Chapter 33 - Marisol #2
"Most people do. It's the ones who don't that keep things interesting." I take a sip of wine. "Also, for the record, the yacht photos were taken at the worst possible angle. My ass looks way better in person."
Emma chokes on her drink. Alex looks like Christmas came early.
Even Dante, silent and massive, watches me navigate his family's chaos with something that might be interest. When Antonia starts fussing, he shifts her smoothly, and I notice how his free hand never strays far from his weapon, even here, even safe.
Dinner becomes a full contact sport. Maria produces enough food to feed a small army: platters of osso buco, mountains of risotto, bread that steams when broken.
The table groans under the weight. Alex steals bread before it reaches the table.
Dante silently rearranges place settings so Ana stays beside him.
Luca cuts Faith's meat without being asked, without looking, the gesture so automatic it must predate the baby.
I end up between Nico and Emma, strategic placement, I realize. My anchor on one side, another outsider on the other. Emma leans close during a brief lull while Alex and Marco argue about something in rapid Italian.
"It's overwhelming at first."
"A little."
"Don't try to follow every conversation. And don't try to outdrink Alex. No one wins."
"Voice of experience?"
"Voice of survival."
I'm starting to win them over through small moments. When Ana hands me Antonia, the baby immediately grabs my earring with the grip strength of someone who shares Dante's DNA.
"She's got her father's handshake," I say, gently extracting my earlobe.
Dante makes a sound, brief, almost inaudible. The table goes quiet because apparently Dante laughing is like spotting a unicorn.
The warmth of Nico's thigh presses against mine under the table, and I have to focus on not reacting to the heat that spreads from that simple contact. His hand finds my knee, squeezes once, a reminder that he's here, I'm safe, we're in this together.
Faith finds me during a kitchen run, Theodore sleeping against her shoulder. "I heard about the Calypso Room," she says quietly. "Not the tabloid version. Nico told Luca."
“Oh?”
I tense, but her expression is understanding, not judgment.
"I know what it's like to carry something you can't tell anyone. And I know what it's like when someone finally takes it from you."
The recognition between us doesn't need words. Whatever Faith survived to get here, it lives in the same neighborhood as my trauma.
"He's beautiful," I say, looking at Theodore.
"He's a monster. He eats every two hours and screams like Luca when he doesn't get what he wants."
"I heard that," Luca says from across the room, pale eyes tracking us with unnerving focus.
"You were meant to, darling," Faith replies sweetly.
Later, Maria brings out tiramisu that could make angels weep. I compliment it at maximum volume, as instructed by Emma. Maria bursts into fresh tears and announces I'm her new favorite, which makes Alex protest dramatically until Emma redirects him.
The evening settles into something softer but never quite safe.
The fire burns low, wine flows—but not too freely, the family arranged in their unconscious constellation.
Marco's phone buzzes twice, business that can't wait, and he steps out, speaking in hushed tones.
When he returns, there's a slight tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before, and Valentina quietly checks him over without comment, her hand lingering on his arm in silent question.
I watch the siblings communicate in layers: surface jokes hiding years of shared history.
Even damaged, even carrying their individual traumas, they're here.
Together. The difference between them and the Delgados isn't the damage, it's the proximity.
They stayed close enough to heal in each other's company.
Nico's hand finds the back of my neck, thumb tracing familiar circles that make me hyperaware of his body next to mine.
"You okay?" he asks, low enough only I hear.
"Your family loves by yelling at each other and occasionally handling business calls that require immediate attention, and I think it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
The evening deepens, shadows growing longer, and something shifts in the room's energy. Marco rises from his chair by the fireplace, glass in hand. The family quiets, not because he demands it but because they're attuned to him instinctively, like planets recognizing their sun.
He looks at Nico first. A long look between brothers that contains entire conversations. Then his eyes find me.
"In this family, we don't make speeches." He pauses. "Valentina will remind me of this next time I make a speech."
"Already noted," Valentina murmurs, hand resting on her hip where I suspect she keeps a knife.
A ripple of warm laughter, then Marco continues.
"My brother went to Miami to do a job. He came back different." His eyes stay on Nico. "Better. Whatever you did…" Now looking at me. "Thank you."
Simple words, but from the Don they land with weight.
"You faced a man who spent decades destroying your family from the inside,” he contines. “And you survived. You took back what was yours." A beat. "That takes a particular kind of strength. The kind we understand and respect."
He raises his glass. The room follows, every hand lifting crystal in perfect synchronization, a family united in this moment of acceptance.
"To Marisol. Welcome to the family."
The words echo as glasses rise. Alex whoops. Faith smiles. Emma nods. Ana raises her glass with her free hand while supporting Antonia. Even Dante raises his without a word, which from Dante is practically a parade.
Luca catches my eye from across the room. Those unsettling blue eyes hold mine as he tips his glass toward me, not quite the public welcome but something more private. Acknowledgment. You're one of us now. Make sure you know what that means.
I nod back. I know. I raise my own glass in return, accepting what's being offered: not just welcome, but belonging to something that will require blood to maintain.
Nico's hand tightens on my neck, his thumb pausing in its circles, the only tell that his family claiming me has stopped his hands with emotion.
I lean into him, pressing closer until I feel his heartbeat against my shoulder. "I think they like me."
"They're Rosettis. They don't like anyone."
"They like me."
"…They like you."
Later, I find myself in the hallway studying photos on the wall, the family history in frames. My fingers trace along them until I find the one I've been looking for without quite meaning to.
Nico, young. Maybe twelve. Sitting at the piano, hands on keys, his face open and unguarded. No soldier. No discipline. Just a boy making music. Beside him, perched on the bench: a little girl with dark eyes and a gap-toothed smile. Sofia. Watching her brother play with pure adoration.
Two children, before the weapons and grief, before the training taught them that soft things don't survive in this world.
I touch the glass, cool under my fingertips against the warmth of the house.
Arms wrap around me from behind. Nico. His body presses against my back, and even here, even surrounded by family, my stomach muscles clench from his proximity.
He sees what I'm looking at and doesn't speak.
We study the photo together: the children they were, the people they became, the distance between those two points that might not be permanent after all.
Leaving takes forty-five minutes because Rosettis don't believe in efficient goodbyes.
The cold air bites immediately when we step onto the porch, making me press closer to Nico.
Maria packs enough food for a small country, pressing container after container into my hands while crying about how I need to eat more, how Miami doesn't feed people properly, how she's including heating instructions written in three languages just to be safe.
"Maria, this could feed an army," I protest, arms already full.
"Good! You eat! Both of you!" She shoves another container at Nico.
"This one is the osso buco, you heat gentle, GENTLE, not like last time you turned my bracciole into shoe leather.
" She complains that we should be staying in the compound in Nico’s suite, but Nico insists on heading back to the hotel, giving me the space I need to recover from this evening.
Marco has a quiet word with Nico by the door: Don business, brother business, the kind of conversation that happens in looks more than words. I catch fragments: "Miami situation," "territory transitions," "additional resources if needed."
Alex extracts promises that I'll visit again, each plea more dramatic than the last. "You have to come back! Who else will appreciate my stories? Emma just corrects me."
"Because you lie," Emma says, physically steering him away.
"I embellish! There's a difference!"
Faith finds me last, Theodore fussing against her shoulder.
"He's happy," she says, meaning Nico. "I've known him almost a year and I've never seen him like this. Whatever you're doing, don't stop."
"I'm mostly just annoying him until he smiles."
"Exactly. Keep doing that."
Luca appears behind Faith, hand on her back. He looks at me with those pale eyes that belong in a Tim Burton film.
"If you hurt him," Luca says conversationally, like discussing the weather.
"Luca," Faith warns.
"I was just going to say we'd have a conversation."
"No you weren't."
"You're right. I wasn't." That smile: pretty, sharp, absolutely terrifying. "Welcome to the family, Marisol."
He steers Faith and the baby away. I stare after them, then call out:
"For what it's worth, I'd never hurt him. But if I did, I'd absolutely deserve whatever you're imagining right now."
Luca pauses. Looks back. That terrifying smile flickers into something almost like respect.
"Good answer."
"Your brother just threatened me with the most polite murder I've ever received," I tell Nico once they're gone. "And I think I flirted back? Is that what happened? Did I just flirt with death?"
"That's how Luca says he likes you," Nico says, helping me balance Maria's food containers.
"Your family's love languages are deeply concerning."
"Yes."
We walk to the car together, me juggling enough food to survive an apocalypse, Chicago cold biting through my coat. Behind us, the compound glows warm and full of voices that will never quite achieve inside voices.
I spent twenty-six years in a family that communicated in silence: the silence of disappointment, of secrets, of sealed rooms. Tonight I sat in a house where people communicate in beautiful noise, where business calls require immediate attention but dinner continues, where love looks like threats and weapons rest next to baby carriers.
I came to Chicago as Nico's girlfriend from Miami.
But I'm leaving as something else. Not a Rosetti by blood or name, but by the only metric this family respects: the willingness to stay at the table no matter how loud it gets, to accept the food Maria packs with tears, to understand that in this world, love and violence share the same space.
I take Nico's hand in the cold Chicago night, our breath making clouds, the compound glowing behind us like a promise that some families are worth the noise.
"Take me home," I say, meaning Miami, meaning the penthouse, meaning wherever he is. "I need to recover from being terrifying-smiled at by your brother, cry-hugged by your cook, and force-fed enough carbs to fuel a small nation. Your family is EXHAUSTING and I love them and I need a nap."
"Always," he says, helping me into the car with my cargo of love disguised as leftovers. "But first, Miami. We have an empire to run, and a priest to check on."
Always.