1 - Nico
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, beingcarried 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.
