Chapter 33 - Seraphina
The wooden spoon moves through Rosa’s sofrito in steady circles, anchoring me to this moment.
Steam curls from the pot, carrying garlic and cilantro through La Sirena’s kitchen.
The pernil has been in the oven for four hours.
Another one to go. Sunday dinner for people who’ve seen me covered in blood, who’ve watched Gabriel kill for me, who still show up every week to eat what I cook.
I adjust the heat under the sofrito, dropping it lower. Rosa taught me to listen to the sizzle, to know when the onions surrender their sharpness and become something sweeter. My hands know this work even when my mind considers who will sit where, who will drink what, who might test me.
Because Marisol is coming.
Gabriel's sister, who helped him cover up a killing when she was eighteen.
Who survived alone while he hid in a collar.
Who married into the Rosetti family and built her own empire from wreckage.
She and Nico have been in Chicago since the Markovic situation resolved, letting distance cool the heat.
I'm not afraid of her. I've faced worse than protective sisters.
But Marisol matters to Gabriel in ways that make my opinion irrelevant.
I scrape the bottom of the pot to keep it from sticking. My body stays calm while underneath, I'm braced. Ready.
Not for a fight. For an assessment from the one person whose verdict Gabriel can't dismiss.
The kitchen door doesn't open so much as detonate. Marisol arrives like weather, rearranging the atmosphere to accommodate her presence. She's holding an open champagne bottle like other people hold car keys.
"Gabriel."
She drops the champagne on the counter and grabs him, both hands wrapping around him.
He catches her, holds on, and something passes between them that has nothing to do with words.
His hands grasping her shoulders, her face pressed against his chest, the exhale that says you're here, you're really here.
Then she pulls back and turns to me, and I understand immediately why rooms reorganize themselves around Marisol Delgado. Her honey-colored eyes take in everything from my hand on the wooden spoon to the exact degree of heat under my pots to the way Gabriel positions himself slightly behind me.
"So you're the reason my brother finally took off that ridiculous collar." She picks up her champagne, takes a swig directly from the bottle, and starts circling me. "He smells different. Less like penance, more like someone's been cooking for him."
"Marisol," Gabriel starts.
"Shut up, I'm bonding." She waves him off without looking. "You know what I find interesting? You navigated some serious trouble without getting dead. That takes skill. The kind that comes from practice."
Nico appears in the doorway, quiet as smoke. His hand finds the small of Marisol's back, steadying without constraining. He nods at me. Brief, clipped, the greeting of a man who's already made his assessment.
“This is my emotionally-retarded gargoyle husband,” Marisol tells me. “Don’t be fooled by the short hair and military bearing. He’s actually quite nice.”
Suddenly, Nico sweeps Marisol down in a dramatic kiss, bending her backwards so she yelps. When he deposits her back on her feet, her face is flushed.
“See, quite nice,” she repeats.
“For a husband,” I say.
Marisol tilts her head to look at me. "You were married to Julian Whatsisname, from New York. Tell me about him.”
The name lands hard, but I don't flinch.
"What about him?" I ask.
"Did you choose that world, or did it choose you?" She takes another sip of champagne. "Because if you're just attracted to men who hurt people, my brother deserves better."
Gabriel tenses, but I catch his eye and shake my head slightly. This is my fight.
"I chose it," I say simply. "I liked the power, the danger, the way that world made me feel alive. And yes, I liked Julian's control until I didn't. But your brother isn't Julian."
She tilts her head. "What do you mean?"
"Julian took. Gabriel gives. Even his violence is an offering."
Gabriel's sister processes this, eyes narrowing. Then she pivots, the interrogation shifting angles. "Do you know what he did?"
"Yes."
"I mean really know. Not the sanitized version."
"I know exactly who he is," I say, holding her gaze.
Marisol's expression shifts, softening. She looks at Gabriel, then back at me. Nico is watching Gabriel watch me, some silent assessment completing behind those hazel eyes.
"Fine," Marisol says suddenly. "But if you're staying, I have expectations.
Sunday dinners are mandatory. You'll teach me Rosa's recipes because Gabriel can't cook for shit. And when Nico’s family comes to visit, you can help me with the seating arrangements.
These Rosettis multiply like rabbits and I need someone who understands family politics without getting their feelings hurt. And when we go shopping next week…"
"When we what?"
“We're going shopping Tuesday. I hate shopping alone and you clearly know how to dress when you're not covered in kitchen grease."
The interrogation has morphed into expectations, demands that assume my future presence. From Marisol, this is acceptance.
My grip on the counter loosens. The breath I've been holding escapes in a rush. Gabriel's hand brushes my lower back, brief and warm.
"Now," Marisol says, stealing another taste of sofrito with her finger, "when do we eat? I'm starving and it smells like heaven in here."
"The pernil needs another hour."
"Then we have time for a drink." Marisol grabs her champagne, hooks her arm through mine, and leads me to the dining room. "Come on. Let's go make sure Adrian hasn't rearranged all the chairs again. He has opinions about sight lines."
The others arrive as I'm pulling plates from the cabinet, their voices filling the space beyond the kitchen.
Gunner appears first, claiming the chair that lets him see all the entrances.
Logan follows exactly when he said he would, wine from his personal collection under his arm, already pouring for others before taking his own seat.
He's changed from his work clothes, still pressed but less armored.
Adrian is everywhere at once, adjusting candles, filling water glasses, making the room warmer just by moving through it.
When he finally sits, it's directly across from where Isa, who arrives and sits without ceremony. I try to catch her eye, to gauge her temperature, but she’s either ignoring me or too caught up in the wine to notice me.
The Siren arrives last, wearing emerald that catches the light and matches her green wig, carrying rum she sets in front of Gunner with a wink. She finds me within seconds and squeezes my hand. She settles beside Marisol, which immediately feels like trouble waiting to happen.
Nico positions himself beside his wife, and I watch him subtly move her champagne glass six inches to the left. She moves it back without looking at him. He waits thirty seconds, moves it again. This appears to be their entire relationship.
Adrian watches the Marisol-Sera détente with visible delight. When the general chatter creates an opening, he pounces.
"So there's this health inspector," Adrian begins with perfect timing. "On a Tuesday morning, right? Shows up with his little clipboard, his official badge, his entire existence revolving around finding violations."
Marisol grins, already seeing where this is going. "The one with the mustache?"
"The very same. Walks in like he owns the place, starts his inspection. Meanwhile, Nico," Adrian gestures dramatically, "decides this man is clearly a threat. Possible hostile operative. Could have weapons."
"He was acting suspiciously," Nico interjects, completely serious.
"He was checking the refrigerator temperature!
But Nico starts doing that thing, you know, the thing where he stands perfectly still and tracks someone with just his eyes?
Like a predator? The poor inspector tries to check the freezer and there's Nico, staring.
He moves to the prep station, Nico, staring.
By the time he gets to the storage room, his hands are shaking so bad he drops his clipboard twice. "
"Three times," Gunner corrects quietly.
"Three times! The man literally forgot how to count to ten. Lost his place on the checklist three separate times because Nico is just standing there like," Adrian demonstrates, going completely still, eyes flat and unblinking.
"Standard threat assessment protocol," Nico says, and the sincere confusion in his voice breaks the entire table. Even Logan's poker face cracks, lasting four perfect seconds before he starts laughing.
Marisol is already giggling before the punchline.
Gunner exhales through his nose, which for him counts as hysterical laughter.
The Siren covers her mouth, shoulders shaking.
And Isa, for just a moment, smiles real and unguarded before catching herself and turning back to her drink.
Adrian's eyes find hers in that split second.
"Lucky for him Gunner didn't decide he was a threat too," Marisol adds, wiping tears from her eyes. "Remember what happened to that vendor who showed up without calling first?"
"He lived," Gunner says simply, which makes everyone laugh harder.
I slip back to the kitchen while they're still laughing, needing to check the pernil, maybe grab the serving platter from the high shelf. Their voices follow me through the doorway.
Isa appears without sound, suddenly there in my peripheral vision. Her black hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, and she moves like she’s conserving energy. Cold is the only word to describe her.
But she surprises me. She identifies the platter I'm reaching for and moves toward it, pulling it down and setting it on my counter. She has to enter the kitchen fully to reach the shelf, crossing into my territory.