Chapter 26: Frozen Vow
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind Elena, sealing them into the frozen silence of the porch. The weight of her acceptance—that fragile, bewildered grace—hung in the air between them, as terrifying as any condemnation. It left them raw, exposed in a new way.
Dominic stared at the door, the grain of the wood swimming in his vision. His mother knew. She knew and she hadn’t cast them out. The relief was so violent it felt like nausea. He braced his hands on the rough-hewn railing, the ice-cold wood biting into his palms, a pain to ground him.
Catalina stood a few feet away, arms wrapped tight around herself, not against the cold, but against the shaking. She was staring into the dark lattice of pine trees, her breath pluming in short, sharp bursts.
“She’s going to break,” Catalina said, her voice a thin scrape. “The second we’re gone, the second she’s alone with it… she’s going to shatter.”
“She’s stronger than that,” Dominic replied, but it sounded hollow, even to him. He was thinking of the emptied-out look on her face in the attic, the way she’d stepped over the laundry like it was a tripwire.
“Are we?” Catalina turned to him, her blue eyes luminous with unshed tears. “Because I feel like I’m already in pieces. Mina should be here. Leo and Stella should be running around this porch, knocking snow off the rails. They should be asking Nonna for cookies. They should be here.”
The word was a fracture. It broke the last of her composure. A sob tore out of her, harsh and ugly in the pristine quiet. She crumpled forward, her forehead touching the cold railing, her shoulders shaking.
He was across the space in two strides. He didn’t hug her. He turned her, his hands firm on her arms, and pushed her back against the frost-kissed wood. It wasn’t an embrace; it was a capture. Her grief was a live wire, and he had to ground it, to match its chaotic energy with his own.
“Then we fight our way back to them,” he growled, the words leaving his mouth in a cloud of steam that mingled with her tears. “We get to Locarno. We get the cars. We don’t run anymore. We find him. We end this.”
“How?” she screamed it, the sound muffled against the thick, snowy forest. “He’s a ghost with an army! We’re just… us!”
“We’re not just anything.” His voice dropped, low and fierce. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. “He took our kids. He thinks he owns our lives. He doesn’t get to have you crying on a porch in the middle of nowhere.”
Her breath hitched. The anger in him was a dark, familiar heat, and she leaned into it, craving its certainty. “He has everything.”
“Not this.” His mouth found hers.
It wasn’t a kiss of comfort. It was a claiming, a bruising exchange of fury and fear and a desperate, shared will to survive. Her fists clenched in his jacket, pulling him closer.
Her fists clenched in his jacket, pulling him closer. The thick canvas strained between her fingers, a futile barrier against the heat building between them. She bit his lower lip, not in play, but in a sharp punctuation of all the words they couldn’t say.
He answered with a low sound from deep in his chest, his hands moving from her arms to the hem of her wool sweater. His fingers, calloused and strong from a lifetime of wrenching engines, found the knit and dug in. There was no finesse, no slow reveal.
He pulled.
The sound of the fabric tearing was shockingly loud in the mountain silence, a sharp, protracted rip that severed the cold air. It was the sound of a bandage being ripped off, of a seam in the universe splitting. A ragged section of dark wool peeled away from her shoulder, baring skin to the icy dusk.
She gasped, but not from the cold. The violence of the act, its sheer finality, sent a jolt through her core. It wasn't about the clothes. It was about stripping away every last pretense, every fragile layer of civilization that stood between them and the raw truth of their hunger.
“Dom,” she breathed, her voice a ragged whisper.
“I’m here,” he murmured against the newly exposed curve of her shoulder, his mouth hot on her chilled skin. His own jacket was next, shrugged off in one rough motion so it slumped onto the weathered planks of the porch. The fleece lining of his shirt was softer, but his hands weren't. He found the collar and pulled.
The seam at the shoulder gave way with a soft pop of thread, then a louder tear as the fabric parted down his arm. Cool air rushed in, meeting the sweat beading on his chest. He didn't even look at the damage. He just pressed her back, his bared arm sliding around her waist, the other hand tangling in the remains of her sweater.
Their breathing was synchronized now, harsh and visible in the dim light from the lantern. Her fingers clawed at the tear in his shirt, widening it, her nails scraping lightly over the solid muscle of his chest. Each rent in the fabric felt like a shackle breaking.
The world beyond the porch rails—the silent pines, the distant threat, the ghost of their children’s laughter—all of it receded into a gray blur. There was only the scent of pine and woodsmoke mixing with their own wild, desperate heat, the feel of rough wood against her back, and the profound, terrifying rightness of his skin against hers.
His hands, mapping the familiar territory of her ribs under torn wool, stilled for a heartbeat. The reality of their situation, the cold wood and the colder world waiting, pressed in. She felt the hesitation in his muscles, the sudden tense calculation. It was a window.
She pulled her mouth from his, her breath coming in ragged clouds. “Dom,” she whispered, her voice raw. She blinked, focusing on his face so close to hers. The need was still there, a live current between them, but the practical, devastating truth of their lives was seeping back in. “Wait.”
His eyes, dark and searching, held hers. He didn’t move away.
“Condom?” she breathed the word into the narrow space between their lips. It sounded foreign, ridiculous, a concern from a different universe.
A slow shake of his head. His gaze never wavered. “Don’t have one.”
The silence that followed was thick, filled with the unspoken weight of every risk they’d ever taken. The cold air bit at her exposed skin. She looked past his shoulder at the darkening pines, thinking of the three small faces they were fighting to see again. The insane, desperate math of it all clicked into place.
A strange, hollow laugh escaped her. It held no joy. Her eyes came back to his, clear and resolved. “Okay,” Catalina said, her voice low and flat, a surrender to a different kind of fate. “Then comes maybe baby number four.”
It was a statement, not a question. A gulp of poison and promise all at once. It hung in the frozen air, a stark, new thread in the already tangled web of their survival.
Dominic’s breath caught. For a second, he just stared at her, the implications widening in his eyes. It wasn’t about passion now. It was about a future, however fragile and fraught. It was about planting a flag in the ruins. His hands, still splayed on her back, tightened their grip, pulling her flush against him as if to seal the pact.
Then he kissed her again. This kiss was different. It was slower, deeper, a silent vow etched with teeth and tongue. It tasted of despair and a terrifying, defiant hope. The torn edges of their clothing were no longer obstacles, but testaments.
The world outside didn't matter. The plan, the danger, the ghost in Locarno—it all faded into a distant hum. Here, against the splintering rail with the first few snowflakes beginning to spiral down from the black sky, there was only this act of reclamation. Of creating something when so much had been taken.
Their movements were less frantic now, more deliberate. Each touch was a word in a silent language of consent and consequence. The cold was forgotten, burned away by the heat they generated. The old porch creaked under their combined weight, a rhythmic complaint lost in the sound of their breathing.
He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist as if they’d done it a thousand times, because they had. The world tilted, the view of the chalet’s dark windows and the forest beyond swinging dizzyingly before she closed her eyes. Her back met the rough shingles of the exterior wall. The chill of it seeped through the remnants of her sweater, a sharp contrast to the fire in her veins.
“Dom,” she gasped, her head falling back. The name was a prayer and a curse.
“I know,” he murmured into the hollow of her throat, his voice rough with an emotion too vast to name. He was everywhere, his scent, his strength, the solid reality of him anchoring her to this precarious edge of the world. The future, with all its terrible unknowns, could wait.
The future, with all its terrible unknowns, could wait.
Later, in the quiet hollow that follows, they dressed in silence. Their torn clothes hung loosely, mismatched armor against the chill. Dominic handed Catalina his heavy jacket, its lining still warm, and she slipped her arms into sleeves that swallowed her hands.
They didn’t speak. Words were pointless now. The only sound was the soft crunch of their boots on the frost-rimed porch boards as they walked back to the door. Dominic’s hand rested on the small of her back, a simple point of contact that held the universe.
The main room of the chalet was too bright, too warm. The smell of stew and woodsmoke felt cloying. Letty was dismantling a Glock at the dining table, her movements precise and fluid. Mia was curled on the sofa, a blanket around her shoulders, her eyes fixed on the fire.
Their mother, Elena, stood by the stone hearth. She wasn’t stirring the pot. She was just staring into the flames, her posture rigid. She turned as they entered, her gaze sweeping over them, taking in Dominic’s torn shirt, the way Catalina wore his jacket, the shared, shattered calm they carried.
The room tensed.
“Kids,” Elena said, her voice carefully neutral. “Can I talk to you two? In the kitchen.”
Mia looked up, a flicker of worry in her eyes. Letty didn’t glance up from her work, but her shoulders tightened.
“Yeah,” Dominic said, his voice a gravelly low note.
He led the way, Catalina a half-step behind. The kitchen was a narrow space of checkered curtains and copper pans, a place of simpler times. Elena followed them in and closed the door softly. The click of the latch was deafening.
She leaned back against the counter, her arms folded. For a long moment, she just studied them, her face a mask of weary heartbreak. The old clock on the wall ticked.
“I need to ask you something,” she finally said, her eyes moving from Dominic’s bruised mouth to Catalina’s marked neck. “And I need you to tell me the truth.” She took a sharp, pained breath. “Are you both still… fucking each other?”
The crude word hung in the air, stark and ugly amidst the homely scents of garlic and dried herbs. It wasn’t spoken in anger, but in a deep, exhausted grief that cut deeper than any shout.
Dominic didn’t flinch. He met her gaze, his own defiant and tired. Catalina didn’t look away either. The secret was a live thing in the room now, named and undeniable.
“Yes,” Dominic said, the single syllable final as a judge’s gavel.
Elena closed her eyes, a tremor running through her. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “God help me.” When she opened her eyes again, they were glistening. “After everything. After the children. After running for your lives. You still…”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Catalina whispered, the words frayed at the edges. “It’s the only thing that’s just ours.”
“It’s a sin,” Elena breathed, but it sounded like a reflex, a dusty scripture from a world that no longer existed.
“We know what it is,” Dominic said, his voice low and steady. “We’ve always known. You think we wanted this?”
“I think you can’t help it,” his mother replied, her anger faltering into a vast, helpless sadness. “I saw it when you were kids. The way you looked at each other. I prayed it was something you’d outgrow.”
A bitter laugh escaped Catalina. It was a dry, hollow sound. “We tried.”
Silence descended again, heavy and thick. Elena pushed off from the counter, turning to stare out the small window into the black night. “Your father would have…”
“Dad’s not here,” Dominic cut in, not harshly, but with a finality that brooked no argument. “It’s just us. You, me, Cat, Mia, Letty. The kids are out there somewhere. That’s the family we have to fight for. The rest… it just is.”
Elena turned back. The fight seemed to drain from her all at once, leaving a woman aged by fear and a love too complicated for words. “This will destroy you,” she said, her voice barely audible. “It will eat you from the inside out.”
“Maybe,” Catalina conceded, stepping forward. She placed a tentative hand on her mother’s arm. “But not today. Today, we need to get to Locarno. We need to get our children back. That’s all that matters. Can you… can you look at us? Can you be with us for that?”
Elena looked at her daughter’s hand, then up into the twin pairs of eyes that mirrored her own. A battle raged behind her gaze—disgust, love, fear, a mother’s fierce, unconditional loyalty. The loyalty won, etched in the new lines around her mouth.
She covered Catalina’s hand with her own, her grip surprisingly strong. She gave a single, slow nod, her eyes finding Dominic’s. “For the children,” she said, the words a brittle pact. “We move forward for the children. But this…” She gestured vaguely between them. “This stays in this room. This stays with us. No one else can ever know.”
The kitchen door opened before anyone could respond.
Letty stood there, her expression unreadable. She took in the scene—the closeness, the tears, the resignation. “We’ve got a problem,” she said, her tone all business. “Scout just radioed. The road to Locarno isn’t clear anymore. They’ve set up a checkpoint about five kilometers down the mountain.”
The world, with all its terrible unknowns, came crashing back in.
The world, with all its terrible unknowns, came crashing back in.
“Checkpoint?” Dominic’s voice was all gravel, the brief sanctuary of the kitchen shattered. “Where?”
“Bend in the road just past the old mill,” Letty said, stepping fully into the room. Her eyes flicked to Elena’s tear-streaked face, to the intimate stance of the twins, and hardened. “Two vehicles. Men look professional, not local cops. They’re stopping everything.”
Catalina pulled her hand from her mother’s grip, the momentary connection severed by necessity. “He knows we’re heading for Locarno. He’s cutting us off.”
“Or herding us,” Dominic muttered. He ran a hand over his face, the weight of the decision pressing down. “We can’t stay here. It’s the only safe house we have left.”
“We go through them,” Letty said, her tone leaving no room for debate. “Fast and hard. Before they reinforce.”
Elena made a small, choked sound. “More fighting? They’ll kill you.”
“They’ll try,” Dominic corrected, his eyes already distant, calculating routes and angles. “We need the cars prepped. Now.” He moved past Letty, his focus narrowing to the immediate threat. The other problem, the deeper one, was shelved. Survival came first.
The next few hours were a blur of subdued, efficient motion. Mia checked and re-checked the medical kits. Letty and Dominic laid out tools and weaponry on the worn living room rug, a grim picnic of soldering irons, spare magazines, and knives. Catalina worked on the comms equipment, her fingers steady despite the tremor she felt beneath her skin.
Elena watched from the kitchen doorway, a silent sentinel. She didn’t offer to help. She just watched her children prepare for war, her expression a compound fracture of love and horror. Eventually, she turned and climbed the stairs to her room, the door closing with a soft, final click.
They worked into the deep night, the plan forming in terse, shorthand sentences. “Flare diversion here.” “Suppressing fire from the tree line.” “We hit the gas and don’t stop for shit.” The familiarity of it was a perverse comfort. This was a language they all spoke fluently.
Exhaustion, deeper than physical, eventually forced a halt. “We roll at first light,” Dominic declared, wiping grease from his hands with a ragged cloth. “Get some sleep. What you can.”
Sleep was a theoretical concept. Catalina lay in the narrow guest bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The memory of the porch, the tear of fabric, the chill air on her skin, played on a loop. The possibility she’d uttered aloud hung in the dark like a specter. Maybe baby number four. She pressed a hand to her lower abdomen, a useless gesture. It was too soon to feel anything but fear.
A floorboard creaked in the hall. Her door eased open, and Dominic’s silhouette filled the frame. He didn’t speak. He just crossed the room and slid into the bed beside her, his body a solid wall of heat against her back. His arm came around her waist, his hand splaying possessively over her stomach. No words were needed. In the silent dark, they were just two shapes holding the void at bay.
A sudden, violent heave woke her.
It wasn’t fear or a nightmare. It was a physical revolt, a sour, rising tide that had her scrambling from the bed before her eyes were fully open. She barely made it to the en-suite bathroom, collapsing onto the cold tiles as the first wave of nausea convulsed through her.
She retched, empty and painful, into the porcelain bowl. A cold sweat sprang up on her neck and forehead. The world narrowed to the ache in her ribs and the bitter taste in her mouth.
She heard his footsteps, steady and quick. Dominic filled the doorway, his face still soft with sleep but his eyes instantly alert. He took in the scene—her hunched form, the pallor of her skin in the weak dawn light filtering through the high, small window.
Wordlessly, he knelt beside her. One large hand gathered her dark hair back from her face, his touch firm and grounding. The other rested on the clammy skin of her back. He didn’t ask if she was okay. They were far beyond such questions.
The spasms subsided, leaving her shaky and hollow. She sat back on her heels, breathing heavily, and he handed her a glass of water from the sink. She rinsed her mouth, the coolness a temporary relief.
Their eyes met in the medicine cabinet mirror. A silent, stunned understanding passed between them. It was too early, far too early for this. But they knew her body, knew its rhythms and tells better than their own. This was different.
Dominic stood up. He left the bathroom and returned a moment later with the worn, dusty duffel bag that carried the fractured remnants of their lives. He unzipped it, pushing past bundles of clothes and boxes of ammunition. From a zippered interior pocket, he pulled out a small, rectangular box.
He held it out to her. A pregnancy test. Generic brand, purchased in some anonymous pharmacy during their endless run.
Catalina stared at the box in his hand as if it were a live grenade. Her fingers were trembling. She took it, the plastic wrapper crinkling softly in the absolute silence of the morning.
He didn’t leave. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a fortress of unwavering presence. His gaze was fixed on her, not the stick. He was with her in this, as he was in everything.
She did what needed to be done with numb, mechanical movements. Peel the cap. Hold it in the stream. Recap it. Lay it on the edge of the sink.
The three-minute wait felt longer than the entire drive from Los Angeles. The only sounds were the dripping of the faucet and the distant cry of a hawk outside. She sank to the floor again, her back against the bathtub. Dominic slid down the doorframe to sit opposite her, their knees almost touching in the small space.
They didn’t speak. They just watched the little plastic window on the stick, where their immediate future was being decided by a slow creep of chemical blue. The fate of their missing children, their fractured family, their very survival, all momentarily hinged on the silent verdict forming on a bathroom floor in Switzerland.