Because I love him already. Desperately. Completely. And that love is a chain binding me to this place more securely than any lock.
Mateo leans over us, his hand gentle on Lucas's tiny head. "My son," he whispers. "Perfect."
I want to scream that Lucas isn't his. That nothing about this child belongs to the man who trapped me here. But the words die in my throat because they're not true.
Lucas is Mateo's son. And mine. And that makes everything infinitely more complicated. Lucas takes his first steps on the hacienda's terrace while armed men watch the perimeter.
Fighting is pointless now. The escape plans never worked. This isn't temporary. I'm a mother to a cartel lieutenant's heir. A woman in a gilded cage.
I focus on Lucas. On keeping him safe. On trying to preserve some innocence in a world built on violence and blood money.
Mateo is a good father in his way. He plays with Lucas. Brings him toys. Holds him with a gentleness that seems at odds with the man who orders executions over dinner.
But he's still a monster. And I'm still trapped.
The night it ends, Lucas is asleep in his crib in the nursery down the hall. I'm in bed beside Mateo, awake while he sleeps, staring at the ceiling and counting the hours until morning when I can escape to Lucas's room and pretend to be needed elsewhere.
Gunfire erupts outside.
Mateo jerks awake, already reaching for the weapon he keeps in the nightstand. "Stay here," he orders, pulling on pants and grabbing his gun. He's out the door before I can respond, shouting orders in Spanish to his men.
I don't stay.
I run to the nursery, bare feet slapping against tile. Lucas is awake and screaming, terrified by the sounds of automatic weapons fire that's getting closer. I grab him from the crib, clutching him against my chest. He's in his pajamas, and I'm in a thin nightgown, but there's no time for shoes or to grab anything else.
The nursery bathroom. It has a lock that still works.
I sprint the few steps and slam the door behind us as explosions shake the walls. Men are shouting in English now, mixed with Spanish. Glass shatters. Someone screams, then goes silent. The shooting is inside the house.
I slam the bathroom door and twist the lock with shaking hands. The bathtub. I climb in and crouch low, Lucas pressed against my chest, one hand covering his mouth to muffle his cries. My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my throat.
The gunfire is systematic now. Room by room. Execution shots. Bodies hitting the floor.
Then silence.
Footsteps in the bedroom. Not running. Walking. Deliberate and professional.
They stop outside the bathroom door.
"Rachel Donovan?"
American accent. Male. Calm despite the carnage I know must lay beyond the door.
I don't answer. Don't move. Don't breathe. Lucas whimpers against my palm.
"Ms. Donovan, my name is Micah Hawthorne. I'm CIA. We're here to extract you and your son, but you need to open this door right now."
"How do I know you're not one of his men?" My voice cracks.
"Because Mateo Vega is dead. I have about sixty seconds before his reinforcements arrive from the village, and anyone still in this compound when they do is getting buried here. That includes you and Lucas. Now open the door or I'm gone."
Lucas. He knows my son's name.
My hands shake as I unlock the door.
It swings open to reveal a man in his early thirties, dark hair, tactical gear, carrying enough weapons to start a war. Blood spatters his vest and sleeve. His eyes are hard but not unkind.
"Can you run?" he asks.
