Chapter 5 - Nico
Stay out. Her bedroom is off-limits. That was the rule. But her scream cuts through protocol like shrapnel through kevlar, and I'm through her door before my brain catches up with my body.
She's thrashing in silk sheets, clawing at invisible demons. The room hits me with her scent: vanilla, coconut, the ghost of last night's perfume. But I can't process any of it because she's tearing at her own arms, drawing red lines with manicured nails.
"Gabriel! Gabriel, no!"
"Marisol." I say her name sharp, military command. No response. "MARISOL."
Her eyes are open but she's not seeing me. She's somewhere else, trapped in memory, and the words spilling from her lips make something violent coil in my chest.
"Gabriel, what do we DO?"
I grab her wrists, pin them to stop the self-destruction.
She fights me with surprising strength, all wild panic and desperate energy.
Her nightgown, silk, barely there, I hate that I notice, rides up as she struggles.
Her body against mine feels wrong. Too soft where I'm hard angles, too warm where I run cold.
She sobs, still lost in whatever horror holds her. "I did what you said, but she won't, she won't…"
"Marisol. Wake up. Now."
Something in my voice cuts through. She blinks, focuses, sees me. Really sees me. Holding her wrists in her bedroom, in her private space, breaking every rule she set.
For one heartbeat, confusion clouds her honey eyes. Then reality crashes back.
She jerks away like I've burned her, scrambling back against the headboard. Her chest heaves with each breath, and I keep my eyes on her face, not on the way the silk clings to curves I shouldn't be noting.
"Get out." Her voice is hoarse from screaming.
"You were having a nightmare."
"I said GET OUT."
"You were screaming Gabriel. And something about a woman."
Her face drains of color. Prey caught in headlights. Whatever walls she maintains during daylight: gone.
Someone hurt her. Someone made her this afraid. My hands itch for my Glock, for a name, for someone to punish.
"It was nothing. Just a nightmare. People have nightmares." Her hands shake as she pulls the sheet up to her chin. "Please. Just go."
The please stops me. Three days of defiance, of tactical banana jokes and manic energy, and she's never once said please.
I back toward the door, but I don't leave completely. Stand in the doorway watching her try to piece herself back together.
"I'll be in the kitchen. If you need…"
"I won't."
"If you need," I repeat, and leave the door cracked.
My phone buzzes at exactly 6 AM. Marco.
"Status," he says without preamble.
"Stable. Physically."
"That's not what I asked."
I lean against the kitchen counter, one hand resting on the Glock I've set beside me.
Through the windows, Miami's sunrise paints the sky in shades of violence—red bleeding into orange, orange into gold.
"She's a disaster, Marco. Nightmares. Panic.
Self-destruction patterns. You sure her father knows what he's asking for? "
"Jorge reached out personally." Marco's voice carries that particular weight that means this is bigger than I know. "Old alliance. We have significant investment in their operations, not just the club. When he says the people who should be protecting her have been compromised, I listen."
"Compromised how?"
"His inner circle. Someone close, someone trusted. He won't name names, but he wanted someone immune to manipulation, charm, bribery. Someone who would see threats coming before they arrive."
My mind goes to Gunner's text. Something's off with Cesar's people. "Any movement from rivals? The Zayas family?"
"They're circling. Jorge's illness has them smelling blood." Marco pauses. "Why? You seeing something?"
"Nothing concrete. Instinct."
"Your instincts kept you alive through two tours. Trust them."
"Send someone else," I say, even knowing it's futile. "Anyone else. I should be in Chicago."
"You're the one I trust for this."
"With Sofia gone, security needs—"
"Sofia made her choice." His voice goes cold, then softer. "She's with Volkov. That's done."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you've been a ghost for a month, Nico. Every room in the compound reminds you of her. Her chair at dinner. The training mats where you two sparred. I'm not punishing you by sending you to Miami. I'm giving you distance."
The truth of it hits like a tactical assessment I've been avoiding. A month of counting. A month of wondering if I broke my sister by making her too hard, turned her into a weapon that couldn't love, or if she was always strong enough to choose and I just couldn't see it.
Sofia had nightmares too, after our father died. I taught her to bury them, to become steel. Look how that turned out. She buried everything so deep she had to leave to find it again.
"She's not Sofia," Marco says, reading my silence. "Don't make her a replacement."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I know you. You couldn't save Sofia from whatever drove her to Volkov, so you'll try to save someone else. Just make sure you're seeing Marisol Delgado, not a second chance at redemption."
The call ends before I can argue. I stare at the phone, then at the Glock beside it. Marco sees too much, my older brother. Always has.
I holster the weapon as I hear movement from her room. Soft footsteps, a door closing, water running. She's awake. Functional. That's something.
She emerges at noon like a smile wearing armor, every piece of her deflection perfectly in place.
The sundress is soft, floral—nothing like her usual war paint.
It keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing a strap of something lacy underneath, and I have to force my attention to the window, the exits, anything but the golden skin she's displaying.
"Horse Man! Did the pull-up bar file assault charges? Should I get you a lawyer? I know a good one, but he only handles champagne-related incidents."
"We need to talk about last night."
"There's nothing to talk about." She reaches for a mug on a high shelf, the sundress riding up her thighs.
I track the movement without meaning to—the length of her legs, the way the fabric clings.
I look away. Count ceiling tiles. Remind myself of the mission parameters.
"Nightmares happen," she continues. "Very normal. Very boring. Not worth discussing."
"Marisol—"
"Look at the time! I should probably eat something. Or drink something. Or literally anything except have this conversation."
She's performing so hard I can practically see the spotlight. All day she talks, constant motion, constant noise, filling every silence before questions can form. She's not drinking—two days sober now—and without the alcohol her hands shake worse, her energy more manic, more desperate.
I watch her move through the penthouse, cataloging the way her body cuts through space. The sway of her hips. The nervous energy in her gestures. Stop it. This isn't surveillance. This is something else. Something dangerous.
Evening comes like a weight. She doesn't want to go out, claims she's tired, but we both know it's more than that. The penthouse feels too small with both of us in it, her pacing from room to room while I watch from corners, from doorways. Always watching. Telling myself it's professional.
She tries to watch TV—gives up after five minutes. Tries to read—throws the book across the room. Tries to cook, burns water somehow, laughs like it's hilarious when it's really just sad.
"Does it bother you?" she asks suddenly. She's wearing silk shorts now and an oversized shirt that keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her neck, the delicate architecture of her collarbone. "Being stuck here with me?"
"It's my job."
"That's not what I asked."
I don't answer because the truth is classified, even from myself.
The way she moves through space like she's fighting gravity.
The way her scent has invaded everything until I taste vanilla when I breathe.
The way she looks at me sometimes, like I might be more than the soldier assigned to keep her breathing.
Asset. Mission. Nothing else.
Midnight arrives with her pacing getting worse, the manic energy curdling into something darker.
"I can't do this." Her hands rake through her hair. "I can't be here. Can't be still. Can't be sober. Can't close my eyes because every time I do, I'm back there. In that room with Gabriel and…"
She stops. Realizes what she's saying.
"Marisol. What happened with your brother?"
"I need air."
She bolts—not for the front door but up, toward the roof. I follow because that's what I do now. I follow her into nightmares and onto rooftops and through the wreckage of whatever she's surviving. My hand checks the Glock. Instinct. Always instinct.
The pool glows under the moon, perfectly still water she never touches.
She stands at its edge, arms wrapped around herself, and the tactical part of my brain notes the vulnerability—open rooftop, multiple sight lines, impossible to secure.
The other part, the part I'm trying to silence, just sees her. Trembling. Breaking.
The water is perfectly still, moon painting silver across the surface. Miami sprawls below us, all neon and promise, but she only has eyes for the water. The chlorine scent mixes with her vanilla perfume, with the salt air from the bay.
"My mother taught me to swim," she says without looking at me. "In the ocean. Every morning before sunrise, when I was little."
I wait. Let the words come. The cool night air raises goosebumps on her bare arms.
"She said water was where she felt closest to God. That's why she named me Marisol. Sea and sun. She wanted me to be both."
"You don't swim anymore? When did you stop?"
"When she died." Her voice cracks. "Eight years ago. Eight and a half, actually. The water felt like her, and being in it felt like… drowning with her ghost."
"And you haven't been in since?"
"No."