Chapter 18 - Marisol
Nico Rosetti is in my kitchen making eggs.
The sound of a pan against the stove makes my chest do something dangerous.
Men don't stay. They slip out while I'm unconscious, leave notes about early meetings, text later with transparent excuses.
But Nico Rosetti, who counts everything, who maintains tactical distance, who locked himself in bathrooms rather than come with me watching, is making breakfast in my kitchen.
This is not my life. Except apparently it is now.
I wrap myself in a silk robe, not bothering with anything underneath. Why pretend? We're past pretense now. The silk feels cool against my sensitized skin, every nerve still singing from his touch.
He's at the stove when I reach the kitchen doorway, and the sight stops me cold.
Shirtless, wearing only those low-slung sweatpants, every muscle in his back defined as he moves.
His Glock sits on the counter within easy reach in a diagonal ray of bright sunlight.
Even making eggs, he's ready for violence.
The contradiction of it, this lethal man performing something so domestic, makes my stomach flip.
"You cook," I say, and he turns at my voice.
His eyes do a slow sweep from my wild hair to my bare feet, lingering on where the robe gapes at my chest. Something in his expression shifts, softens in a way that makes my toes curl. There's something new there too. A certainty that wasn't there before.
"I keep myself alive," he says, turning back to the stove.
"A man has never made me eggs." The confession slips out before I can stop it.
"That's tragic."
"I've been dating wrong, apparently. Should have been targeting ex-marines with spatulas instead of trust fund babies with cocaine habits."
He plates the eggs, adding toast and fruit I didn't even know I had. When he sets it in front of me, I just stare at it for a moment. Real food. Made for me. By someone who stayed. By someone who is right here. Present tense, not past, not conditional.
I take a bite, and apparently I'm hungrier than I thought because I actually moan a little. His eyes darken at the sound, pupils dilating in a way that makes me press my thighs together.
"You're staring," I say between bites.
"You're eating. It's noteworthy."
"Maybe I worked up an appetite."
"Maybe you did." The heat in his voice sends a pulse straight to my clit, even after everything we've done, everything we've said.
His phone buzzes. He checks it, jaw tightening immediately. "Gunner says Cesar's people were asking about you at the club last night."
"While we were…"
"While we were here. Yes." His hand drifts to where his gun sits on the counter, an unconscious tell I'm learning means danger. "They wanted to know where you were. If you were alone."
“Since when are you best friends with my security guy?”
His brow furrows, a cute little ridge between his eyebrows. “Best friends?”
“All texts, phone calls, passing on messages from other boys.” I bite into my toast, wipe some butter from my lips.
“Just managing your safety,” he says.
I settle onto a barstool while he leans against the counter, coffee mug in hand. Black coffee, of course. Everything about him is efficiency, even his caffeine intake.
"Do you ever just… exist?" I ask. "Without assessing threats and measuring distances and whatever else that military brain does?"
"You're not a threat."
"I could be. I'm very dangerous."
"You burned toast yesterday."
"Dangerously bad at cooking. Still counts."
The corner of his mouth twitches, that almost-smile I'm getting better at spotting. He moves past me to rinse his mug, and his hand trails across my lower back as he passes. Casual, possessive, claiming. Like I'm his to touch whenever he wants. The simple contact makes me wet.
I shiver.
"Cold?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Then what?" He sets the mug down with a soft clink against the metal sink.
"You touched me." I trace the path his fingers took across my skin. "Like you didn't have to think about it."
He pauses at the sink, his shoulders tensing slightly before he turns to face me. "I didn't."
Something cracks open in my chest. This man who calculates every movement, who counts every breath, touches me without thinking. Like I'm already part of his operating system. Like I belong in his space.
We migrate to the couch, and I curl against him like it's the most natural thing in the world. His arm comes around me automatically, pulling me closer until I'm practically in his lap.
I trace the tattoos on his ribs, following the lines of ink with my fingertip. Latin script curves along his side: "Per aspera ad astra."
"Through hardship to the stars," he translates when I look up at him questioningly. "A buddy had it. He didn't make it home."
"I'm sorry."
"Long time ago."
But I can see the truth in his eyes. These things don't get further away. They just get quieter, buried under discipline and duty until something cracks them open again. His body is a memorial to grief, each mark someone who mattered, someone lost.
“I’m still sorry.”
He just shrugs, pulls me a little closer, and we snuggle tighter on the sofa.
"Do you have any hidden talents?" I ask, needing to know everything about this man. "Besides throwing people into rocks and making surprisingly good eggs."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "I used to play piano."
I nearly fall off the couch. "WHAT?"
"My mother taught us all. Before she died. I was… decent."
"Define decent."
"Chopin without looking at the keys."
I sit up straight, my hands flying to his shoulders. "That's not decent. That's GOOD. That's like, recital good."
His gaze drops to where my robe has slipped open. "It was a long time ago."
"Do you still play?" I trace the line of his collarbone with my fingertip, feeling his pulse jump beneath my touch.
He catches my hand, stilling it against his chest. "No."
"Why?"
He shifts slightly, his arm tightening around me.
"I was deployed a long time. Not many keyboards in Afghanistan.
Then after my father died, there wasn't time. Then there wasn't space. Then I stopped being someone who could make music. It kind of became Dante’s thing after he lost his voice and then it didn’t feel right for me to play anymore. "
The words hurt my chest. I think about the boy who played Chopin, wonder if he's still in there somewhere under all that tactical armor. Under the man who can gaze into my eyes while coming inside me but still needs a gun within reach to make breakfast.
"I have something too," I say. "Something from my mother."
I tell him about the watch. Hidden in my drawer since my quinceanera. Rose gold with her initials engraved on the back.
"She gave it to me the morning of my party. Said it was for the woman I'd become." My voice cracks slightly. "I can't wear it. Can't throw it away. Can't even look at it without crying."
"Maybe someday."
"Maybe someday you'll play piano again."
"Maybe."
We sit with that for a moment. Two broken people finding pieces of each other in the wreckage.
The silence stretches between us, comfortable but expectant. His fingers trace absent patterns on my arm, and I watch the sunlight shift across the hardwood floor, painting golden rectangles that crawl slowly across the room.
"Languages," I say suddenly, since I can't wait a moment longer for him to ask about my special talents. "I speak four."
"Four?"
"Spanish, obviously. English. Portuguese from summers in Brazil. And passable Italian from my mother's side."
"When did you learn all that?"
"Mami insisted. Said language was freedom. That you could become anyone if you knew how to speak their words."
"She sounds smart."
"She was. She was everything. Dios, I miss her."
He tells me about his family then. How he calls Marco every Sunday even when they have nothing to say. How he hasn't taken a vacation in seven years. How he doesn't know how to do nothing.
"What would you even do on vacation?" I ask.
"I don't know. I've never thought about it."
"That's sad, Horse Man."
"You could teach me."
I poke his chest with my index finger. "To vacation?"
"To do nothing." His eyebrows lift. "You seem like an expert."
I bite my lower lip, fighting a smile. "Was that a JOKE? At my expense?"
"Maybe." He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly as his mouth twitches at the corner.
I'm delighted. He's learning banter. I'm corrupting him with my chaos.
We end up tangled on the couch, some terrible action movie playing that neither of us watches.
My head rests on his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
His hand plays with my hair absently, fingers catching in the tangles from last night.
Through the open window, I can hear boats on the bay, the distant thrum of South Beach already starting its party at noon.
This is nice. Better than nice. This is everything I didn't know I wanted.
I trace lazy patterns on his skin, following scars and ink, learning the geography of him. He lets me explore without flinching, without pulling away. Just existing together in this bubble where nothing bad can reach us.
"I thought I hated being still," I murmur.
"What changed?"
"Maybe I just hated being still alone."
His lips press against the top of my head, and something shifts in my chest. A recognition. A certainty.
I don't say it. Keep it silent, precious, held close like my mother's watch. But it's there, growing with each breath we share.
He kisses my temple, and I could stay here forever. In this moment. In this stillness that doesn't feel empty anymore because we're still together.
Then my phone starts to buzz.
I ignore it at first. Whatever it is can wait. But it keeps going. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Insistent and angry.
"Popular this morning," Nico says, but his hand is already moving toward where his gun sits on the side table. Always ready.
"Probably nothing."
But it won't stop. I finally grab it, ready to silence it completely, and freeze.
Nineteen missed calls. Texts from Logan, my lawyer, Carmen who handles my PR disasters, plus some numbers I don't recognize.
"What's wrong?" Nico sits up, already shifting into tactical mode, that soldier emerging from beneath the gentle morning.
"I don't know."
Logan's text just says: Call me. NOW.
My stomach drops.
Before I can call Logan back, I see why everyone's trying to reach me. It's everywhere. Trending on every platform, picked up by legitimate news outlets, spreading like wildfire.
DELGADO HEIRESS EMBEZZLING FROM FAMILY BUSINESS: Sources Reveal Shocking Financial Misconduct
My phone buzzes again. One more text in the flood. I almost ignore it, can't handle one more person asking if the allegations are true.
Then I see the name.
Gabriel.
My brother who fled to God eight years ago. My brother who left me alone with our secret. My brother who hasn't sent anything more substantial than hollow holiday greetings since he put on that collar.
The text is simple:
Mari. I saw what they're saying about La Sirena. We need to talk. I need to know what's happening. Call me. - G
My hands shake worse now. Gabriel. After everything. After eight years of silence. NOW he reaches out?
I need to know what's happening.
Not "how are you?" Not "I'm sorry I abandoned you." Not "I love you, hermana." He needs to know what's happening. Like I'm a problem to be managed from a distance. Like his reputation might be at stake.
"What is it?" Nico asks, noticing my face.
I can't speak. Just hand him the phone.
He reads, and his expression hardens dangerously.
The phone buzzes again:
Mari. Please. It's important.
Important. Eight years of nothing, and now it's important. Does he believe the articles? Does he think I'm stealing from our father's empire while Papa lies dying? Is he reaching out to help or to accuse?
With Gabriel, I can never tell.
A third text arrives:
I'm coming over. We need to talk in person.
The phone slips from my numb fingers.
My brother is coming here.
Father Gabriel, patron saint of abandonment, is gracing us with his presence.
"Perfect," I say, laughing but it comes out cracked, desperate. "Someone's framing me for embezzlement, my father's dying, and now my brother wants to what, hear my confession? I already have enough guilt for both of us."
Nico's arms tighten around me, but even his solid presence can't stop the truth from settling in my bones like ice water. If Gabriel coming here now, after all this time, after all this silence, it's not to save me.
It never is.