Chapter 21 - Nico
The Delgado estate looks like a palace and feels like a mausoleum. Money can buy everything except more time, and Jorge Delgado’s time is running out faster than the medical equipment upstairs can slow it.
We pull through the gates in Marisol's car, and I immediately note the threats.
Mediterranean mansion sprawling across manicured grounds that require a staff of a dozen to maintain.
Royal palm trees lining the drive that Marisol told me her mother planted decades ago, back when this was a home instead of a fortress.
Security cameras at every angle, none of them original to the architecture.
Cesar's additions, according to my research.
The old man never needed them. Never thought his right hand would become the knife at his throat.
"That's new," Marisol says, pointing to another camera. Her voice carries exhaustion beneath the observation. "And that one. When did he…" She trails off, answering her own question. When her father got too sick to notice. When Cesar started his slow takeover.
His car sits in the circular driveway like it belongs there.
A silver Mercedes, spotless despite Miami's humidity.
Of course he's here. He practically lives here now, everything but the deed in his name.
My hand drifts to where my Glock sits, that familiar weight a comfort when walking into enemy territory.
The staff greet us at the door, and I immediately flag their nervous energy.
The housekeeper's eyes dart past Marisol to me, then away.
The groundskeeper pruning roses keeps his distance.
They're afraid, but not of Marisol. They've known her since she was born.
They're afraid of something else. Someone else.
"Miss Delgado," the housekeeper says, wringing her hands. "Your father is… he's having a difficult morning."
Marisol goes rigid beside me. Battle-ready, but I've seen soldiers walk into fights they can't win, and she has that same look. Not hope for confession, she's past that after our discoveries, but determination to see this through, to face whatever manipulation comes next.
We climb the stairs to the medical wing. Jorge's master suite converted into a hospice. At his door, she stops.
"Wait here," she says.
"No." The word comes out rougher than intended, my body already positioning itself between her and any potential threat.
"Nico, he's my father. I don't want him to see…" She gestures at me, at what I represent. "It says something. About what my life has become."
"I don't care what it says. I'm not letting you out of my sight. Not here. Not with Cesar somewhere in this house." The thought of him near her without me there makes my jaw clench hard enough to ache.
She looks ready to argue, jaw set, honey eyes flashing with that defiance that makes me want to press her against the wall and remind her who's protecting whom. Then the fight drains out of her. She's too tired to battle on two fronts.
"Fine. But let me talk to him alone. Stay by the door."
"Close enough to intervene if needed."
She almost smiles at that. "You think my dying father is going to attack me?"
"I think this house has too many threats to count."
The smell hits first. Antiseptic fighting a losing battle against something worse, the scent of a body shutting down despite the fortune being spent to keep it running.
Medical equipment crowds the room, machines beeping, IV drips feeding medication into veins that barely want it anymore.
The smell brings back Afghanistan. Field hospitals, men dying slow.
Jorge Delgado lies in what used to be his bed, now a hospital setup with rails and monitors.
The disease has carved him hollow since I saw him weeks ago.
Where once his eyes held sharp calculation despite the illness, now there's a flickering.
Moments of clarity between longer stretches of fog.
A private nurse sits in the corner, pretending not to exist while definitely listening to everything.
His eyes open and find his daughter. For a moment they're sharp, carrying the weight of a lifetime building an empire. Then they cloud slightly, refocus.
"Mija." His voice comes out as a rasp. "You're here."
She moves to his bedside, takes his hand carefully. I position myself by the door, close enough to read every micro-expression, far enough to give the illusion of privacy. Close enough to get to her in two seconds if needed.
Jorge's gaze moves from her to me and back. Even through the fog of medication and disease, he knows exactly who Marco Rosetti sent to protect his daughter.
"The articles," he says without preamble. "The embezzlement. Tell me they're lies."
Marisol's voice stays steady. "They're not true, Papa. Someone is doing this to me."
He studies her, and I can see him fighting through the haze, trying to focus. His face gives little away even now. He built an empire by being unreadable. But I see the doubt Cesar has planted taking root.
"You've always been…" He pauses, searching for words through the medication fog. "Chaotic. But I never thought you were a thief."
"I'm not. I would never."
"The evidence says otherwise." He shifts, grimacing at the movement. "Receipts. Transfers. Your signatures."
"Forged. All of it."
Silence stretches between them. His eyes drift closed, then snap open again, fighting the pull of exhaustion and medication. Then Jorge reaches for her hand with both of his. The gesture should be tender but isn't. My fingers flex at my sides, wanting to pull her away from even this gentle cruelty.
"I'm tired, mija. So tired. The family needs stability. When I'm gone…" He takes a labored breath, eyes losing focus for a moment before sharpening again. "When I'm gone, you need to lean on the people who know how things work. Who've been here longest."
My jaw tightens hard enough that something pops. I know where this is going, and every instinct screams to intervene.
"Promise me," Jorge continues, his voice fading, then strengthening with effort, "that you'll listen to Cesar. He knows what's best for the family. He's been with us thirty years. When I'm gone, you listen to him."
The words land hard. Not shock, she knows exactly what Cesar is now, but resignation. The cruel irony of her dying father's last wish being to trust the man we both know is destroying her. Her eyes find mine, and I see the weight of it crushing her.
"Papa…"
"Promise me, Marisol." His grip tightens with surprising strength before weakening again. "Cesar has given his life to this family. He deserves our trust. Promise me."
She looks at me again, just for a second. Not desperation but bitter acceptance.
"I promise," she whispers.
Jorge's eyes close, the brief window of lucidity closing. His breathing evens out into medicated sleep. The nurse moves in to check vitals, adjust medications. Our audience is over.
She makes it to the hallway before her composure cracks.
Not crying. Marisol doesn't cry where people can see.
But her hands shake as she leans against the wall, and I move closer, not quite touching but close enough that she can feel my heat, my presence.
Close enough that she knows she's not alone in this.
"He's handing the kingdom to Cesar." Her voice is hollow. "He's dying, and his last wish is for me to obey the man who's trying to bury me."
I don't have comfort for this. There isn't any. So I offer the only thing I can: "Then we prove it before he dies. We show him who Cesar really is."
She looks at me, and something fierce ignites in her honey eyes despite the devastation. That's my girl. Knocked down but never out.
"Where is he?"
We find Cesar exactly where I expected. In Jorge's study, behind the desk that isn't his yet but might as well be.
Papers spread before him, reading glasses perched on his nose, the picture of devoted service managing the empire while the king dies upstairs.
The sight makes my trigger finger twitch.
He looks up when we enter, and the warmth is immediate, automatic, practiced. Everything about him is practiced. The concerned uncle, the devoted friend. All of it lies.
"Mari, I didn't know you were coming today." He removes his glasses, sets them aside carefully. "How is Jorge?"
She doesn't sit when he gestures to the chairs. I position myself by the window. Sight lines to both doors, watching every tell, noting every lie.
"He's dying," she says flatly. "But you know that."
"We're all praying for more time." Cesar's voice carries just the right note of sorrow. "But we must be realistic. Preparations need to be made."
The way he says 'preparations,' already measuring for the crown. My hands clench into fists.
"Preparations." She moves closer to the desk, not quite accusing but not friendly either. "Like dealing with these media attacks on me?"
"I've been working on that, actually." He shuffles papers, finds one. "More investigators. More calls. We'll find who's behind this elaborate frame job. The family protects its own."
I note the slight delay before his response. Accessing fabricated memory instead of real ones. The way his hands stay perfectly still, too still, conscious control. A liar managing his body language. The deflection when she pushes for specifics.
"The evidence we've gathered points to someone with inside knowledge," Marisol says carefully, not revealing everything we know. "Someone who has access to financial systems, media contacts."
His expression flickers. Just for a moment. A tightening around the eyes, calculating how much we know. Then it's gone, replaced with concern that almost looks genuine.
"Mari… that's a serious accusation. Are you suggesting someone in our organization would do this to you?"
She doesn't answer directly. Just watches him. She's learned to read people better these past days, and pride mingles with protective rage in my chest.
Cesar leans back, sighs. The disappointed patriarch.