Chapter 21 - Nico #2
"You're under so much stress. Your father's decline accelerating, these vicious attacks in the media… It's natural to look for patterns, even where none exist. But we must be careful not to let paranoia divide us."
Every word calculated to make her doubt herself. My jaw aches from clenching it.
"Your mother trusted me," he continues when she doesn't respond. "She trusted me with everything. She would be heartbroken to see this family turning on itself with suspicion."
The guilt card, played perfectly. Using a dead woman to manipulate her daughter. I've put men in the ground for less than what he's done to her.
"That Rosetti security." His eyes flick to me, measuring. "They see enemies everywhere. It's what they're trained to do. But this family isn't Chicago. We don't operate on suspicion and violence."
The dismissal makes something primal claw at my chest. He's trying to separate us, make her doubt me.
"You've always had remarkable timing," Marisol says suddenly. "Finding me when I need help. Being there at the right moments."
A micro-expression. Wariness now, sensing a trap. Then smooth recovery.
"I've watched over you since you were born." He spreads his hands, the picture of paternal devotion. "Call it instinct. I know when my goddaughter needs me."
Every accusation, deflected. Every probe, turned to make her the villain for questioning. He plays the victim beautifully. Thirty years of devotion questioned, wounded by her suspicion. Watching her suffer through his manipulation is like taking shrapnel. Slow, deep, designed to fester.
Near the end, his tone shifts. Still warm, but underneath, something harder. Something that makes my hand drift toward my weapon.
"Your father is dying, Mari. His heart can't take stress. You know what the doctors said."
A pause. Weighted. The threat clear as a blade against her throat.
"Disturbing his final days with… unfounded suspicions… Well. I worry what it would do. He's so fragile. And he believes in family loyalty above everything."
The threat lands: Keep pushing, and I'll tell Jorge. I'll frame it as his daughter losing her mind. His final days poisoned by paranoia.
My muscles coil, ready to launch across this desk and show him what real threats look like. But she needs to see him clearly first. Needs to understand why I'm going to destroy him.
She stands. "Thank you for clarifying things, Tío."
He rises too, comes around the desk. Opens his arms for an embrace. She lets him hold her, but over his shoulder, I see her face. Pure disgust barely controlled.
Watching his arms around her makes something primal claw at my chest. Every instinct screams to rip him away, to show him what happens when someone touches what's mine. But I force myself still, let him dig his own grave deeper.
"Get some rest, carina. Take care of yourself. I'm always here for you."
We leave. My hand finds the small of her back. The touch sends heat through me, remembering how she arched under my hands, how she cried my name. The only violence I can commit right now. Claiming her in front of the man who wants to destroy her.
She makes it to the car before the shaking starts.
Not tears, something worse. Her whole body trembling like she's freezing, except it's ninety degrees and the rage is coming off her in waves.
I want to pull her into my lap, hold her until the shaking stops, then go back inside and paint Jorge's study with Cesar's blood.
I don't start the car. Just wait while she fights for control, my hand finding hers, interlacing our fingers. The contact grounds us both.
"He's going to win." Her voice is flat, destroyed. "He's been doing this for longer than me. He's better at it than I'll ever be. My father is going to die trusting him, and then Cesar's going to take everything, and there's nothing I can do."
"You're wrong."
She looks at me, and I tell her everything my tactical brain noted while she was fighting her uncle's manipulation.
"The micro-expressions when you pushed about his timing.
Wariness, then calculation. The tells when he lied, that slight delay before certain answers, accessing fabricated memory instead of real ones.
The way he positioned himself between you and the door, subtle control of the space.
His hands, did you notice? Perfectly still.
Too still. That's conscious control. A liar managing their body language. "
"I know he's lying," she says, exhausted. "But knowing doesn't matter. I can't prove it."
"Not yet."
Something sparks beneath her defeat. "What does that mean?"
I start the car, jaw tight with barely controlled violence. "Men like Cesar think they're untouchable because they've never faced real consequences. They manipulate and maneuver and everyone plays by their rules."
I look at her, letting her see the promise in my eyes, the violence I'm holding back just for her.
"I don't play by rules,” I say. “And when the time comes, I'll make him beg for the mercy I won't give."
She's quiet for a long moment, her thumb tracing circles on my palm. The simple touch makes me remember her hands in my hair, pulling me closer, trusting me with her body the way she's trusting me with her revenge now.
She sighs. "He's going to come after me harder now. He knows I suspect him."
"Let him come."
"Nico…"
"Let him come." I turn my hand palm up, interlace our fingers properly. Feel her pulse against mine. "I've ended men more dangerous than Cesar Vega. When the time is right, when we have what we need, I'll end him too. Slowly. So he understands exactly why."
She doesn't flinch at the promise of violence. Just holds my hand tighter. My girl, getting harder, learning that sometimes violence is the only language men like Cesar understand.
"Promise?"
"I promise."
We drive away from the estate, her hand still in mine, the Mediterranean mansion shrinking in the rearview mirror.
Thirty years of Cesar's careful construction.
His patience. His planning. Building trust, manipulating Jorge, positioning himself as the natural heir to an empire he helped build but never owned.
He made one critical mistake, though. Just one, but it's going to cost him everything.
He thinks the game is still about manipulation and politics. Soft power and careful moves. He doesn't understand that the game has changed. That there's a soldier in the mix now, someone who doesn't see chess boards and political capital. Someone who sees targets and elimination vectors.
"What are you thinking?" Marisol asks, studying my profile.
"I'm thinking about Afghanistan. About how insurgents would embed themselves in communities for years, becoming trusted, essential. Then one day, they'd reveal their true purpose."
"And how did you handle them?"
The memory brings back copper and blood. "We don't negotiate with embedded threats. We identify them. Confirm the target. Then we eliminate them. No mercy, no second chances."
She's quiet, processing. Then: "Cesar's not some random insurgent. He's been part of my family longer than I've been alive."
"That makes him more dangerous, not less." The estate disappears completely behind us. "But it also makes him comfortable. Complacent. He thinks he's already won."
"Maybe he has."
"No." My voice carries absolute certainty. "He's already lost. He just doesn't know it yet. Because he made that one mistake. He let me see him. The real him, under all that performed warmth. And once I see a target clearly…"
I don't finish. Don't need to. She understands what I am now. Not just her protector, but something more primal. A hunter who's identified his prey. The monster she unleashed when she let me claim her.
Soldiers don't negotiate.
We eliminate.
And Cesar Vega just became a dead man walking.