The manic energy dims slightly. "Why?"
"Because someone arranged for me to be here. Someone thinks you're in danger. There's a threat you may not be aware of."
For a moment, the party girl mask slips entirely. Underneath is someone tired and scared and achingly young.
"My father," she says quietly. "It's just him worrying. Because he's… sick. And when he's gone, the vultures will circle."
She doesn't realize she's just confirmed what I suspected. Someone's waiting for Jorge Delgado to die. Someone close enough to matter.
"Maybe. But you tell me anyway. If something feels wrong."
She holds my gaze, and I see her making a decision. Choosing to trust, just a little.
"Fine," she says. "I'll tell you."
Her phone rings, shattering the moment. The transformation is instant, sunshine snapping back on like someone flipped a switch.
"Tío Cesar!" Her whole body changes, tension melting into warmth. "No, I'm fine… I know, I left early because… there was a situation…"
She glances at me, and I don't pretend not to listen. Every word matters. Every reaction is data.
"Papa sent someone. A bodyguard. From Chicago. The Rosettis… Yes, I KNOW… He's very large and very angry and he counts how many drinks I have, it's very creepy…" She laughs at something he says. "Oh stop, Tío, I'm FINE. I'll be at the club tonight… I promise… Love you too."
Something in Cesar's tone, a note I've heard before in men who watch women too closely. I file it away with the way he held her too long at the club last night. Patterns forming.
She ends the call, and something has settled in her. Cesar's voice is a touchstone, an anchor. The way she lights up for him, the way her shoulders drop, this is someone she trusts completely.
"He's close to you," I observe. "Your Tío."
"He's the only one who…" She stops. Reconsiders her words. "He stayed. When everyone else left. He stayed."
The words land like stones in my chest. I file it away: the desperate hunger in her for someone who stays. The way she rewards loyalty with blind trust. It's a vulnerability big enough to drive a truck through.
"I need to shower," she announces suddenly. "I have actual work to do today, believe it or not. Try not to tactically rearrange my bathroom while I'm gone."
"No guarantees."
She stops mid-stride. Turns. Stares at me with something like wonder.
"Did you just make a joke?"
"Unlikely."
"You DID. That's two. Write it down. 'Day one of Horse Man living with me, he attempts humor.'"
She disappears into her room, and I pull out my phone. The encrypted message to Marco is brief: Contact made. Asset secured. Embedded in residence. High self-destruction risk, low external awareness. She trusts everyone. Watching for threats.
My big brother's response is immediate: Keep her alive. Update in 48 hours. Watch for movement when Jorge dies.
Forty minutes later, she emerges transformed. The disaster is gone, replaced by someone who could grace magazine covers. Hair styled into sleek waves that catch the light like spun gold. Makeup flawless, the abstract art replaced with precise lines and subtle shadows that make her eyes look even more honey-colored. She's wearing a white sheath dress, the fabric clinging in ways that make my jaw clench. Designer heels add three inches to her height, almost bringing her up to mine. Diamond earrings catch the light like tiny weapons.
"You look different," I say.
"That's called hygiene. You should try it sometime." She grabs a bag large enough to smuggle bodies. "I'm going to La Sirena. There are meetings. Boring business things. You'll hate it."
"I'll manage."
At the door, she pauses. The armor slips, just for a moment.
