I give her the soldier instead.
"Morning."
"Morning." The word lands flat, professional, exactly like I deserve.
Her chin lifts. That micro-movement I've noted a hundred times: the Marisol Delgado tell forI'm hurt but I'd rather die than show it.
The distance between us: twelve feet. Could cross it in 0.7 seconds. Could have her in my arms before her next heartbeat. Instead, I maintain position. Hold the perimeter I've established around my own cowardice.
We exist in the same room, miles apart.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call. Gunner, which at this hour means trouble.
"The victim has been identified,” he says, his voice as deep as the ocean.
I wait impatiently, but he doesn’t offer any more. “And?”
“Lucia Zayas. Daughter of the Zayas family.”
The Zayas family are the vultures circling the dying corpse of Marisol’s father. The rival family that would destroy anyone or anything to get their hands on the Delgado empire. A family as brutal and close-knit as my own. And now they think Marisol killed one of their own?
“Fuck!”
The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it, and Marisol looks up sharply. I step onto the balcony for privacy, but through the glass I can still see her at the island, shoulders rigid, watching me.
"The Zayas family has made contact. Their daughter is dead," Gunner continues. "Found in Delgado property. They want answers. Not from the police. From the family. From Marisol."
The implication is clear: if satisfactory answers aren't provided, the Zayas will extract their own justice. Miami doesn't settle blood debts in courtrooms.
"We've spotted their muscle near La Sirena, near the estate, near your building."
Cesar has manufactured more than just a legal frame-up; he’s manufactured a war. The Zayas don't know the truth about their daughter. They think Marisol did it. And they're coming.
In Chicago, I'd already be mobilizing for war. But here I'm paralyzed, fighting the wrong battle while real threats circle.
"Copy," I say, already running threat assessments. "I need resources."
The next two hours are logistics. Coordinating with Marco, who authorizes whatever I need: additional security, intel on Zayas movements, legal pressure if necessary. I spend the time on tactical planning: reviewing building security, mapping approach vectors, preparing for every scenario.
It feels good. Clean. This is what I know. Threats and solutions that involve firepower and positioning, not vulnerability and tenderness.
Stepping back from her isn't withdrawal. It's discipline.
She tries three times over the course of the morning to bridge the distance I've built.
First attempt: She brings me coffee. Sets it beside my laptop where I'm reviewing security footage. Her wrist brushes mine, that same wrist I licked three nights ago while she gasped my name, and my body betrays me with want even as I pull away. Our fingers almost touch when I reach for the handle. I move my hand away like the near-contact burns.
"Thank you." The word has never sounded so much like "don't."
Her jaw tightens, but she retreats to her side of the kitchen without comment.
Second attempt: "What's happening with the calls? The Zayas?"
I told her the victim was Lucia Zayas, and she wants to be part of the strategy to fix this mess. She's sharp, tactical, the version of herself that emerged last night when she stopped being the party girl and became something harder.
I give her bare facts. No analysis, no speculation, no collaboration. Just the briefing I'd give any client.
"The Zayas family believes you're responsible for their daughter's death. They're mobilizing resources. I'm coordinating countermeasures."
