Chapter 11 - Nico
I’ve walked into enemy territory before. Afghanistan. Chicago. Places where death waits behind every corner and trust gets you killed. But this is different. The enemy here wears a warm smile and opens his arms for the woman I’m supposed to protect.
As soon as Marisol walks into her father’s sickroom, Cesar Vega turns to me.
Late fifties, silver at the temples, another expensive suit like the one he wore at La Sirena when I spotted him across the room on the night I arrived in Miami.
Up close I see he has warm brown eyes that crinkle when he smiles.
Everything about him radiates paternal comfort.
But his footsteps are too quiet for a man his size. Practiced stealth that sets my teeth on edge.
My instincts scream wrong. Something is fundamentally wrong here, though I can't name it yet.
I've seen this before. Men who use affection as control, who make their possession look like love. The way he breathed Marisol in, held her a beat too long, watched her until she shut the door of her father’s room behind her.
My hand drifts to where my Glock sits. It would be easy. One bullet, painted wall becomes modern art. Tell everyone he pulled first. But Marisol would never forgive me for killing her Tío without proof. So I smile instead, baring teeth.
Cesar looks me up and down. That warm smile never falters.
"The Rosetti." Not a question. "Jorge mentioned he'd arranged additional security."
"Nico Rosetti."
"Cesar Vega. I've known this family for thirty years. Since before Marisol was born. I'm glad Jorge found someone capable. Our girl needs protecting."
Our girl. My jaw tightens.
"She's in good hands."
"I can see that." His eyes assess me. Quick, thorough, the evaluation of someone who knows exactly what to look for. "You have the look of a soldier."
"Former Marine."
"Ah. Then you understand discipline. Duty. Protecting what matters."
It's not small talk. It's a test. Seeing if I'll reveal something, give him an angle.
"I understand my job."
"Good. Good." His smile doesn't waver, but something shifts in his eyes. Calculation, there and gone.
I position myself beside Jorge’s door. Back to the wall, clear sightlines both directions down the hallway. Standard security position. Nothing remarkable about it.
Except Cesar doesn't leave.
He leans against the opposite wall, studying me with that warm smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Like we're old friends, just having a casual chat while Marisol visits her dying father.
He wants something. Information about Jorge's concerns, maybe, or confirmation of how much protection Marisol really has. Every question is reconnaissance. Every smile is strategy. This man has been playing a long game, and Marisol is the prize.
"You're very protective of her," he says.
"It's my job."
"Just your job?" The question hangs between us. "I've seen the way she looks at you. And the way you watch her. It's… more than professional."
I don't take the bait. "You're observant."
"I've had thirty years of practice observing this family." He crosses his arms, settling in for a conversation I don't want. "I was there when Marisol took her first steps. When she lost her first tooth. When her mother died."
His voice softens on the last part. Practiced grief, performed just right.
"I've watched her destroy herself for eight years. And I've watched everyone else watch and do nothing."
"And you? What have you done?"
"What I could. Which was never enough." Another perfectly timed sigh. "She doesn't trust easily. The fact that she let you get close… that means something."
"Or it means nothing."
"Perhaps."
Silence stretches. He's deciding something, measuring me for a suit I don't want to wear.
"You know what's fascinating about soldiers?" Cesar says, still studying me. "They're trained to see enemies everywhere. Sometimes they create them just to have something to fight."
The psychological warfare is sophisticated. Plant doubt. Make me question my instincts.
"Marco Rosetti is your brother?" he asks.
"Yes."
"I've heard of your family. The Chicago Rosettis." He lets that sit, watching my reaction. "Powerful. Ruthless when they need to be. Just as intimidating as the New York Rosettis."
The way he says ruthless. Like he's tasting the word, filing it away for later use.
"Also loyal," he continues. "Very loyal."
"Family matters."
"Yes. Loyalty. Family." He pushes off the wall, moves closer. Not threatening, exactly. Just… present. "That's good. Marisol needs loyalty. She's had too little of it."
"She has yours."
"Always. Since the day she was born." His voice drops, becomes something intimate, confessional.
"I made a promise to her mother. Rihanna.
Beautiful woman, voice like an angel. She knew she was dying.
The cancer had spread everywhere by then.
She made me promise to look after her babies. Both of them."
He's using a dead woman as leverage. Everything in my gut screams liar. This man who speaks of promises while calculating angles.
"Must be hard," I say. "Watching her struggle."
"You have no idea." For a moment, something flashes across his face. Real emotion, but not grief. Frustration, maybe. "Every time she makes headlines, every disaster, every overdose scare. It's like watching Rihanna die again. Jorge feels it too. It's killing him faster than the cancer."
"She's doing better."
"Is she? A few days without champagne doesn't erase eight years of self-destruction." He studies me with those calculating eyes. "But you know that. A soldier like you, you've seen what trauma does to people. What it makes them become."
"I've seen people survive things that should have killed them."
"Survive. Yes. But not thrive. Not heal." He shakes his head. "Some people are just… broken. Too damaged to fix. All you can do is manage the damage."
Every word is carefully chosen. He's testing me, seeing if I'll defend her, seeing how deep my investment goes.
"Speaking of management," he continues, "I'm curious about your family's interest here. The Rosettis don't usually involve themselves in Miami business."
"Jorge Delgado reached out to Marco personally."
"Yes, but why? We have security. Good security." He gestures vaguely at the house around us. "Unless Jorge knows something I don't. Some threat he hasn't shared with his oldest friend."
There it is. The probe. He wants to know what Jorge told Marco, what I know.
"He's a father worried about his daughter. That's all I need to know."
"Of course. A father's love." His smile is warm, sympathetic. "Though sometimes love makes us see threats that aren't there. Jorge's been… paranoid lately. The medication, the stress. He thinks someone close to him is plotting something."
He says it casually, like gossip. But he's watching my reaction. When I give none, he continues:
"When Jorge passes, Marisol will need guidance. Someone to help her navigate the transition. The vultures will circle, you understand. The Zayas family especially. She'll need someone she trusts to protect her interests."
He's already planning for after Jorge's death.
"Paranoia's not always wrong," I say.
"No. Sometimes the person we trust most is the one holding the knife." He lets that image sit between us. "That's why I'm glad you're here. An outsider. Someone with no agenda except keeping our girl safe."
Our girl. Again.
The door opens before I can respond. Marisol emerges, eyes red, shoulders curved inward. I watch the devastation written across her face, the way her whole body seems smaller, like Jorge's words have physically diminished her.
"He wants to see you," she tells me. Her voice is thick with tears she's fighting not to shed.
I glance at Cesar. He's already reaching for her, ready to provide comfort.
"Go," he says. "I'll look after Marisol. A nice cup of tea, perhaps. Or something stronger."
"No." She shakes her head, steps closer to me instead of him. "I want to stay near Nico. I'll wait here."
Something flickers across Cesar's face. Just for a moment. Annoyance, maybe. Or something darker.
"Of course, carina. Whatever you need."
I enter the sickroom, already knowing this conversation will confirm what my gut's been screaming since we arrived.
The room is tomb-dark, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun.
Medical equipment hums. Monitors tracking the steady decline of a man who built an empire just to watch himself crumble.
The smell hits immediately: medicine and decay.
Antiseptic fails to mask something worse.
The scent of a body shutting down, system by system.
Jorge Delgado is propped in a hospital bed. He's been carved hollow by disease, a big man reduced to sharp bones and stubborn will. But his eyes. Dark, piercing, missing nothing. Those eyes are still alive. Still dangerous.
They fix on me like rifle sights.
"Come closer. I want to see the man Marco sent."
I approach, stop at parade rest without thinking. Old habits.
"You're younger than I expected."
"Twenty-nine."
"Twenty-nine." A sound that might be a laugh rattles in his chest. "I built my empire by twenty-nine. What have you built?"
"Bodies. Mostly."
The honesty surprises him. Good. I'm tired of games, of Cesar's warm manipulations, of everyone dancing around truth.
"Honest. I like that." He gestures to the chair beside the bed. The one Marisol just vacated, a crumpled tissue on the floor beside it. "Sit."
I sit.
"Marco speaks highly of you. Says you're his best. Disciplined. Deadly. Incapable of being compromised."
"I do my job."
"Your job is keeping my daughter alive." His voice sharpens. "How is that going?"
"She's alive."
"She's also drunk half the time, from what I hear. High the other half. Running around Miami like a woman with a death wish." The words are harsh, but exhaustion bleeds through. "Is that the daughter you're protecting?"
"She's struggling. But she's stronger than you think."