Page 119 of Convenient Vows

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.

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