"Marisol…"
"You don't have to say it back." She shivers, pulls my jacket tighter. I notice the bruises on her hips from our last time together, visible through the torn dress. My marks still on her skin even after I pushed her away. "I know the words are hard. But I jumped off a cliff tonight, so I figure I can say three words without dying."
Something cracks in my chest. The last of my walls falling away. "When I say them, I want them to be about living, not almost losing you."
She nods, then manages the ghost of a smile. "That's acceptable, Horse Man."
Horse Man. The nickname breaks something open in me. Not destruction but possibility. The crazy lady who makes up words survived the ocean. She's stronger than my fears ever let me see.
"I promise I'll never leave you again," I repeat, needing her to believe it. "Never."
"We'll see," she says, but she burrows closer into my warmth. Not completely forgiven, but allowing comfort. I'll take it.
I carry her up the beach and around the back of the headland to the road. She weighs nothing, or maybe adrenaline makes everything weightless. My Glock presses against my hip with each step, reminding me of what comes next.
We follow the winding road back to Cesar’s property, where everything has changed. Gunner's team has arrived. I spot four cars, men in tactical formation. Eastern approach covered, two shooters on overwatch. The terrace is clear, Cesar’s panicked muscle is zip-tied and kneeling. Gunner himself stands near the house, a hulking shadow who towers over the man next to him, and even in the dark I can read his satisfaction.
"Cesar?" I ask.
Gunner turns his scarred face to mine, looking for all the world like a nightmare come true.
"Contained," he says, his voice like rocks grinding. "Inside. Waiting for you."
Not dead. Not yet. Tomorrow, Cesar learns why Rosettis are feared. Why our name makes grown men check their rearview mirrors. Tomorrow, I'll take him apart piece by piece, and make sure he's conscious for every second. The man who touched what's mine, who made her jump, who thought he could orchestrate her death like she was collateral in his thirty-year plan. Tomorrow he discovers what real patience looks like. What real violence tastes like.
But tonight is about getting her home.
I put Marisol in my car, crank the heat to maximum, wrap her in the emergency blanket from my trunk. She's barely conscious now, adrenaline crash hitting hard. As I drive, she mumbles against my shoulder.
"My mother was right."
"About what?"
"The water. God was there. In the water. Waiting." Her breathing evens out into sleep.
I drive through the Miami night, salt water drying on my clothes, her warmth against my side.
The city lights blur past, but all I can think about is her voice saying those three words. How she jumped off a cliff but still found courage for that harder leap. How she swam through dark water guided by her mother's voice, saving herself when I wasn't there to save her.
Tomorrow, the violence. Tonight, just this: Marisol Delgado sleeping against my shoulder, smelling like ocean and survival, teaching me with every breath that loving someone isn't about protecting them from becoming strong.
It's about being worthy of the strength they already have.
29 - Marisol
Ialways imagined justice would feel like fire. Righteous, consuming, dramatic. Instead it feels like Monday morning. Clear sky. Black coffee. The man I love cleaning a gun at my kitchen island.
I woke sore. Every muscle screaming from the swim, the rocks, the cliff. And from Nico. He held me last night like I might disappear, his hands relearning every inch of me with desperate precision. My body carries his marks alongside the ocean's. Bruises from his fingers mixed with scrapes from the rocks. Both kinds of pain feel like survival.
I woke alive. That's the part that matters.
The scrapes on my arms sting when I move. Nico cleaned them at three in the morning, neither of us able to sleep. Neither of us willing to be in separate rooms after everything. He was gentle but thorough, the same precision he's now applying to his gun.
Twenty-four hours ago I was drowning. Now I'm watching my would-be killer's execution being prepared. The whiplash should bother me more than it does.
Nico was already up when I emerged from the bedroom. Of course. But different from the last two mornings. He was in the kitchen, and when he looked at me, it was the way he used to. The way that makes me feel like the only visible thing in any room.
Not the soldier. The man.
