Unhinged Justice (The Rosetti Family Chicago #6)

Chapter 1

The file sits unopened on the tray table, and I’m already counting the days until this assignment ends.

The private plane begins its descent into Miami, and through the window I watch the coastline unfold—glittering water and palm trees, excess baking under a sun that never knows when to quit.

The heat shimmers off the tarmac even from up here, visible waves of it distorting the air like the whole city's drunk on its own fever.

Twenty-four days since Sofia left. Three weeks of that empty chair at Sunday dinner. Twenty-four nights of wondering if I drove her away by making her too hard, or if I failed by not making her hard enough.

My hands ache from this morning's workout. Three hundred and twenty-three pull-ups, skin still raw despite the calluses. The pain is good. Clean. Better than thinking about the assignment ahead.

The plane touches down with barely a bump. Private aviation, another luxury I neither need nor want. But Marco insisted. The Rosetti family travels in style, even when the assignment is glorified babysitting.

In the car from the airport, I finally open Marisol Delgado's file again.

The driver, some local asset Marco arranged, has the AC cranked so high I can see my breath, fighting a war against the September Miami heat that seeps through the windows anyway.

I spread the photos across the leather seat.

Each one a tabloid disaster. Here she is at 4 AM, mascara streaked, being carried out of some club by security.

Here, dress hiked up to her hips, passed out in the back of a limo.

Another shows her on a yacht, champagne bottle in hand, practically naked, surrounded by people whose faces are blurred out.

Professional courtesy for whoever's paying.

Every photo tells the same story: drunk, high, or both. Out of control. A liability wrapped in designer clothing.

I text Marco: "Landed. Making contact tonight."

His response is immediate: "Try not to terrify her in the first five minutes."

I don't dignify that with a reply. Instead, I study her patterns. La Sirena every night, like clockwork. She owns the place, inherited from her mother, according to the file. It's where I'll find her.

The car pulls up to the club just as the sun bleeds out over Biscayne Bay.

I approach it like I'd approach any combat zone.

Note the exits first, count the visible security, identify potential threats.

Two primary access points, three service exits, rooftop access if the situation deteriorates.

Four guards in my immediate sector, probably six more inside.

Valet parking means vehicles blocking potential exfil routes.

The place itself is all restored Art Deco glamour, curved lines and gold accents that catch the dying light. A small brass plaque reads "Members Only," but the Rosetti name opens any door that matters.

Inside La Sirena, the assault on my senses is immediate.

Golden light bounces off every surface. Mirrors, champagne flutes, sequined dresses.

A jazz singer croons from the main stage, her voice competing with laughter and the constant pop of champagne corks.

The air is thick with perfume and possibility, the kind of atmosphere that makes people believe they can be someone else for a night.

I position myself at the bar, back to the wall, sight lines clear to both the main entrance and the spiral staircase that curves up to the mezzanine level. I order water. The bartender looks at me like I've personally offended him.

Then I see her.

Marisol Delgado doesn't walk down the staircase.

She half-falls down it, catching herself on the railing with a laugh that's too loud, too sharp, her bright hair flashing under the lights.

Her gold dress has ridden up her thighs, and she's barefoot, shoes lost somewhere above.

The champagne glass in her hand tilts dangerously, spilling a trail down the stairs that catches the light like scattered diamonds.

She's beautiful. That was in the file.

What wasn't in the file: the way my body goes completely still at the sight of her, some primitive recognition that makes my jaw clench.

The way the entire room reorganizes itself around her disaster.

People gravitate toward her even as they exchange knowing looks.

Staff members move to intercept her path, clearing obstacles she doesn't even see.

For the next two hours, I watch her work the room.

"Work" is generous. She ricochets from group to group in a champagne-fueled hurricane.

Touching everyone, letting everyone touch her, climbing onto a table to dance until security coaxes her down like they're negotiating with someone on a ledge.

Her laughter cuts through the music, too bright, movements too loose.

When she kisses three different people in the span of twenty minutes, messy, affectionate, meaningless, something dark coils in my chest…

tactical concern. Those mouths on hers are security risks.

Her pupils are wrong. She's not just drunk.

She disappears into the bathroom at 10:30. I time it. Twenty minutes before she emerges, somehow messier than before, lipstick completely gone, eyes glassy.

Around midnight, an older man approaches her booth. Silver hair, expensive suit, warm smile. He looks like everyone's favorite uncle. She lights up when she sees him, sloppy and genuine.

"Tío!" She throws her arms around him, nearly dropping her champagne.

He steadies her, murmurs something in her ear that makes her laugh.

Cesar Vega, according to my files. Her father's right hand.

Something about the way he holds her a beat too long makes my hand drift to where my Glock should be.

Old habit. Nothing to do with the way his fingers linger on her waist.

Filed away for later.

By 12:30 AM, she's deteriorating. Nearly fell twice in the last ten minutes. Someone needs to cut her off, but no one will. She owns the place.

She's going to be mine to protect. The thought comes unbidden, unwanted, with a finality that makes my jaw clench. My responsibility.

Time to make contact before she becomes a casualty on my first night.

I move through the crowd. People part without understanding why.

Something in my walk, maybe, or the way my eyes don't leave the target.

She's sprawled across the booth now, squinting at her phone like the screen's written in a foreign language.

The hangers-on have that glazed look of people who get paid to party.

She doesn't notice me until I'm standing over her.

She looks up, blinking slowly, trying to focus on my face. "You're blocking my light, handsome." The words slur together. "Also you look like a narc. Are you a narc? We don't serve narcs."

"Marisol Delgado."

"Thass me." She raises her glass in a sloppy salute, spilling champagne on her dress. "And you are…?"

"Nico Rosetti, ma’am. I'm your new security detail."

The glaze clears, just slightly. Something sharper surfaces beneath the substances.

"Oh, fuck no."

She waves her hand dismissively. "I don' need security. Go away. Tell Marco Rosetti, tell whoever, m'fine. Completely fine." She gestures broadly at herself, at the champagne stains, at her bare feet. "See? Fine."

"I'm not asking for your assessment."

She tries to stand, wobbles badly, and catches herself on the table. "This is MY club. I can have you… have you thrown out."

"You're one stumble from eating marble, princess."

"I'm SITTING." She drops back into the booth hard enough to make the table shake. "I'm sitting down. On purpose. See?"

The people around her have evaporated like smoke. They know trouble when they see it.

"I'm moving into your apartment tonight," I tell her. "It's not up for debate."

"Absolutely not." She's trying to stand again.

This time I catch her elbow before she face-plants.

Her skin is warm under my hand, and something low in my gut tightens.

A reaction I don't want, don't need. She yanks away, stumbles, catches herself.

"Everything is… is up for debate. Do you know who my father is? "

"Your father's declining health is why your protection has been outsourced to people who can actually provide it."

Direct hit. Even through the haze, I see it land. Her face changes. The party mask cracking to show something wounded underneath. Her father. The illness. Her eyes go bright with tears she won't let fall. The tears remind me of Sofia, that last night, refusing to cry even as she said goodbye.

"Get out of my club." Her voice cracks.

"No."

"I'll call security."

"Call them. They answer to your father. Your father has an arrangement with my family."

She sways slightly, those unshed tears making her eyes luminous. The party girl is gone. What's left is furious and wounded and too intoxicated to hide it.

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you've been here since nine PM. I know you've had approximately eleven glasses of champagne, plus whatever you took in the bathroom at ten-thirty.

I know you lost your shoes on the mezzanine level and didn't notice for an hour.

I know you almost fell down the stairs twice and off a table once. "

She stares at me. For a moment, the defiance wavers. She's not performing. She's drowning. And I know what drowning looks like. I've been doing it for twenty-four days.

"I know," I say, quieter, "that you're not going to make it home alone tonight. And I know that's not new."

Silence stretches between us. Around us, the party continues. Laughter and music and the endless clink of glasses. But in our booth, there's just her shaky breathing and my assessment hanging in the air.

Then her chin comes up. Stubborn. Wet-eyed but unbroken.

"Fine." She snatches a fresh champagne from a passing server, drains half in one swallow. "But if you're going to ruin my life, you're going to do it on my terms."

She pushes past me, and I catch a whiff of her perfume.

Vanilla and coconut, with champagne underneath like it's soaked into her skin.

The scent hits me harder than it should, makes me want to lean in, to find out if she tastes the way she smells.

I shake off the thought. Her path toward the exit isn't straight.

She stumbles, catches herself on a marble pillar, keeps going with the determination of someone who's had too much practice staying upright when the world tilts.

"Try to keep up, soldier."

The words are tossed over her shoulder, slurred but still somehow defiant. She recognizes what I am. The posture, maybe, or the way I assess threats. Or maybe it's just a lucky guess from a drunk girl who's seen enough security to know the type.

She weaves through the crowd like a ship in a storm, listing dangerously but somehow staying afloat. I follow three steps behind, close enough to catch her if she goes down, far enough that she can maintain the illusion of independence.

Outside, the Miami night is thick with humidity. She stands on the sidewalk, swaying slightly, looking for something. Her car, maybe, though God knows she shouldn't drive. The valet approaches, and she waves him off, nearly losing her balance in the process.

"I'm walking," she announces to no one.

"No, you're not."

She spins to face me. Too fast. I steady her with a hand on her elbow, and again that unwanted heat flares at the contact. "You don't get to—"

"Car," I say, steering her toward her own car. I've already had a word with her driver. "You can be unconscious in the back or conscious. Your choice."

She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Some choice."

Day one with Marisol Delgado, and I already know this isn't going to be just a disaster.

It's going to be a catastrophe in a gold dress, and I've just signed up to watch it unfold. I've been in combat zones, taken actual fire, and nothing has ever knocked the breath from my chest like this half-conscious disaster stumbling toward my car.

In the car, she's already fumbling with her phone, trying to text someone.

Probably to override her father's orders, get me dismissed before we even reach her penthouse.

The dome light catches the smeared mascara under her eyes, the champagne stain spreading across her dress, the way her fingers shake as she tries to focus on the screen.

I slide in beside her and pluck the phone from her fingers. She makes a noise of protest that shoots straight to my cock. Anger and need tangled together in one desperate sound.

"That's mine," she slurs, reaching for it. Her body tilts toward me with the motion, and I catch another hit of that vanilla-coconut scent, stronger now in the enclosed space.

I pocket her phone. "Everything about you is mine now, princess. The sooner you accept that, the easier this gets."

She stares at me, pupils blown wide from whatever she took, lips parted. The car's interior feels smaller suddenly, the air between us charged with something dangerous. For a moment, neither of us breathes.

"I'm going to make your life hell," she promises. Despite the champagne slur, despite the glassy eyes, there's steel underneath. This broken bird still has talons.

Good. At least it won't be boring.