.
“You think I didn’t look for you?” he says. “That I didn’t try to find you? You were supposed to belong to me, Mara.”
“I belong to no one,” I spit. “Certainly not a man who kidnaps children to get what he wants.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Careful.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I lie. “I know my father would find out you took me.”