Page 120 of Shadows of the Past
I’d give anything to feel their arms around me one more time. Just once. To memorize the warmth of it, Dad’s laughter and the way Mom always smelled like chocolate. But that night, I never got to say goodnight, never got to hug them or kiss them goodbye. That’s the regret I carry, heavy and sharp, tucked deep in my chest.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to come back,” I murmur, fingers tracing the grooves of their names. “But I think you know why I stayed. Who I stayed for.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. Mama would have adored Maksim, I know it. Dad, on the other hand, would probably have called his cousin at the penitentiary to double-check Maksim’srecord. He’d have muttered to Mom something like, “Está loca, mujer,” and he’d have been right because I’m crazy, crazy in love. For this Russian soldier who spends his evenings with Amalia, poring over her AI weather algorithm, who checks my wound every night and kisses it slowly, like he’s trying to heal me from the inside out. The man who gave us space to start healing, or at least to try.
“I guess you already know about Lupe,” I go on, my voice barely more than a breath. “She’s better. Or at least I want to believe she is. It’s been three weeks since Aleksandr died, and sometimes I still catch her crying, but she’s finding her own pace. She’ll get there. I have to believe that.”
Sitting here, talking to them, brings a peace I didn’t know I needed. I don’t know what comes next. There are companies to track, people to bring to justice, victims to free. It’ll probably take us a decade to fix it all.
Roman offered to help, and with the Borisov family’s empire behind us, everything feels a little less impossible.
“I miss you so much,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “But I know how much you’d hate to see me crying. I’m sorry, Papá, if you left this world feeling guilty for everything that happened.”
I always wondered why Dad would take money from someone like Don Rogelio. Sorting through tío Felipe’s papers, I found a letter from Dad, dated fourteen years ago, telling him Mom had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
None of us knew. Not me, not my sisters. And I know that’s how they wanted it. But the thought of them fighting that battle alone, of all the medical bills piling up, guts me.
I can’t imagine the terror Dad must have felt, watching the woman he loved fade away. Now that I know, I see all the signsI missed—how she lost her appetite, how she tired more easily, how even simple things seemed to drain her.
But until her last day, she bathed the girls, sat at the table with Dad, talked about their day. She always found time for me, to ask about exams, to listen to my drama with friends. I’ll never be as good as she was. Sometimes, missing her hurts so much it feels physical.
I don’t know how to pull Lupe out of this darkness or if I’m doing the right thing by giving her space. They’d know what to say, what to do.
Eventually, I stand, pressing a kiss to each headstone, letting my lips linger on the warm marble. When I turn around, I spot Maksim leaning against the cemetery wall—black T-shirt, leather jacket, arms folded.
There’s something symbolic about him being here, the man who’s been an angel to so many and death itself to others, waiting for me among the graves. In this place where life and death dance on a razor’s edge.
“Wait for me a second,” I hear him say, and I watch as he walks back toward where I’d just come from.
I watch his back, and something warm blooms in my chest. I never felt the need to introduce him at their graves—Max has spent the last decade proving he’s my person. But as I watch him kneel down, I wish I could be close enough to hear what he says to them.
A minute later, he stands, his expression softer. He takes my hand, and together we walk out of the cemetery.
“What did you say to them?” I ask quietly.
He squeezes my hand. “I just wanted to thank them. For meeting. For loving each other. For bringing you into the world.Because if even one thing had happened differently, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
I look at him through tears because he’s not the romantic type, not one for flowery words, but sometimes his heart just speaks for him and it undoes me every time.
“My mom would have loved you,” I whisper.
He gives me that smile, the one that makes the world stop, and asks, “What about your dad?”
There’s a hint of doubt in his voice, and I turn to face him fully.
“After he ran a background check and traced your entire family tree? Absolutely.”
He goes quiet, lost in thought, and something about it unsettles me.
“Max, are you okay?”
“Do you think your dad would’ve wanted you with someone else?” There’s so much vulnerability in his voice.
“No.” I see the uncertainty in his eyes, so I take his hand and explain. “He would have wanted me with someone who knows how I like my coffee ready when I wake up. Someone who holds my hand through a nightmare. Someone with so much love in his soul that he’s spent twenty years sacrificing for others. That’s what he would have wanted, Max. And that’s everything you are.”
He swallows hard, and I lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth.
He would have loved you, Max. Just because I do.
