Epilogue - Nico
Three weeks later
Four hundred and twelve.
Four hundred and thirteen.
Four hundred and fourteen.
The pull-up bar bites into my palms, skin already raw from the first three hundred. My shoulders burn. My lats scream. I keep going.
Four hundred and fifteen.
Sofia used to call this my "processing mode.
" When words failed and feelings had nowhere to go, I hung from a bar and pulled until my muscles gave out before my mind did.
She understood, even when the others didn't. Understood that some men fall apart in stillness, and the only way I stay whole is through controlled destruction of my own body.
Four hundred and sixteen.
She's been gone three weeks. Walked out of the compound with her hand in Alexei Volkov's grip, and I let her go.
Watched her leave and said nothing because what was there to say?
She chose. I trained her to make hard choices, to commit fully once a decision was made.
I just never imagined she'd choose to leave us.
Four hundred and seventeen.
My arms give out at four hundred and twenty-three. I drop to the concrete floor of my apartment, chest heaving, sweat pooling beneath me. The burn is good. Clean. Easier than the hollow space where my little sister used to live.
Dawn light creeps through the single window, painting a gray rectangle on the gray floor.
My apartment looks like what it is: a place to sleep between missions.
Mattress on the floor, military corners.
A rack of weights. The pull-up bar I installed myself, bolted into a load-bearing beam.
A small kitchen I rarely use—protein powder, eggs, water.
No art on the walls. No photographs. Nothing soft.
Marco calls it a "monk cell." Luca calls it "depressing as fuck." Sofia used to bring plants whenever she visited, convinced she could make the space livable. They always died within a week. I don't have whatever it takes to keep soft things alive.
I shower in water cold enough to make my teeth ache.
Another form of discipline. Comfort breeds complacency, and complacency gets people killed.
The military taught me that. Eight years as a Marine, four deployed, two in Force Recon before I came home to find my family fractured and my baby sister a ghost of the girl I'd left behind.
So I made her into something that could survive. Taught her to shoot, to fight, to lie with her whole body. Taught her to kill, when it came to that. Built her into a weapon because weapons don't break the way people do.
And then she walked away from us anyway, hand-in-hand with the enemy.
I dress in the dark: black tactical pants, black t-shirt, boots I can run or fight in.
My body moves through the routine without conscious input.
Four years of this same apartment, this same morning sequence, and I could do it blind.
Have done it blind, on days when the headaches from my last deployment made light feel like ice picks.
Breakfast is six eggs, scrambled, no seasoning. A protein shake that tastes like chalk and regret. I eat standing at the counter because sitting down for meals alone feels like admitting something I'm not ready to admit.
My phone buzzes. Marco.
I consider not answering. It's Sunday. Even soldiers get a day of rest, and I've been running point on security for three straight weeks while the family processes what Sofia's departure means for our alliances, our vulnerabilities, our future.
I'm tired in ways that have nothing to do with the four hundred and twenty-three pull-ups.
But I'm also a Rosetti, which means I answer when the Don calls.
"Yeah."
"My office. One hour." Marco's voice is clipped, all business. "Got a job for you."
"I'm already working twelve jobs."
"Delegate. This one's priority."
Something in his tone makes my shoulders tense. Not danger, exactly—I know what Marco sounds like when there's a genuine threat. This is something else. Something he's not saying.
"What kind of job?"
A pause. That's not like Marco. My brother doesn't hesitate; he decides and acts. The fact that he's searching for words tells me I'm not going to like whatever comes next.
"Protection detail," he finally says. "VIP. Long-term."
"I don't do babysitting."
"You do now." There's a thread of dark humor in his voice that I like even less than the hesitation. "One hour, Nico. Don't be late."
He hangs up before I can argue.
I stare at the phone for a long moment. Protection detail. VIP. The kind of job we usually hand to the junior guys, the ones still building their reputations. Not exactly an insult, but not exactly a compliment either.
Unless the VIP is someone important enough to need a senior operator. Someone connected to the family, or to a deal Marco's working. Someone whose safety has political implications beyond just keeping a body breathing.
I file the speculation away and focus on what I can control: arriving prepared. An hour gives me time to check my weapons, review any files Marco sends over, and brace myself for whatever curveball my brother is about to throw.
The Rosetti compound is twenty minutes away.
I make it in fifteen, because traffic laws are suggestions and I'm not in the mood to be patient.
The guards at the gate nod me through without checking ID.
One of the few perks of being the family's head of security: everyone knows my face and everyone knows not to slow me down.
Marco's office is on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard where we used to play as kids.
I remember Sofia down there, maybe ten years old, trying to keep up with her older brothers.
Stubborn even then. Refusing to cry when she fell, getting up with skinned knees and a scowl that dared any of us to comment.
I push the memory aside and knock.
"Enter."
Marco sits behind his desk, looking almost as tired as I feel. The Don's chair aged him a decade in a single year; losing Sofia aged him another decade in three weeks. But his eyes are sharp as he gestures me toward the chair across from him.
"Close the door."
I do, then sit. Wait.
Marco slides a folder across the desk. Thin. Just a few pages.
I don't recognize the name, but the Miami address tells me enough. This is outside our territory. Way outside.
"Who is she?"
"Connected to people we're doing business with. That's all you need to know for now." Marco's jaw tightens. "She's been receiving threats. Credible ones. Someone wants to use her as leverage, and the people who should be protecting her can't be trusted."
"So they're trusting us."
"They're trusting you. Specifically." Marco's expression does something complicated. "She's… difficult. Their word, not mine. They want someone who won't be manipulated or charmed. Someone disciplined."
"Why me?"
"Because you're the only one I trust not to make this worse."
I flip open the folder.
The photo on top stops my hand mid-motion.
She's beautiful. That's the first thing I notice, and I hate that I notice it.
Golden hair cascading over bare shoulders.
A smile that promises trouble. Eyes the color of honey, tilted up at the camera with an expression I can only describe as daring.
She's in some kind of club, based on the lighting, wearing a dress that's more suggestion than fabric, a champagne glass raised in a toast to whoever's photographing her.
I flip to the next page. A tabloid printout. The headline screams something about "HEIRESS PARTIES UNTIL DAWN"—I don't bother reading the rest.
Next page. Another tabloid. Wild yacht weekend. Exclusive photos. More skin than clothing.
Next page. A gossip blog. "WHICH BILLIONAIRE'S DAUGHTER WAS SPOTTED LEAVING A CLUB AT 4 AM WITH TWO DATES?"
I close the folder.
"No."
Marco raises an eyebrow. "That wasn't a request."
"Find someone else. I'm not spending my days chasing some party princess around Miami while she blows through Daddy's money and collects Instagram followers."
"Nico—"
"I'm serious." I push the folder back across the desk. "This is babysitting a spoiled brat. Give it to someone who needs the resume padding. I have actual security concerns to manage. Vulnerabilities in the network, threats to assess, a family that's still bleeding from—"
I stop myself. Don't say her name.
Marco's expression softens slightly. Just for a moment. Then the Don is back, all business.
"This matters, Nico. I wouldn't be sending you otherwise. Keep her alive, keep her out of the tabloids, and don't ask questions about who she is or why she needs protecting. The less you know, the cleaner this stays."
I don't like it. I don't like any of it. But Marco's never steered me wrong.
"Send Tommaso. He's good."
"Tommaso doesn't have your patience."
I almost laugh at that. "You think I have patience for this?" I tap the folder. "For a woman who thinks four AM is a reasonable bedtime and clothing is optional?"
"I think you're the only one who won't end up in her bed or in a tabloid." Marco's voice hardens. "I need someone who can't be seduced, bribed, or charmed. Someone who won't be dazzled by the lifestyle or tempted by the access. That's you, Nico. Like it or not."
"I don't."
"Noted." He pushes the folder back toward me. "Your flight leaves tomorrow at six AM. You'll be based in Miami for the duration. I've arranged an apartment near her residence. Details are in the file."
I don't pick up the folder. "How long?"
"As long as it takes to neutralize the threat."
"That could be months."
"Yes."
Marco leans back in his chair, studying me. "There's one more thing. While you're down there, I need you to check in on a place called La Sirena. It's a cabaret club—upscale, members only. We have an interest in it."
"What kind of interest?"
"The kind where we've invested significantly and I want to make sure our investment is being managed properly." He waves a hand. "You'll have full access. Use it if you need a base of operations, or just keep an eye on things. Report back anything that seems off."
A cabaret club. In Miami. Full of exactly the kind of excess I've spent my adult life avoiding.
"Anything else? Want me to take up salsa dancing while I'm there?"
"Don't tempt me."
I think about my apartment. The pull-up bar.
The gray walls and gray floors and gray mornings that have become my life since Sofia left.
Maybe Marco's right. Maybe I need a change of scenery, even if that scenery comes with a champagne-soaked socialite and a glittering cabaret club I'll have to babysit too.
Or maybe this is his way of getting me out of Chicago. Away from the ghost of our sister, the empty chair at family dinners, the constant reminder of what we lost.
Either way, I don't have a choice. When the Don gives an order, you follow it. Even when the Don is your brother and the order is bullshit.
I pick up the folder.
"If she gets herself killed doing something stupid, that's not on me."
"She won't." Marco's lips twitch—the closest he gets to a smile these days. "I'm told she's smarter than she looks."
"Right." I flip the folder open again, look at that champagne smile, those knowing eyes. "And I'm sure she's secretly a nun who spends her weekends volunteering at soup kitchens."
"Just try not to kill each other." Marco's almost-smile fades. "I need this handled, Nico. And I need you to make it happen."
I close the folder and stand. There's nothing else to say. He's given the order; I'll follow it. That's what I do. That's what I've always done.
At the door, Marco's voice stops me.
"Nico." A pause. "She's not Sofia. Don't expect her to be."
I don't turn around.
"I know exactly what she is," I say, and walk out with the folder tucked under my arm and a headache already building behind my eyes.
Party princess. Tabloid regular. Professional liability.
And a cabaret club full of glitter and sin.
Six AM flight to Miami.
This is going to be a disaster.
Thank you so much for reading Sofia and Alexei’s story!