Chapter 32 - Nico #2
A pause. Then something I rarely see on my sister’s face: pride. Not the sharp Rosetti pride that looks like armor. Softer. The kind that comes from building instead of destroying.
She reaches into her bag, pulls out something small. A drawing of a striking evening gown that jumps off the page.
She hands it to me.
I hold it. The sketch shows a gown with a plunging neckline and fabric that seems to pour down the figure in charcoal waves, each fold rendered with such confidence the dress looks ready to move.
My sister created this. My sister who stopped dancing when the family demanded she become something harder is creating again.
Because Alexei gave her space to be soft.
“It’s beautiful.” My voice comes out rough. “Do you have any more?”
“I’m creating a portfolio. You can see more when you earn them.”
The smirk again. The little sister who used to make me play the dog under the playground slide.
We walk the path together. Sofia and Marisol ahead, talking about something I can’t quite hear. But their heads incline toward each other, and occasionally one laughs, the sound carrying across the park like something I’ve been missing without knowing it.
Another jogger approaches. My hand drifts toward my weapon until they pass. Always watching. Always ready.
Sofia stops at the playground. Touches the swing chain, metal cool against her palm.
“I want you to meet him properly,” she says to me.
“Alexei?” I ask, my throat thickening around the word.
“Tomorrow. Or whenever you’re ready. He’s not what you’d expect. He’s kind, Nico. He does bonsai.”
The absurdity of a Rosetti with a man who sculpts tiny trees almost makes me laugh. But there’s weight underneath. This is still the Bratva prince whose family has spilled our blood for generations. And yet.
“I’d like that,” I say. Meaning it, despite everything.
Sofia’s eyes go bright. “Really?”
“You chose him. That means something.” I hold her gaze. “You’re my sister. That means more.”
She blinks rapidly. Looks away. The trained reflex none of us can unlearn—the automatic suppression of visible emotion the family put in our bones.
“Marco will never accept him,” she says, and I catch the sadness in her tone.
“Marco doesn’t get to decide who I have dinner with.”
She laughs, wet and surprised. “You really have changed.”
“Blame the cliff-jumper.”
The time comes. Paths diverge. Sofia going north, us back to the hotel.
Sofia turns to Marisol first for a goodbye hug. Two women who met two hours ago holding each other like they’ve known each other for years. Something communicated that I’ll never fully understand. The solidarity of women who’ve survived men who love badly.
“Take care of him,” Sofia whispers, loud enough for me to hear. “He forgets to take care of himself.”
“I noticed,” Marisol replies.
Then Sofia turns to me.
We stand facing each other. Two feet apart now. The autumn park. The grey sky. Leaves skittering past on the wind.
I pause for a moment. “Sofia, I’m so sorry. So fucking sorry.”
She looks at me for a beat, and I wait for her anger, for her to blame me for training her too hard, making her too strong, turning her against the family.
“Sorry for what?” she asks.
“For driving you away. Making you lose your softness.”
The moment is weighted with heaviness. The breeze blows a strand of blond hair across my sister’s lovely face, and I would give anything for her forgiveness.
“You arrogant fucker,” she says, but there’s no venom in it.
“You didn’t make me hard, I did that myself.
And you certainly didn’t drive me away. I fell in love, Nico.
It’s as simple as that. I fell in love with a crazy Russian man who treats me like a princess and also values my strength.
If anything, I should thank you for helping me become the woman worthy of his love. ”
She pulls me into a hug then, fierce and tight, and I breathe her in, feeling the weight of guilt fall off my shoulders. My wonderful, magnificent sister holds me tight as I reshape my understanding of the world again.
It’s only been five weeks since I last hugged my sister, but it feels longer. The distance Marco forced between us made everything feel like years.
She’s shorter than I remember. Or I’m taller. Or I just forgot. But she fits against me the same way she did when she was six and scared of thunderstorms and I was the brother who would keep the noise away.
“Don’t let him win,” she says into my chest. “Marco. Don’t let him decide you can’t have both.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You’re here.” She pulls back, wipes her eyes quickly. “Next week. Dinner. Alexei will make pasta. He’s learning Italian recipes because he thinks it’ll impress you.”
“A Russian who makes Italian food.”
“Don’t be a snob.” She grins, wet-eyed, real. “Bring your cliff-jumper.”
She turns. Walks away. Doesn’t look back. Not because she doesn’t want to, but because Rosettis don’t look back. It’s the one family trait none of us can shake.
I watch until she rounds the corner. Gone. But not the way she was gone before. Not the severed, forbidden gone. The temporary kind. The kind with a dinner invitation attached.
The park settles back into quiet. Just Marisol and me and the pond and the grey sky pressing down like a promise of rain.
She takes my hand. Her fingers are cold. She’s been shivering for an hour and hiding it because she understood this moment wasn’t about her comfort.
“She’s happy,” Marisol says simply.
“She’s happy.”
“She laughed, Nico. Real laughing. That’s not a woman who regrets her choice.”
I nod. The evidence is right in front of me. My sister chose love over family loyalty, and instead of destroying her, it’s made her whole.
Marisol squeezes my hand. “You didn’t lose her. Marco tried to make you choose, and you found a way to keep both.”
“It’s going to cause problems.”
“Everything worth having causes problems.” She looks up at me. “I would know.”
I stare at her. This woman who keeps tilting the lens just enough that everything looks different. Not a new truth. Just the existing truth, seen clearly.
“When did you get so wise?”
“I jumped off a cliff. It reorganized my priorities.”
I pull her close. Kiss her forehead. Her cold nose presses into my neck. Even now, the heat between us pulses. Her body against mine, reminding me what waits when we’re alone again.
“Thank you. For today. For being here.”
“Always, Horse Man.”
I take Marisol’s hand. We walk out of the park together. Into Chicago. Into whatever comes next.
Behind us, the swing set creaks in the wind. The sound of children who aren’t there anymore. The sound of children who made it out.
But I’m not thinking about the past anymore. I’m thinking about the hotel room waiting for us. About peeling Marisol out of that dress she’s wearing under her coat. About warming her properly after she shivered in Chicago’s autumn chill just so I could have this moment with Sofia.
My cock hardens at the thought, blood rushing south with an urgency that surprises me after the emotional weight of today.
Or maybe because of it. Maybe I need to be inside her to process what just happened.
My sister’s smile, the dress design in my pocket, the way Marisol held my broken pieces together while I defied my brother’s orders.
She feels the shift in my energy. Her hand tightens in mine, and when I look down, her honey eyes are dark with the same need. She knows what I’m thinking. She always does.
“Hotel,” she says, and it’s not a question.
“Hotel,” I agree, already calculating the fastest route, already imagining her beneath me, already knowing we might not make it past the door before I’m inside her.
“Thank you,” she says suddenly. “For letting me see that. For trusting me with Sofia.”
I look down at her. This woman who makes me brave enough to defy the Don for the people I love.
“I love you,” I tell her. The words come easier now. “And I’m about to show you exactly how much.”
Chicago can wait. Marco can wait. Everything can wait except this woman who made me brave enough to choose my sister, about to discover exactly how grateful I am.