Chapter 4 - Marisol
Ilasted shit-all time before breaking my own rules. No commenting on what I consume? I’m about to walk into my club hungover. No carrying me without consent? I’m secretly hoping he’ll catch me when I inevitably stumble in these heels.
La Sirena looks different in daylight, stripped bare of its golden glamour, all exposed bones and potential.
I love her like this too, maybe more. Without the champagne haze and stage lights, she's just a beautiful old building that remembers my mother's laughter.
Last night I made rules. Today I feel like I'm breaking them all just by letting him follow me here, into my mother's sanctuary.
I push through the staff entrance with Nico trailing behind like the world's angriest shadow. The kitchen smells like lime and sofrito, grounding me in something real. The familiar chaos is already humming with prep work, and I launch into my usual routine: genuine warmth wrapped in terrible jokes.
"Miguel!" I throw my arms around the head chef, who tolerates my affection with long-suffering patience. "You beautiful man. Tell me you made those little crab things I love."
"Not until tonight, Ms. Delgado." His eyes flick to Nico. "Ay, mija, you're going to drive this poor man loco with your jokes."
"This is my emotional support gargoyle." I gesture grandly at Nico's stone face. "He's here to make sure I don't have any fun. Ever."
Miguel's mouth twitches. Nico doesn't react. I consider this a personal challenge. Behind those very broad shoulders and very short hair there must be glimmer of personality, I just have to find it.
Through the kitchen into the back hallways, greeting everyone by name. Carmen the bartender gets a high-five. Roberto the janitor gets questions about his grandson's soccer game. Each introduction of Nico gets more ridiculous.
"This is the government agent assigned to monitor my champagne intake."
"My court-appointed joy thief."
"Proof that the universe has a terrible sense of humor."
The staff are amused. Nico remains unmoved. I'm definitely winning.
My hand trails along the wall as we walk, fingers finding familiar grooves and imperfections.
This place grounds me in ways I can't explain.
My mother helped build La Sirena from nothing.
Her voice on that stage, her vision in every golden detail.
When I touch these walls, I almost remember what it felt like to be whole.
"You know everyone," Nico observes as we climb the stairs to the mezzanine level.
"They're mine to know." The words come out more serious than intended. "This place… it's not just a club. It's…"
I stop. He doesn't need my damage laid out like evidence.
"It's your mother's."
I glance back at him, surprised. "How did you…"
"The way you touch everything. Like you're making sure it's still real."
For a moment, neither of us speak. He sees too much, this tactical banana of a man.
"Well," I say, brightening forcefully, “prepare to be bored out of your military mind. I have actual business to handle. You know, numbers and contracts and adult things."
"I'll try to contain my excitement."
Was that… was that almost humor? From the stone statue?
"Did you just make another joke?"
"Unlikely."
But there's something in his eyes. Not quite warmth, but not quite ice either.
Logan's office door is open, and I can see him watching our approach through the glass walls.
Immaculate as always in his designer suit, no tie, looking like he should be running Wall Street instead of cleaning up after Miami's messiest heiress.
His face always looks freshly printed, as if nothing so ordinary as sweat or sleep could smudge him.
Every blond hair in place, suit jacket tailored like a second skin, Logan gives off the sort of precision that makes imperfections sidle out of the room. Except me. I sidle in.
"The prodigal disaster returns," he says as we enter, but there's affection under the sarcasm. "And brings… company."
Logan is perched on the edge of his desk, posture perfect, blue-eyed focus calibrated to our presence like a targeting system.
The territorial energy between Logan and Nico is immediate. Two alphas sizing each other up while I stand between them like a chaos conductor. I can see it in the way Nico's hand drifts toward where his gun would be. He's sorting Logan into categories: ally or obstacle to eliminate.
"Play nice, boys." I drop into a chair, spinning it once because I can't help myself. "There's enough disaster to go around. Logan, meet Nico, my new keeper. Nico, meet Logan, the actual adult who keeps this place running while I perfect the art of public embarrassment."
Logan's eyes narrow. "Rosetti. Your father sent a Rosetti." He turns to me. "Why now? What does Jorge know that he's not telling us?"
The question lands somewhere uncomfortable, but I deflect smoothly. "Maybe he just wants to ensure his disaster daughter doesn't completely implode before he…"
I stop. Can't say it.
Logan's expression softens for a moment, then hardens again as he looks at Nico. "If you hurt her…"
"He won't." The words surprise me as much as them. "He's more of a 'stand there and judge silently' type. Very Protestant work ethic."
I steal Logan's favorite pen from his desk, just to annoy him. He notices. Of course he notices.
"Give it back, Marisol."
"Make me."
"I have three meetings for you this afternoon. You need to handle them if you want to keep the lights on."
Reality check delivered without a smile. I twirl the pen between my fingers, suddenly exhausted. I'm holding it together with mental duct tape and pure spite. Every word feels like glass in my throat, but I keep smiling because that's what sunshine does. It shines even when it's dying inside.
"Fine. But I'm keeping the pen."
The first meeting is with Celeste, our Friday night headliner, who wants double her current rate.
I negotiate her down to a twenty percent raise plus two bottle service comps per show, charming her with compliments about her last performance while standing firm on the numbers.
My hands shake slightly as I sign the contract.
Just leftover chemicals working their way out. Nothing more.
The second is a vendor issue. Dominique Williams, our whiskey distributor, claiming we're behind on payments.
I handle it with a phone call that's half flirtation with their accounts manager, half subtle threat about taking our substantial business elsewhere.
Logan nods approval. Nico watches from the corner, taking in everything.
The third makes my stomach twist.
Two bartenders, caught skimming from the register. Security has the footage. They're in Logan's office, pleading, making excuses.
"I love you both," I say, and mean it. "But I love La Sirena more. Clean out your lockers."
In my father's world, stealing meant losing more than your job. They're lucky I only deal in termination letters, not terminal solutions.
They leave in tears. I hate this part. I have to have teeth sometimes, but it always tastes like copper.
My hands are shaking worse now. I reach for the water glass on Logan's desk and promptly knock it over, water spreading across vendor contracts.
Before anyone can react, Nico's there. Napkin in my hand, his body blocking Logan's view, moving the papers quickly.
Like we've been doing this dance for years instead of two days.
His cologne floods my senses as he leans close.
Leather layering over the cinnamon. My body reacts before my brain can stop it, leaning into his proximity like a plant toward sunlight.
"Clumsy," I say, trying for light.
"Happens," he replies, continuing to clean. No judgment in his voice. Just simple acceptance.
His hands brush mine as we both reach for more napkins, and the contact sends heat straight to my core. Inappropriate. Completely inappropriate. But my traitorous body doesn't care about appropriate.
Logan pretends not to notice the way my hands tremble as I help clean up. We all pretend. It's easier that way.
After the meetings, I need a moment. Logan's discussing security protocols with Nico, and I escape to the main floor.
Gunner is in his office, a generous term for the converted storage room that serves as security headquarters.
He fills the entire doorway when he stands, all six-foot-five of tattooed, scarred intimidation.
I used to be terrified of him, like most people are, but he’s a kitten, really. Just a monstrous looking one.
"Little shark," he says, the childhood nickname hitting different now. He's called me that since I was seventeen and he caught me crying in this very room after Mom died. "Heard you brought a friend."
"More like a very uptight babysitter." I gesture at Nico, who's appeared behind me with that unsettling silence he's perfected. "Gunner, meet Nico. Nico, meet the only person in Miami scarier than you."
The recognition between them is instant. Soldiers know soldiers, even across different wars. Gunner extends one massive hand, and they shake once, firm, a whole conversation in that single grip.
Then Gunner nods. Just once. Acceptance. The kind of nod that says: you'll do, brother, you'll keep her safe when I can't.
"Are you two having a moment?" I demand. "Should I leave? Maybe you want to compare war stories or wrestle or whatever it is that large, silent men do for fun?"
Gunner's mouth twitches, which from him is practically hysterical laughter. "He's solid."
"Solid? That's it? That's your entire assessment?"
Another twitch. Nico almost looks amused. There's something in the way they stand, both of them, like they've already established a perimeter around me without discussing it.
"You're both impossible," I declare, but something settles in my chest. If Gunner approves, maybe I can stop fighting this quite so hard.