Chapter 32 - Nico
Chicago greets me like it always does—with a fist of cold air off the lake and the immediate, bone-deep knowledge that I’m home. Even when home is the place that made me into something I’ve spent my whole life trying to understand.
Marisol presses against my side in the back of the car, storing heat like she’s preparing for winter.
Her first time in Chicago, and she’s taking it in through the window.
The steel and concrete, the elevated trains rattling past, the architecture that announces itself without apology.
Nothing like Miami’s pastel seduction. Chicago doesn’t seduce. It declares.
“It’s angry,” she says, watching the skyline slice through grey clouds.
“It’s honest.”
“Both, Horse Man.”
She’s right. She usually is. Her hand rests on my thigh, the heat of her touch reminding me what waits after this. Her body under mine, helping me forget whatever ghosts today brings back.
We’re staying at a hotel downtown. Not the compound. Tomorrow is the family gathering, the official introduction, the full circus. Today is something else. Something private. Something my oldest brother doesn’t know about.
We have maybe an hour before Marco realizes I’m not at the hotel.
Three days ago, I made the call. From the penthouse in Miami, while Marisol slept curled against me. A number I haven’t dialed in over a month but will never delete.
Sofia answered on the second ring. Like she’d been waiting.
“Nico.”
“I’m coming to Chicago. I need to see you.”
A pause. Not surprise but calculation. The tactical assessment I taught her, turned back on me.
“Does he know?”
“No.”
“You’re going behind the Don’s back.”
“I’m going behind my brother’s back. There’s a difference.”
If Marco finds out I met her without permission, there will be consequences. Family or not.
Another pause. Then, softer: “The park on Ashland?”
My chest tightened. Of course. Our park. From before the training, before the family swallowed us whole, before everything got hard.
“Two o’clock. Thursday.”
“I’ll be there.”
Now we’re here. Ashland Park. Not a grand destination, just a neighborhood park on the South Side.
Maple trees flare red at their edges, the first warning of autumn’s approach.
The ground is still green but littered with early-fallen leaves that crunch underfoot.
The basketball court’s rims are still bent.
The playground equipment groans in the wind, metal on metal, like a knife being sharpened.
This park is neutral territory. Neither Rosetti nor Volkov. But neutral doesn’t mean safe. Too many sight lines, too many places for shooters. Meeting here breaks every protocol I’ve ever learned.
The walking path circles a pond where ducks still paddle, though fewer than in summer. The air has that particular early October bite—not winter’s assault but its first scout, Chicago’s early warning system.
I lead Marisol to the bench by the pond. She sits. I can’t because the nervous energy is foreign to me. I’ve walked into firefights calmer than this. My Glock presses against my ribs, a reminder that family reunions in our world sometimes end in bloodshed.
“Tell me about her,” Marisol says. Not pushing, just offering space.
My jaw clenches. The words feel like betrayal in my mouth. Family business stays in the family. But Marisol isn’t just anyone anymore.
I tell her things I’ve never told anyone, looking away as vulnerability scrapes my throat raw.
Sofia at six, bossing me around this very playground, a gap-toothed smile and absolutely no fear.
Sofia at ten, the first time our father put a gun in her hand.
The betrayal on her face like he’d handed her a live snake.
Sofia at twelve, when I started teaching her how to kill.
Then at fifteen, after the massacre, when she started to take killing seriously.
Sofia five weeks ago, the night she left. The doorway. Alexei walking her to the car. Marco’s ultimatum still ringing in the air: him or us.
She chose him. And I don’t blame her.
“Marco won’t forgive her,” I tell Marisol. “The Volkov feud goes back generations. His father massacred our family. For Sofia to choose Alexei—”
“It’s not about the feud,” Marisol says quietly. “It’s about control. She chose something he didn’t sanction.”
She’s right. Marco could end the feud if he wanted. Alexei himself took no part in the massacre. The real offense is that Sofia made her own decision.
“But you’re not Marco,” she continues. “You stayed in touch.”
“Texts. Short calls when I knew he wouldn’t find out.” I scrub a hand over my face. “It’s not enough. She’s my sister. I trained her. I’m the one who taught her to survive, and then when she used that training to build a life Marco didn’t approve of, I let him put distance between us.”
Marisol watches the ducks on the pond. “She knows you love her.”
“Knowing isn’t the same as feeling it.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not.”
Two o’clock approaches. I check sight lines again. Minimal cover if shooting starts. No messages from Sofia. No cancellation. She’s coming.
Marisol shivers in the autumn chill. I put my arm around her. She tucks against me.
“What if she’s different?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
“She will be. That’s what love does.” Marisol squeezes my hand. “The question is whether you can accept the version of her that’s happy.”
A jogger passes too close to our bench. My body shifts automatically, putting myself between him and my woman. Old habits.
A figure appears at the far end of the path.
She’s different. Of course she’s different. It’s only been five weeks, but the difference is already visible.
Sofia moves differently. Less like a fashion model, more like a person actually living.
Her hair is longer, loose around her face instead of swept up in a chignon.
She’s wearing a tailored coat, probably bespoke, and boots that have actually seen weather.
Of course she still manages to look elegant, as though elegance is in her DNA.
She looks softer. Dangerous in a different way now. Not weak, never that. But the rigid edges I remember have been worn smooth. She looks like someone who’s been loved well.
Sofia with a Volkov. The irony isn’t lost. The Bratva prince who stole Sofia despite knowing it meant war. Their love story has cost both families. I killed three of his men two years ago. He probably knows.
She stops ten feet away. Those blue eyes, the vibrant version of Luca’s, find mine. The distance between us loaded with five weeks of silence that feels like years.
“You look tired,” she says.
“You look good.”
“I know.” The ghost of a smirk. The smirk that used to precede someone getting hurt.
Neither of us moves. The ten feet of leaf-strewn path might as well be an ocean.
Then Marisol stands.
Sofia’s eyes shift, and I tense, ready to move if this goes wrong.
She studies Marisol with the assessment I taught her, looking for weaknesses, for threats.
Something passes between the two women that I’m not part of.
Recognition. Not of faces since they’ve never met.
Something deeper. Two women who’ve survived similar storms in different oceans.
My body positions itself to intervene if needed, protective instinct coiling tight.
Marisol steps forward. Gentle but not tentative. “I’m Marisol.”
“I know who you are.” Sofia’s gaze flicks to me, then back. My sister’s words come like knife throws. Precise, potentially lethal. “You’re the reason my brother finally got his ass to Chicago to meet me.”
“He was coming anyway.”
“For Marco’s circus. Not for me.” Sofia tilts her head. “You made him brave enough to go behind the Don’s back.”
Marisol tilts her head right back. “You make it sound like defying your brother is a bad thing.”
Sofia laughs. Short, surprised. The sound hits me somewhere deep. I’ve heard my sister laugh before, but not like this. Freer. Less guarded.
“I like you,” Sofia says simply.
“Good. Because your brother is annoyingly stoic and I need allies.”
I’m standing here watching two women I love find each other acceptable, and the feeling in my chest is so unfamiliar it takes me a moment to identify.
Hope. Uncomplicated, undefended hope.
We sit on the bench. Sofia on one end, Marisol on the other, me literally between them. But within minutes they’ve angled toward each other, talking across me like I’ve become pleasantly irrelevant.
I count threats automatically. Monitor foot traffic. Two dog walkers, one runner, all civilians.
Sofia asks about Miami. Marisol tells her the real version. The Calypso Room. The cliff. The swim. Sofia listens with her whole body, the way she used to dance. Completely absorbed.
“Your mother taught you to swim,” Sofia says, something catching in her voice.
“Yes. And I stopped after she died.”
“Until you jumped into the ocean to save your own life.”
“Technically I jumped to avoid being murdered. The saving myself was a bonus.”
Sofia shakes her head. Looks at me. “Where did you find her?”
“She was my assignment.”
“She was your wake-up call.” No cruelty, just fact. “You needed someone who wouldn’t let you disappear into duty.”
She’s right. I did.
Marisol asks what Sofia does now. Where she lives. Not the family’s questions about when she’s coming back. Just: who are you now?
Sofia is hesitant at first. But Marisol has a gift for making people feel seen without feeling examined.
“I’m going to start designing,” Sofia says, her voice softening. “Just dresses for myself to begin with, then maybe I’ll expand and start selling them.”
“Not tutus?” Marisol glances at me, recognition in her eyes.
Sofia catches the look. Her expression shifts when she realizes I told Marisol about her ballet training. That I remembered. That it mattered enough to tell.
“Ugh. Those things are usually hideous, made by men with no appreciation of the female form, so maybe you’re onto something. But no. I’m starting with evening wear.”