"My office. One hour." Marco's voice is clipped, all business. "Got a job for you."
"I'm already working twelve jobs."
"Delegate. This one's priority."
Something in his tone makes my shoulders tense. Not danger, exactly—I know what Marco sounds like when there's a genuine threat. This is something else. Something he's not saying.
"What kind of job?"
A pause. That's not like Marco. My brother doesn't hesitate; he decides and acts. The fact that he's searching for words tells me I'm not going to like whatever comes next.
"Protection detail," he finally says. "VIP. Long-term."
"I don't do babysitting."
"You do now." There's a thread of dark humor in his voice that I like even less than the hesitation. "One hour, Nico. Don't be late."
He hangs up before I can argue.
I stare at the phone for a long moment. Protection detail. VIP. The kind of job we usually hand to the junior guys, the ones still building their reputations. Not exactly an insult, but not exactly a compliment either.
Unless the VIP is someone important enough to need a senior operator. Someone connected to the family, or to a deal Marco's working. Someone whose safety has political implications beyond just keeping a body breathing.
I file the speculation away and focus on what I can control: arriving prepared. An hour gives me time to check my weapons, review any files Marco sends over, and brace myself for whatever curveball my brother is about to throw.
The Rosetti compound is twenty minutes away. I make it in fifteen, because traffic laws are suggestions and I'm not in the mood to be patient. The guards at the gate nod me through without checking ID. One of the few perks of being the family's head of security: everyone knows my face and everyone knows not to slow me down.
Marco's office is on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard where we used to play as kids. I remember Sofia down there, maybe ten years old, trying to keep up with her older brothers. Stubborn even then. Refusing to cry when she fell, getting up with skinned knees and a scowl that dared any of us to comment.
I push the memory aside and knock.
"Enter."
Marco sits behind his desk, looking almost as tired as I feel. The Don's chair aged him a decade in a single year; losing Sofia aged him another decade in three weeks. But his eyes are sharp as he gestures me toward the chair across from him.
"Close the door."
I do, then sit. Wait.
Marco slides a folder across the desk. Thin. Just a few pages.
I don't recognize the name, but the Miami address tells me enough. This is outside our territory. Way outside.
"Who is she?"
"Connected to people we're doing business with. That's all you need to know for now." Marco's jaw tightens. "She's been receiving threats. Credible ones. Someone wants to use her as leverage, and the people who should be protecting her can't be trusted."
"So they're trusting us."
"They're trustingyou. Specifically." Marco's expression does something complicated. "She's… difficult. Their word, not mine. They want someone who won't be manipulated or charmed. Someone disciplined."
"Why me?"
"Because you're the only one I trust not to make this worse."
I flip open the folder.
The photo on top stops my hand mid-motion.
