The Twelve-Hour Rule (Mafia Obsession #3)

Chapter 1

SOL

It’s hard to feel like a whole new woman when you’re sweating through your aesthetic bikini and everyone around you is happy, drunk, and/or in love.

Somewhere between the fourth round of poolside mojitos and the third retelling of Josefina’s engagement story, I start to disassociate and think about the Dominican sun.

How it hits full force before eight in the morning, sharp and golden, warming up tile and skin and pool loungers.

There’s no breeze, only the faint sound of Christmas music playing through hidden speakers and the noise of the resort guests all around us, each in their own little blissed out bubble celebrating the holiday.

My legs are sweating against the lounger, but I don’t move. Moving would require caring, and I’m not sure I’ve got that in me today.

“Sol, ?querés algo?” Mariana calls from the swim-up bar. She’s already waist-deep in the water, her long hair braided down her back, and holding up two fingers to the bartender to grab his attention.

I shake my head and lift my water bottle.

She squints at me, unimpressed. “You’re on vacation. You could try looking like it.”

“I’m drinking,” I say, lifting the bottle like toast. “Hydration is trending right now.”

She waves me off and turns back to her order. Another round of mojitos, probably. It’s barely noon, and no one seems to have any food in their systems, but the drinks are included in our resort fee so might as well take advantage of that.

Behind me, my friends Isabel and Florencia are arguing over whether the hotel gym has yoga mats, and Juana is filming herself doing a walk-through of the pool area for her social media.

She keeps stopping mid-sentence to adjust the brightness or the angle or her hair, then starts over like she’s hosting a travel show.

It’s entertaining and she has many, many eyes on her, making her bask in the attention, especially of the male variety.

I reach for my sunglasses and slide them back on.

Everything here is too loud—the colors, the music, the voices. And if you let yourself get swept away, there’s no space for you to think about anything but the food, the drinks, the pool, and the beach. Everyone around me knows their role: carefree, slightly sunburned, smiling with teeth.

And then there’s me.

It’s not that I’m not grateful. I am. This trip was a gift—literally.

The girls all chipped in a little to cover part of my hotel stay after my divorce was finalized, calling it a “post-marriage cleanse.” A girls’ trip-slash-bachelorette combo, celebrating the end of my marriage and Mariana and Josefina’s impending nuptials.

My only job was to show up and try to have fun.

I did the showing up part.

The fun part… well.

There’s a particular kind of loneliness that hits when you’re the only one at the bachelorette who isn’t married, engaged, or emotionally fluent in dating app lingo.

I lean back against the lounger and close my eyes, letting the chatter around me melt into background noise.

My body’s here, but my mind still hasn’t caught up.

It’s been three months since the divorce and almost a year since we separated, but somehow my brain keeps glitching, like it can’t quite update my status.

I’ll catch myself reaching for a ring that isn’t there, or thinking I need to check in with someone who doesn’t exist in my life anymore.

Seven years of marriage don’t simply vanish just because you sign a stack of papers at a sterile office and pay an attorney too much money.

I feel the edge of that familiar tightness in my chest—the one that curls in when I’m tired or alone or asked too many questions. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. I’ve gotten good at managing it and smoothing it over until it passes. But I haven’t figured out a way to fix it just yet.

A loud splash startles me. Josefina cannonballs into the deep end and is now shrieking at Lola to join her. I hear someone say, “I can’t get my hair wet, are you insane?” and the chaos crescendos again.

I open my eyes and sit up.

“Going to the beach,” I call out, even though no one’s really listening. Mariana waves without looking, and that’s good enough for me.

By five o’clock, the light shifts and the sun finally starts to set.

The breeze is now blowing a little faster and a little cooler, making the palm fronds move overhead as I head back to the room.

The girls texted earlier that they were heading back to take a nap and get ready, but I lounged by the ocean for a while longer, just enjoying the uninterrupted quiet before the chaos of the last night together starts slowly building up.

The room smells suspiciously like a mix of coconut and stale beer.

There’s one curling iron plugged in on the dresser, and I hear the sound of a hairdryer coming from the closed bathroom. Josefina is sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, painting her nails a blinding neon orange.

“We’re switching to tequila tonight,” Mariana says from the other room.

The connecting doors have been propped open since the first day, and we’ve been using both rooms like a giant apartment.

It’s probably bigger than my apartment back in New York City, the one I found after I separated and had to start living a very different life than what I was used to.

“No more of that water shit, Sol. You need to let loose a little.”

“I’m loose.”

Mariana and Isabel both laugh at the same time, and Juana pops her head from the other room with a grin on her face, like what I just said is the most hilarious thing on planet Earth.

“Okay, if this is loose, then I don’t want to see you stressed. Can’t even imagine what that would look like.”

“I don’t recommend it,” I say, dropping the damp pool towel on the back of a chair. I think that living in New York City has added an extra layer of anxiety to my life. One that I didn’t have when I lived in Argentina, and one that I don’t see my friends—who still live there—having.

There’s music playing from someone’s phone, and glittery dresses are already laid out across one of the beds. Mariana is trying to decide between wedges and sky-high stiletto heels while sipping something suspiciously lime-colored out of a paper cup that says team bride in pink foil letters.

“We’re not actually going to the white party, are we?” I ask, mostly to the room.

“Yes, we are,” Isabel answers immediately, rifling through her makeup bag. “I packed three different white dresses for tonight.”

Mariana turns to me, already halfway through her second drink.

“It’s the biggest party of the week. Everyone dresses in white, there’s a DJ, fireworks, probably tons of rum drinks.

” Her smile is wry and sneaky, and I know it’s another excuse to keep drinking and to really finish off this trip on a high note.

“We paid for the all-inclusive experience and I will be experiencing it. Cringe-worthy parties included.”

Josefina waves her hand in the air to make her polish dry faster. “We’ve done every event this week. You can’t skip the last one.”

“I can definitely skip the last one.”

“You won’t,” Mariana says, walking past me in a robe and eye patches, sipping from her cup like the smug best friend she is. “You say that every time, and then you show up looking better than all of us and act surprised when people flirt with you.”

“People flirt with me?”

Mariana rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically.

“Only the entire staff and all of the gringos at the bar last night,” Juana says.

I roll my eyes in return, but it’s easier to let the banter wash over me than to argue.

This is our rhythm, even before I moved to the United States years ago for grad school.

Loud, affectionate chaos that hasn’t changed a bit through the distance or time.

We met in college, back when sleepless nights meant project deadlines and not insomnia.

Half of us studied architecture, the rest interior design, and somehow we all bonded over caffeine, bad lighting, and shared trauma from our first failed projects.

Years later, we’ve scattered—a different city for me, all of us in different jobs, but every time we’re together, it’s like we never left the craft room. Same laughter. Same teasing. The kind of friendship that never outgrew its volume.

Florencia tosses a piece of popcorn in my direction and misses entirely. “Seriously, though, Sol. Are you seeing anyone?”

There it is.

I knew it was coming—it always does. Usually wrapped in a casual, nonchalant tone, like they’re just curious and asking, looking out for me.

“Wow, you made it all the way to the last night before asking. That’s severe restraint.”

Juana cackles from her spot and then turns to rifle through her bag as she chuckles. I’ve answered this question a dozen ways in the last few months: not really, not yet, I’m focusing on work, I’m not ready. All of them are true. None of them satisfy anyone.

“Nope,” I say, reaching for a bottle of water from the nightstand. I need to swallow this knot down before my ability to breathe becomes fatally impaired. “Still delightfully single.”

“You should try the apps,” Juana says, plopping down next to me on the bed. “They’re so much better now than when we were twenty-five.”

“That’s a low bar,” I say. “They could be slightly less terrible and still be soul-crushing.”

Isabel leans against the doorframe, her brows raised. “But like… do you want to date again? Or are you just not in the mood yet?”

I take a sip of water before answering. “I think I just need a minute to catch my breath. I was with Matías for a long time. It’s…”

Everyone’s quiet for a second, then Florencia claps her hands. “Excellent. No apps, but a party tonight. Wear the red dress.”

“It’s a white party.”

“I don’t give a shit,” she says, completely unfazed. “Try and stop me.”

I laugh, because at this point, what else is there to do?

Lola emerges from the bathroom in a towel, cheeks flushed and hair half-done. “What are we laughing about?”

“Sol’s getting laid tonight,” Juana says.

“I said no such thing,” I reply.

“But you didn’t not say it,” Mariana adds.

I look at all of them. Ridiculous. Glitter-covered.

Loud and warm and the exact picture of growing up.

Except that we are at an all-inclusive resort in the Dominican Republic and we all have big girl jobs, and not at someone’s childhood bedroom getting ready to go to a sketchy party just because someone’s crush was maybe attending too.

They mean well. They really, truly do.

It’s just that my life doesn’t look like theirs anymore. That used to scare me. Now it mostly just feels like fact. Like mortgages and end of year reviews, or the way group chats slowly die when half the people in them start having kids.

It doesn’t mean I don’t love them. I do.

It just means I’m tired in a way they’re not. And living a reality none of them can truly understand.

I stand and stretch. “If I wear the red dress, will someone please do my eyeliner for me?”

There’s a few gasps from the crowd and Isabel runs to her makeup bag like it’s go time. Juana leans against my shoulder and whispers, “Told you you were fun.”