Chapter 3 #2
"You made rules. Your bedroom was off-limits. You didn't specify anything about unconscious relocation protocols."
"UNCONSCIOUS RELOCATION PROTOCOLS." She throws her hands up, scattering croissant crumbs like confetti.
"I can't believe this is my life now. I have a Tactical Banana in my kitchen talking about unconscious relocation protocols at…
" She checks the microwave clock. "ELEVEN IN THE MORNING, which is also too early, for the record. "
"Noted."
"Are you laughing at me?"
"No."
"Your face is doing something. It's VERY SUBTLE, but it's doing something."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You're enjoying this. You're enjoying watching me suffer." She points at me with what's left of the croissant. "You're a sadist. A joyless, coffee-making, unconscious-relocating sadist."
"Also noted."
She finishes demolishing the croissant. Looks around for more carbs to assault. I push a plate toward her, breakfast I ordered earlier through the building's concierge service. Had to plan ahead since her fridge contains nothing but champagne and mold.
She eyes the plate like it might contain explosives. "What is this?"
"Food."
"I can SEE it's food. Why is it here? Did you… did you order me breakfast?"
"You need to eat. Eleven glasses of champagne and whatever else, nothing substantial in your system."
"You really did count." She drops onto the barstool across from me, still suspicious, but takes a piece of toast. "This is weird. This whole situation is weird. You know that, right? You're not normal."
"I've been told."
"By who?"
"Everyone."
She snort-laughs, then winces. "Okay. Okay. If we're doing this, if I can't get rid of you, we need rules. REAL rules. Not your tactical banana unconscious relocation loopholes."
"I'm listening."
She straightens, trying for authority despite looking like she lost a fight with a tornado. "Rule one: My bedroom is off-limits. ACTUALLY off-limits. Even if I'm unconscious. Even if I'm on fire. You knock. You WAIT. You do not carry me anywhere without explicit verbal consent."
"What if you're actually on fire?"
"Then you throw water from the DOORWAY."
"That seems inefficient."
"THOSE ARE THE TERMS." She waves the toast for emphasis. "Rule two: You do not comment on what I eat, drink, or otherwise consume."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"My job is to keep you alive. I'll comment on anything that makes that job harder."
"Your JOB…" She takes a visible breath, wrestling her temper into submission. "Fine. You can COMMENT. But you can't STOP me. I'm an adult."
"Debatable."
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that because it's before noon and I haven't had enough coffee to commit murder." She reaches for the pot, pours more punishment into her mug. "Rule three: You apologize when you're an asshole."
"That seems reasonable."
"It is. I'm a reasonable person."
"Also debatable."
"What did I JUST say about being an asshole?"
"That I should apologize. I will, when I am one."
She glares at me. I hold her gaze. Something sparks between us. Not heat, exactly, but friction. Like flint and steel before the fire.
"Rule four," I say, jumping in on this rule-making protocol. "You tell me if something feels wrong. Even if you can't explain it."
The manic energy dims slightly. "Why?"
"Because someone arranged for me to be here. Someone thinks you're in danger. There's a threat you may not be aware of."
For a moment, the party girl mask slips entirely. Underneath is someone tired and scared and achingly young.
"My father," she says quietly. "It's just him worrying. Because he's… sick. And when he's gone, the vultures will circle."
She doesn't realize she's just confirmed what I suspected. Someone's waiting for Jorge Delgado to die. Someone close enough to matter.
"Maybe. But you tell me anyway. If something feels wrong."
She holds my gaze, and I see her making a decision. Choosing to trust, just a little.
"Fine," she says. "I'll tell you."
Her phone rings, shattering the moment. The transformation is instant, sunshine snapping back on like someone flipped a switch.
"Tío Cesar!" Her whole body changes, tension melting into warmth. "No, I'm fine… I know, I left early because… there was a situation…"
She glances at me, and I don't pretend not to listen. Every word matters. Every reaction is data.
"Papa sent someone. A bodyguard. From Chicago. The Rosettis… Yes, I KNOW… He's very large and very angry and he counts how many drinks I have, it's very creepy…" She laughs at something he says. "Oh stop, Tío, I'm FINE. I'll be at the club tonight… I promise… Love you too."
Something in Cesar's tone, a note I've heard before in men who watch women too closely. I file it away with the way he held her too long at the club last night. Patterns forming.
She ends the call, and something has settled in her. Cesar's voice is a touchstone, an anchor. The way she lights up for him, the way her shoulders drop, this is someone she trusts completely.
"He's close to you," I observe. "Your Tío."
"He's the only one who…" She stops. Reconsiders her words. "He stayed. When everyone else left. He stayed."
The words land like stones in my chest. I file it away: the desperate hunger in her for someone who stays. The way she rewards loyalty with blind trust. It's a vulnerability big enough to drive a truck through.
"I need to shower," she announces suddenly. "I have actual work to do today, believe it or not. Try not to tactically rearrange my bathroom while I'm gone."
"No guarantees."
She stops mid-stride. Turns. Stares at me with something like wonder.
"Did you just make a joke?"
"Unlikely."
"You DID. That's two. Write it down. 'Day one of Horse Man living with me, he attempts humor.'"
She disappears into her room, and I pull out my phone. The encrypted message to Marco is brief: Contact made. Asset secured. Embedded in residence. High self-destruction risk, low external awareness. She trusts everyone. Watching for threats.
My big brother's response is immediate: Keep her alive. Update in 48 hours. Watch for movement when Jorge dies.
Forty minutes later, she emerges transformed.
The disaster is gone, replaced by someone who could grace magazine covers.
Hair styled into sleek waves that catch the light like spun gold.
Makeup flawless, the abstract art replaced with precise lines and subtle shadows that make her eyes look even more honey-colored.
She's wearing a white sheath dress, the fabric clinging in ways that make my jaw clench.
Designer heels add three inches to her height, almost bringing her up to mine.
Diamond earrings catch the light like tiny weapons.
"You look different," I say.
"That's called hygiene. You should try it sometime." She grabs a bag large enough to smuggle bodies. "I'm going to La Sirena. There are meetings. Boring business things. You'll hate it."
"I'll manage."
At the door, she pauses. The armor slips, just for a moment.
"You carried me to bed," she says. Not a question.
"Yes."
"Why?"
I consider several responses. Settle on the tactical truth. "You would have woken with compromised mobility. It was practical."
"Right. Practical." She nods. "Unconscious relocation protocols."
"Exactly."
But she's looking at me with those honey eyes, and there's something complicated there. Something that makes my chest tight.
"You're weird, Horse Man," she says finally. "But maybe not… the worst."
"High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head." She yanks the door open with more force than necessary. "Try to keep up."
She strides toward the elevator like she's leading a parade, all confidence and swaying hips and a warrior's determination to pretend everything's fine.
I follow three steps behind, watching her navigate the hallway in heels that could double as weapons.
She doesn't check the corners. Doesn't notice the camera's blind spot near the stairwell.
Civilian habits that could get her killed if threats materialize.
Twenty-five days since Sofia left. Day one of actually living with the party girl who makes up words and establishes rules she'll probably break and calls me Horse Man like it's an endearment.
She's given me nicknames. Multiple nicknames.
That has to mean something, though I'm not sure what.
Probably that she trusts too easily, too quickly.
The elevator arrives, and she sweeps inside, taking up more space than her body requires. It's a talent, this ability to fill a room, to make everything orbit around her even when she's falling apart.
"You're staring," she says without looking at me.
"I'm assessing."
"Same thing." The elevator descends, and she studies her reflection in the mirrored walls. "Do I look like someone who can run a business meeting?"
"You look like someone who could run a small country."
She turns, surprised. "Was that a compliment?"
"An observation."
"From you, I'll take it as a compliment." The doors open to the lobby, and she steps out. "Try not to scare anyone at the club. Some of us actually have to work with these people after you go back to Chicago and your angry pull-ups."
I follow her through the lobby, processing her words. After I go back. She's already planning for my absence, already protecting herself from someone else leaving.
The doorman nods at her. "Have a wonderful day, Ms. Delgado."
"You too, Eduardo. This is my shadow. He'll be around. Try not to let him intimidate you."
"Of course, Ms. Delgado."
Outside, Miami's heat hits hard. She doesn't flinch, just slides on oversized sunglasses and raises her hand for a taxi. Apparently Carlos doesn't work mornings. One appears immediately, another talent of beautiful women in expensive dresses.
"You know," she says as we slide into the back seat, "I've been thinking."
"Dangerous."
"Rude. But probably accurate." She gives the driver the address for La Sirena. "I've been thinking about why Marco Rosetti would send his best soldier to babysit me."
"I never said I was his best."
"You didn't have to. It's obvious. The way you move, the way you watch everything, the way you counted my drinks from across a crowded room." She turns to face me, and even behind the sunglasses, I can feel her studying me. "So why would he waste you on me?"
"You're connected to business interests."
"Bullshit." The word is cheerful, like she's commenting on the weather. "I'm a disaster who owns a nightclub. There's more to this."
She's too smart. Even hungover, even playing the party girl, she sees angles others miss.
"Maybe he's punishing me," I say.
"For what?"
I don't answer. Can't tell her about Sofia, about my failure, about twenty-five days of pull-ups that haven't fixed anything.
"Or," she continues, "maybe he's not punishing you. Maybe he's trying to help you."
"By making me babysit a Tattinger tornado?"
She grins. "You're giving me a cute nickname? I'm touched." The taxi pulls up to La Sirena.
She slides out before I can respond, leaving me to pay the driver and wonder if Marco did exactly what she's suggesting. If he sent me here not as punishment or assignment, but as some kind of test. Or cure.
No, I'm here because he owes something to Jorge Delgado. Period.
I follow her toward the club, watching her transform again as she approaches the entrance. Shoulders back, smile bright, every inch the owner rather than the disaster I carried to bed eight hours ago. She's good at this, the masks, the performance.
But she gave me nicknames. Called me "not the worst." Let me into her space, even if she fought it.
I follow her through the door and see her accept a drink of something pink, and I sigh.