Chapter 290

Chapter 290
TAMARA

MARTHA DIDN’T LOOK SURPRISED TO SEE ME.
If anything, that was what terrified me the most.
There was no shock in her eyes. No confusion. Just a calm, settled certainty that made my skin crawl. It made me wonder, had she said those things to Isabel? Had she been planning this for longer than I could imagine? When did it start? How did it start? And why?

“M-Martha?” My voice cracked around her name.
“Hello… mon chérie.”
The endearment felt like poison on her tongue.

“This, my dear friends,” Tom purred, spreading his arms theatrically, “is the reunion I have been looking forward to.”
I snapped my glare to him, hoping he could see the venom burning behind my eyes.
“Kidnapping us wasn’t enough for you?” I spat. “You had to involve Martha too? How despicable can you be, Tom?”

He grinned, dark eyes glinting with amusement. “You seem to have it all wrong, gorgeous. Yes, I took your sister…” His gaze flicked lazily to Maggie, still clinging to me. “…but you came all on your own.”

“Because you threatened me.”
“…and as for Martha,” he continued smoothly, ignoring me entirely, “I didn’t kidnap her. She, just like you came here willingly.”

My blood froze.
“What?” The word barely left my lips.

Tom turned to Martha, nodding toward her with mock reverence. “You still have them fooled even now, mother. I must confess—this is really exciting.”

Mother.
The world tilted.

I turned to Martha so fast it made my head spin, silently begging her to deny it. To laugh. To scoff. To tell him he was lying. To be the woman I lived with, trusted, the woman Isaiah respected, the woman who prayed before meals and crossed herself before bed.
But Martha only stared at me.
Cold. Sharp. Angry.
Like I had disappointed her.

“Oh my God—” Tom doubled over laughing, clutching his stomach as his cackles rang through the open field. “You need to see your face, gorgeous. Fuck. This is truly a nice reprieve from the boringness of the past week.”

He straightened, wiping the corners of his eyes, the laughter still clinging to his expression.
“Alright. Back to business.” He snapped his fingers. “Bring a chair for my mother. As for you, princess—” his gaze flicked to Maggie and me, “—you and your sister stay right there on the floor. Just for a second, yeah?”

I ignored him.
My eyes stayed locked on Martha, pleading without words. Begging her to take this pain back. To tell me none of this was real. But the woman staring at me now wasn’t the Martha I knew.
God. Does Isaiah know?
The thought shattered something fragile inside my chest.

The men brought a chair. Martha sat, her wrists freed from the handcuffs, and she looked down at us like we were nothing. Like dirt beneath her shoes.
Martha—the woman who crossed herself more times a day than she ate—looked like she belonged more to the mafia than she ever did the church.

With Tom and his mother—God, I still couldn’t believe that—settled, he turned to her, amusement still dancing across his sharp features.
“You wanna tell her,” he mused, “or should I?”
Martha’s gaze dragged over me slowly, deliberately, her lips curling with disdain.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, mon chérie,” she said, her voice darker now, stripped of every trace of warmth. “It was only supposed to be Isaiah in the crossfire. I never extended my plans to you because, honestly, I didn’t even think you existed.”
My stomach twisted.
“But then you came in,” she continued calmly, almost thoughtfully, “and I saw the way he looked at you. The same man who wouldn’t spare a woman a second glance. The same man who hadn’t looked at anyone with warmth since I lived with him for five years.” Her eyes hardened on my face. “And he stared at you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him.”
Her lips thinned. “It all made sense then. Especially when he refused my daughter—despite her many attempts.”
Disgust twisted her face as she looked at me.
Was Isabel in on this too? The thought made my chest tighten painfully.
“No matter how much I warned that weak girl to stay away from him, she refused,” Martha scoffed. “She even threatened to tell Isaiah everything about me. Imagine that.” She laughed, sharp and cruel. “Thinking she could go against her own mother for a man. A useless man at that. It infuriated me.”
My nails dug into my palms.
“So what did I do?” she asked lightly. “I poisoned her mind. I told her everything about you. About what Isaiah did for you. About how much he loved you.” Her smile was cold. “And slowly, she began to hate you too.”
Maggie stiffened beside me.
“I told her I was only trying to separate the two of you,” Martha went on, “so she could take your place. And the fool believed me.” She shook her head with mock pity. “But why would I waste my time on something so small, so useless?”
Her eyes sharpened, locking onto mine.
“The truth is, I wanted Isaiah gone because he was the son of the bastard who took my husband from me.” Her voice dropped, venomous. “And then he had the audacity to throw that title in my face. To live. To thrive.”

Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

“And for that,” she finished coldly, “he had to pay.”
Her lips curled as if the memory itself pleased her.
“He even had the effrontery to betray my son while they were in prison,” she went on, her voice sharpening. “Tom told him they were brothers, and what did that bastard do?” She laughed, short and bitter. “He laughed in his face. Called him delusional.”
My pulse tightened.
“After everything my son did to get close to him,” Martha continued, eyes blazing. “He even took the fall for a crime he didn’t commit just so he could join him in prison. And Isaiah?” She scoffed. “Isaiah looked him in the eye and called him a fool. Told him he was a useless piece of shit to ever grace the earth.” Her voice dropped, poisonous. “All because he took Jonathan’s blood.”

My eyes shifted to Tom.
His face was twisted tight with rage now, fists clenched, jaw locked like stone. Whatever bravado he had worn earlier was gone.
“The worst part?” Martha said, relishing it. “Isaiah left him there. Left him in prison to suffer.” She shook her head slowly. “When he was fighting for his own life, he didn’t include his brother. How wicked can one man be?”

“Prison wasn’t easy on him, Martha,” I blurted, my voice shaking. “He was barely surviving—”

“Oh, shut up, you little girl—”
Her palm connected with my cheek in a sharp, burning slap.