Chapter 33 - Marisol
We’ve been in Chicago for two days, and Nico’s spent most of it preparing me with briefings about his family like we’re planning an operation.
‘Marco will assess you.’ ‘Don’t let Alex bait you.
’ ‘Try not to be alone with Luca,’ ‘Maria will cry.’ Now, as we approach the compound, I realize no amount of preparation could ready me for this.
I've faced down a godfather who wanted me dead, jumped off a cliff into dark water, and sat across from police detectives without flinching.
None of it made my heart race quite like this, because those were battles I understood.
This? Meeting the family of the man I love?
This is vulnerability I can't fight with cliff-jumping or empire-running.
The compound looks nothing like the photos I've seen, those tabloid aerials that treat organized crime like architectural porn.
This isn't a house. It's a fortress disguised as old-money elegance.
A three-story limestone mansion with walls that could stop bullets.
Manicured grounds surrounding the long, curving driveway, and guards patrolling.
Even the hedges look sharp, like they've been trained to cut.
"Relax," Nico says from the driver's seat, his hand finding mine across the console.
"I am relaxed."
"Your knee is bouncing so hard it's shaking the car."
"That's a medical condition." My knee keeps its frantic rhythm while I watch his thumb stroke my palm, the slight tension in his jaw that means he's nervous too. "Very serious. Genetic. Don't mock my condition."
That almost-smile flickers across his face, the one I've been collecting like rare coins. It steadies me more than any reassurance could.
The gate closes behind us with a sound that's less 'welcome' and more 'you're in now.' Through the windshield, warm light spills from windows. I can hear it already: voices. Many voices. The Rosetti family at full volume.
"How many of them are in there?"
"All of them."
"All. Great. And they're all… like you?"
"Worse."
"That's not comforting, Horse Man."
"It wasn't meant to be."
He parks, comes around, opens my door. His hand extends, waiting. I take it, and the moment my heels touch Rosetti ground, the front door explodes open.
Maria hits me like a weather system. Apparently she’s the cook, but she acts a lot like a grandmother.
She's tiny, barely five-two, but she erupts from the doorway in an apron and a cloud of garlic and pure maternal emotion.
She cries before she reaches Nico, grabbing his face in both hands, kissing his cheeks, launching into rapid-fire Italian-English that I can't parse but understand perfectly: you were gone too long, you're too thin, you worry me to death.
Then she turns to me.
The assessment takes maybe two seconds. A mother's scan, checking for damage, for substance, for whatever mysterious quality mothers look for.
Whatever she finds must pass, because suddenly I'm being crushed in a hug that smells like rosemary and fresh bread and forty years of feeding people as a love language.
"You," Maria says, pulling back to grip my face. Tears stream down her cheeks. "You are the one who jumped."
"I… yes. That's me."
"Brava. Bravissima." More crying. More face-holding. "You come inside. You eat. You're too skinny, both of you, too skinny, what is this Miami food, nothing, garbage."
She's already steering me through the door with the unstoppable force of someone who's been herding Rosetti children for decades. I glance back at Nico, and there's something new on his face: soft, unguarded, the boy beneath the soldier visible for one perfect second.
He mouths: Told you.
The house wraps around me like a warm embrace after the Chicago cold.
Vast surfaces but tempered by dark wood and rich fabrics, art that's expensive but not cold.
And the smell: layers of cooking that suggest Maria's been preparing for days.
Garlic, basil, something with wine reducing.
This isn't the Delgado estate with its careful placement and invisible strings.
Maria pulls me toward the great room, and my nervous system short-circuits.
They're all here. Every single Rosetti, arranged like a Renaissance painting of beautiful, dangerous people. And they're all looking at me.
Cool. Great. No pressure. Just every hot, lethal person my boyfriend is related to, assessing whether I'm worthy of their most disciplined member. My brain helpfully supplies: MAYBE CURTSY? DO PEOPLE CURTSY? IS THIS A CURTSYING SITUATION?
Marco stands by the fireplace like he was born there, one hand holding whiskey, the other at his side where I know a weapon rests, even here, even home.
Valentina beside him wears designer silk like armor, sharp as the blade I'm sure she's carrying somewhere.
His assessment starts immediately, those dark eyes studying everything from my dress to my posture to the way I grip the wine glass Maria presses into my hand before disappearing back to the kitchen.
Dante fills an entire corner just by existing.
Silent. Enormous. A baby sleeps on his shoulder, Antonia, looking like a doll against his massive frame.
When he shifts to adjust her, I catch the glimpse of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
Even holding his daughter, he's armed. Ana beside him offers a warm smile that doesn't quite ease the intensity of her husband's presence.
Dante nods at Nico. One nod. Their entire conversation complete.
On the couch, Luca holds court with casual menace.
Those pale blue eyes should be illegal, too pretty for someone with his reputation.
Seriously, what is it with this family and weaponized cheekbones?
Is there a Rosetti genetic lab somewhere engineering devastatingly attractive criminals?
I need to ask Nico if they all emerged from the same vat of Italian model DNA.
Faith sits beside Luca with Theodore in a carrier, and the contrast is jarring: the family's psychopath rocks his son with hands that ended three men last month, if Nico's updates are accurate. The tenderness in his touch makes the danger more pronounced, not less.
Alessandro sprawls across an armchair like he owns the concept of sitting.
Green eyes, devastating smile, the kind of man who's never met a room he couldn't seduce.
Emma perches on the armrest: quiet, watchful, another outsider who made it inside.
Her stillness reminds me of Nico's, the kind that comes from learning to observe before acting.
"The cliff-jumper arrives," Alessandro announces.
"Alex." Emma's voice carries gentle warning.
"What? It's a compliment. I've never jumped off anything higher than a pool deck."
"That's because you'd never risk damaging your face," Nico says behind me.
The room shifts. Not quite laughter, something warmer. The sound of a family registering that Nico Rosetti just made a joke. In front of a woman.
Alex clutches his chest dramatically. "He speaks! He jokes! Someone check his temperature."
"Your face isn't that special," Nico continues, and my pulse quickens at this playful version of him.
The chaos starts immediately. Multiple conversations layer over each other: Marco taking a phone call in rapid Italian, Alex launching into a story that requires full-body choreography, Faith asking Ana about sleep schedules. The noise is overwhelming, like being inside an affectionate hurricane.
I clutch my wine glass without drinking, trying to track threats and allies like Nico taught me. Each sibling measures me differently. Marco's is the most direct. He approaches after ending his call, during a moment when Nico steps away to help Maria with something heavy.
"Ms. Delgado."
"Mr. Rosetti."
"Marco."
"Marisol."
The exchange has the weight of treaty negotiations. Two people who understand power measuring each other's version.
"My brother tells me you inherited an empire."
"My father isn’t dead yet," I say evenly.
"But you plan to run it." Not a question, an assessment.
"I plan to run it well."
I resist the urge to add "sir" or possibly salute. My internal menace monster is screaming DON'T MAKE A JOKE DON'T MAKE A JOKE HE WILL HAVE YOU KILLED but my external face stays calm. Growth. This is growth.
Something shifts in his expression, not warmth exactly, but recognition. The Don identifying another operator.
"Miami's complicated now,” he says. “The situation with Cesar, the imminent power vacuum. There will be challenges."
My spine straightens. He's not pulling punches. "I'm aware."
"Are you? Because territory transitions are bloody, and you're at the center."
"I've already survived one war. I can handle another."
Marco studies me with the kind of focus that probably makes grown men confess to crimes they didn't commit.
I hold my wine glass steady, observing him right back, refusing to be the first to look away.
The weight of what I'm due to inherit presses between us: not just money and territory, but the responsibility of keeping it all from burning.
Then, not quite a smile, but close, his eyes soften fractionally. The Don's version of approval.
"Welcome to Chicago, Marisol."
He walks away, and Valentina catches my eye from across the room, giving me the smallest nod. Translation: You passed.
The assessment continues in waves. Alex tests my humor with increasingly inappropriate comments about tabloid coverage, pushing until he finds my edge.
"So the yacht party photos, were those staged or just lucky timing?"
"Are you asking if I plan my mental breakdowns for better lighting?"
"I'm asking if you always look that good when you're falling apart."
"Alex," Emma warns.
"No, it's fine," I say, meeting his green eyes directly. "I absolutely schedule my disasters for golden hour. The mascara runs more photogenically."
Alex grins like I've given him a present. "I knew I'd like you."