Sofia is hesitant at first. But Marisol has a gift for making people feel seen without feeling examined.
“I’m going to start designing,” Sofia says, her voice softening. “Just dresses for myself to begin with, then maybe I’ll expand and start selling them.”
“Not tutus?” Marisol glances at me, recognition in her eyes.
Sofia catches the look. Her expression shifts when she realizes I told Marisol about her ballet training. That I remembered. That it mattered enough to tell.
“Ugh. Those things are usually hideous, made by men with no appreciation of the female form, so maybe you’re onto something. But no. I’m starting with evening wear.”
A pause. Then something I rarely see on my sister’s face: pride. Not the sharp Rosetti pride that looks like armor. Softer. The kind that comes from building instead of destroying.
She reaches into her bag, pulls out something small. A drawing of a striking evening gown that jumps off the page.
She hands it to me.
I hold it. The sketch shows a gown with a plunging neckline and fabric that seems to pour down the figure in charcoal waves, each fold rendered with such confidence the dress looks ready to move. My sister created this. My sister who stopped dancing when the family demanded she become something harder is creating again. Because Alexei gave her space to be soft.
“It’s beautiful.” My voice comes out rough. “Do you have any more?”
“I’m creating a portfolio. You can see more when you earn them.”
The smirk again. The little sister who used to make me play the dog under the playground slide.
We walk the path together. Sofia and Marisol ahead, talking about something I can’t quite hear. But their heads incline toward each other, and occasionally one laughs, the sound carrying across the park like something I’ve been missing without knowing it.
Another jogger approaches. My hand drifts toward my weapon until they pass. Always watching. Always ready.
Sofia stops at the playground. Touches the swing chain, metal cool against her palm.
“I want you to meet him properly,” she says to me.
“Alexei?” I ask, my throat thickening around the word.
“Tomorrow. Or whenever you’re ready. He’s not what you’d expect. He’s kind, Nico. He does bonsai.”
The absurdity of a Rosetti with a man who sculpts tiny trees almost makes me laugh. But there’s weight underneath. This is still the Bratva prince whose family has spilled our blood for generations. And yet.
“I’d like that,” I say. Meaning it, despite everything.
Sofia’s eyes go bright. “Really?”
“You chose him. That means something.” I hold her gaze. “You’re my sister. That means more.”
She blinks rapidly. Looks away. The trained reflex none of us can unlearn—the automatic suppression of visible emotion the family put in our bones.
“Marco will never accept him,” she says, and I catch the sadness in her tone.
“Marco doesn’t get to decide who I have dinner with.”
She laughs, wet and surprised. “You really have changed.”
“Blame the cliff-jumper.”
The time comes. Paths diverge. Sofia going north, us back to the hotel.
Sofia turns to Marisol first for a goodbye hug. Two women who met two hours ago holding each other like they’ve known each other for years. Something communicated that I’ll never fully understand. The solidarity of women who’ve survived men who love badly.
“Take care of him,” Sofia whispers, loud enough for me to hear. “He forgets to take care of himself.”
