Chapter 9 - Nico
Iknow she’s gone before I open my eyes.
The apartment feels wrong. Too still. Too quiet. Like the air itself has changed density, thinned out where her presence should be filling space.
Before I finally fell asleep, I replayed every cruelty I dealt her today.
The way I turned away when she brought me coffee.
How I couldn't look at her without remembering her body beneath mine on that floor, back arching, lips parting.
I had to be cold. Had to create distance.
After yesterday, after almost losing every shred of discipline I've built, I had to remind myself what she is.
An assignment. A mission. Someone else's daughter.
Not mine. Never mine.
But the wrongness of the apartment pulls me from bed. Down the hallway. Her door hangs open.
The bed is empty.
For one second, everything stops. Training takes over. I clear every room, check every shadow. She's not here. She's gone.
Cold fury arrives like an old friend. She left. After the beach, after I told her it wasn't safe, she snuck out like a teenager breaking curfew.
My phone. The tracking app I installed her first day, standard protocol she doesn't know about. The blue dot blinks on my screen.
She's on the water. Moving. A yacht, heading out into the bay.
My hands shake, and not from pull-ups. She ran. Not from danger but toward it. Toward oblivion and whatever she can find to numb the pain I caused.
I move through the apartment gathering what I need. Glock. Phone. Keys.
Text to Gunner in case this goes South: She's gone. Yacht party. I'm retrieving.
Gunner's response is immediate: Need backup?
No.
I take her car. Drive too fast through empty Miami streets while my mind runs scenarios. How drunk is she? How high? Who's touching her?
That last thought makes my grip tighten until knuckles go white. Not yours, I remind myself. This is professional concern for an asset.
The marina spreads before me, boats sleeping in neat rows. But out there, maybe half a mile, the yacht blazes with light and bass that pulses across black water. She's out there in that mess of bodies and bad decisions.
Most boats are locked. But I have skills that don't appear on any resume. Three minutes, and I've got a speedboat humming beneath me, cutting through water toward those lights.
The yacht gets bigger as I close the distance.
Someone's serious money. Three decks, probably two hundred people.
Music pounds from speakers, bodies spilling everywhere, champagne flowing like water.
The smell hits me even from here. Sweat and spilled alcohol mixing with salt air, expensive cologne failing to mask the underlying decay of excess.
This is her world. The world she lived in before me. The world she'll go back to after I push her away enough times.
I circle once, scanning. The boat's engine vibration runs through my bones, spray of salt water dotting my arms. Upper deck, near the bow.
There. Silver sequins catching the light like scales. She's dancing, or trying to. Her coordination is shot, clearly drunk, maybe more. Hair wild, arms above her head, that dress barely covering anything.
She looks like chaos incarnate. Beautiful chaos.
And there's a man.
My vision tunnels. He has his hand on her waist, fingers spreading possessively over sequins. Leaning in to whisper something. His hand on what's not his.
The Glock feels light on my hip. Too light. Like it wants to be used.
He's touching her, and she's laughing that fake laugh while her body lists to one side. She's using him as a prop to stay upright, but he thinks he's getting lucky. He thinks she's his for the taking.
The red film drops over my vision. My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache.
I kill the engine, let the boat drift to the yacht's stern. Find a ladder. Start climbing.
I board like I belong here, but I move through bodies like a blade through water. Beautiful people too drunk to notice the predator among them. Someone offers me a drink. I ignore them. Someone else tries to stop me, a security type who takes one look at my face and backs away, hands up.
"Rosetti?" I hear someone whisper. "That's one of the Chicago family, or maybe New York, or…"
The crowd parts slightly. Fear is better than invisibility.
Upper deck. Eyes locked on her.
She sees me mid-laugh, still letting that man keep his hand on her. Her face does something complicated. Shock, fear, and underneath, relief.
She wants to be found.
"Nico?" Her voice slurs. "How did you…"
"We're leaving."
"No. No, I'm havin' FUN. I'm at a PARTY. Don' have to…"
"Now."
The man with his hand on her waist puffs up. Expensive shirt, cheap courage.
"Hey, buddy. She said she doesn't want to go."
I look at him. Just look. Let him see exactly what I'm thinking about doing to the hand that's touching her.
His face drains of color. He recognizes what I am. Not just muscle, but Rosetti muscle. The kind that leaves bodies in concrete.
"I mean… whatever. She's all yours."
Smart man. He disappears into the crowd, taking his filthy hands with him.
"You can't jus' SHOW UP and…"
"Watch me."
"This is kidnappin'!"
"This is extraction."
She trips on the ladder. I catch her before she falls. Without thinking, without asking, I throw her over my shoulder like she weighs nothing, which she practically does, hasn't eaten in hours, maybe days, another failure I should have prevented.
The shoulder carry is tactical, efficient. Doesn't explain why my body lights up everywhere she touches, why her warmth burns through my shirt like a brand.
"PUT ME DOWN!"
"No."
Her fists beat against my back as I carry her down the ladder, across the deck to where I left the speedboat. Each impact sends heat through me. Then she goes limp, either giving up or too drunk to fight.
I deposit her in the boat. Untie. Gun the engine.
We're alone on black water now. City glittering in the distance. Engine loud, vibrating through the deck, but not enough to drown her fury.
She whips around, sequins catching the moonlight as she sways. "You TRACKED me? How?"
"Your phone." I keep one hand on the wheel, eyes scanning the dark water ahead. "My cousin Milo is good with that stuff."
"My phone?" Her voice climbs higher with each word, fingers clutching the edge of her seat until knuckles go white.
"Standard protocol," I say, jaw tight.
"That's SPYIN'!" She throws her arms up, nearly toppling backward. "You've been watchin' me this whole time?"
"Surveilling." The boat hits a wave, spray misting across my face. "There's a difference."
"There's NOT!" She struggles to stand, dress clinging to her thighs as she pitches sideways toward the black water. I lunge, catching her arm. Her skin burns hot against my palm. "Don't TOUCH me!"
I tighten my grip. "You'll drown."
Her eyes lock with mine, mascara-streaked and glittering with something dangerous. "Maybe I WANT to!"
The words hit hard. She doesn't mean them. She's drunk. But the echo of her mother, the ocean, the water, makes my chest tight. For a second, a dark thought flashes: let the ocean have her, have me too, end this torment for both of us. I kill it immediately, disgusted with myself.
"You were so CRUEL today!" She's crying now, mascara running black rivers down her cheeks. "I made you COFFEE. Asked 'bout your FAMILY…"
"That's not…"
"You couldn't even LOOK at me! Like I'm disgustin'…"
"You're not…"
"Then WHAT am I? You kissed me, Nico. Then acted like it was nothin'."
"It wasn't nothing."
"Then why did you LEAVE?"
She moves toward me, unsteady on the rocking boat. I catch her arms to keep her from falling. We're close. Too close. Her breath on my face, body swaying into mine.
"I know you felt somethin'," she whispers. "On that floor. I know you wanted…"
Her hand moves. Fast. Drunk-clumsy but accurate.
She grabs me through my pants.
I'm hard. Been hard since I saw her on that yacht with that man's hands on her. Since I threw her over my shoulder, her body warm against mine.
Her eyes go wide.
"You DO want me."
I don't move. Don't breathe. My hands tremble with the effort of not grabbing her, not showing her exactly how much I want.
"You're… you've been walkin' around actin' like I'm NOTHIN', and you're…"
She strokes once through the fabric. My whole body shudders. My jaw clenches so hard something pops.
I grab her wrist. Pull her hand away. Hold it against my chest where my heart hammers.
"Not like this."
She throws her hands up. "Like WHAT?"
"You're drunk." I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening.
"So?" She sways, nearly falling as the boat hits a wave.
I steady her with one hand, jaw clenched. "So I don't fuck drunk women who can't remember in the morning."
"I'll remember." She leans in, her breath hot against my neck.
"You won't." I turn my face away, focusing on the dark water ahead.
She grabs my arm, nails digging in. "Even with your dick hard in my hand, you're STILL rejectin' me."
"I'm saying not like this." I pry her fingers loose, gently but firmly.
She stumbles backward, catching herself on the edge of the seat. "There IS no other way! This is all I am!"
"That's not all you are." My voice drops lower, rougher.
Her eyes fill with tears, mascara running down her cheeks. "You covered up when I saw you shirtless. Like I'm not even worth…"
My control cracks. Just a fissure, but enough. My jaw works, hands clench the wheel until the knuckles go white. I can feel the words fighting to escape, clawing up my throat against every protocol I've ever learned.
"I covered up because if I didn't, I was going to pin you against the fridge and find out what sounds you make when you come."
Silence. Her mouth opens. Closes. The boat rocks beneath us, salt spray misting our faces.
"What?"
"You heard me."
The drunk truth spills out: "You… wanted…"