Page 122 of Convenient Vows

“There are others,” she says, each syllable weighted. “That monster—Cristóbal—he was never just circling our family. He was nesting in it.”

A cold chill moves through the room. Viktor’s jaw ticks as he takes a step closer. “How deep?”

Mara’s eyes flicker toward him, and I see the war behind them. She’s not just shaken. She’s furious. Haunted. And she’s holding something back—trying to say it right.

She doesn’t waste time.

“When I visited my father at the estate, I saw things I didn’t want to believe at the time.” She draws in a breath and hugs Maksim tighter to her chest. “Cristóbal didn’t act like a subordinate. He moved like he owned the place. The guards didn’t look surprised to see him—they nodded. Greeted him first. Some avoided my eyes. And when he spoke… he acted like he was already in charge.”

She pauses, and her next words come like a slow bleed. “He told me the doctor would never find a match for my father because he is on his payroll.

I see Viktor’s posture change—straightening, sharper. I glance at Lev, who crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. Roman mutters something under his breath in Russian.

Mara’s voice gets quieter, but not weaker. “Cristóbal made himself look like the only stable option. My father’s condition was getting worse, and people started betting on what came next. Some guards switched sides, thinking Cristóbal is, after all, like a son to my father.”

She looks at me then, and the weight of it feels like someone’s pressing a steel rod into my spine.

“They’ll kill him,” she says. “They’ll kill my father. Once word spreads that Cristóbal is dead, others will come for the last person standing in the way of seizing power.”

A low hum of rage builds under my skin, this It’s not just betrayal. It’s a coup. And they nearly used her—used Maksim—as leverage to finish it.

Viktor exhales slowly. “You’re sure?”

“I saw it,” she says. “In their eyes. Their silence. In Cristóbal’s arrogance. He wasn’t just acting alone. He thought he had the numbers.”

Maksim nestles closer into her chest. She brushes a hand over his hair but doesn’t stop talking. Her voice cracks, but her spine stays straight.

“Cristóbal himself told me that my father would die slowly. That he wouldn’t need to lift a finger to make it happen. That all he had to do was wait.”

It feels like the walls are closing in.

I step closer, crouch beside them again. My hand rests lightly on her back. “Mara,” I say quietly, “you think they’ll try tonight?”

She nods. “Yes, as soon as they know Cristóbal is gone.”

Viktor turns to me, face stone-hard. “Take them to the hospital. We’ll handle Thiago’s house.”

I rise without hesitation, already moving.

But Mara grabs my wrist, her fingers tight. “Please,” she chokes. “Don’t let them kill him.”

“No one will. The bratva will make sure your father is properly protected.”

She slumps against me, relief rippling through her like an earthquake finally settling. Her shoulders sag, and she breathes out a thank-you, but it’s nearly drowned by the roaring vengeance already rising in the room.

Viktor turns to the others. “Gear up. We leave in ten.”

“Thank you,” Mara whispers.

“Viktor looks at her and gives her a rare smile. “You don’t have to thank me. Your father once saved me when I was flown into New York half dead. Besides, you are the mother of my nephew.” He says, looking at Maksim, and a small gasp escapes Mara.

The doctor slips off his gloves and steps back from the bed. “No internal bleeding, no broken bones. Just soft tissue trauma—contusions, swelling. It’ll hurt, but you’ll heal,” he tells Mara gently.

She nods, her expression composed, but I see the exhaustion behind her eyes.

He sets a small paper bag of medications on the side table—ointment, painkillers, muscle relaxants—and quietly exits the room, leaving us in the soft hush of fluorescent lights and quiet breaths.

Mara straightens slowly, gathering her shirt and carefully sliding her arms into the sleeves. Her movements are practiced, so I instinctively move to her. I lift her off the examination table and help her get dressed again, all the while feeling angry about the bruises on her ribs and arms.

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