"You're connected to business interests."
"Bullshit." The word is cheerful, like she's commenting on the weather. "I'm a disaster who owns a nightclub. There's more to this."
She's too smart. Even hungover, even playing the party girl, she sees angles others miss.
"Maybe he's punishing me," I say.
"For what?"
I don't answer. Can't tell her about Sofia, about my failure, about twenty-five days of pull-ups that haven't fixed anything.
"Or," she continues, "maybe he's not punishing you. Maybe he's trying to help you."
"By making me babysit a Tattinger tornado?"
She grins. "You're giving me a cute nickname? I'm touched." The taxi pulls up to La Sirena.
She slides out before I can respond, leaving me to pay the driver and wonder if Marco did exactly what she's suggesting. If he sent me here not as punishment or assignment, but as some kind of test. Or cure.
No, I'm here because he owes something to Jorge Delgado. Period.
I follow her toward the club, watching her transform again as she approaches the entrance. Shoulders back, smile bright, every inch the owner rather than the disaster I carried to bed eight hours ago. She's good at this, the masks, the performance.
But she gave me nicknames. Called me "not the worst." Let me into her space, even if she fought it.
I follow her through the door and see her accept a drink of something pink, and I sigh.
4 - Marisol
Ilasted shit-all time before breaking my own rules. No commenting on what I consume? I’m about to walk into my club hungover. No carrying me without consent? I’m secretly hoping he’ll catch me when I inevitably stumble in these heels.
La Sirena looks different in daylight, stripped bare of its golden glamour, all exposed bones and potential. I love her like this too, maybe more. Without the champagne haze and stage lights, she's just a beautiful old building that remembers my mother's laughter. Last night I made rules. Today I feel like I'm breaking them all just by letting him follow me here, into my mother's sanctuary.
I push through the staff entrance with Nico trailing behind like the world's angriest shadow. The kitchen smells like lime and sofrito, grounding me in something real. The familiar chaos is already humming with prep work, and I launch into my usual routine: genuine warmth wrapped in terrible jokes.
"Miguel!" I throw my arms around the head chef, who tolerates my affection with long-suffering patience. "You beautiful man. Tell me you made those little crab things I love."
"Not until tonight, Ms.Delgado." His eyes flick to Nico. "Ay, mija, you're going to drive this poor man loco with your jokes."
"This is my emotional support gargoyle." I gesture grandly at Nico's stone face. "He's here to make sure I don't have any fun. Ever."
Miguel's mouth twitches. Nico doesn't react. I consider this a personal challenge. Behind those very broad shoulders and very short hair there must be glimmer of personality, I just have to find it.
Through the kitchen into the back hallways, greeting everyone by name. Carmen the bartender gets a high-five. Roberto the janitor gets questions about his grandson's soccer game. Each introduction of Nico gets more ridiculous.
"This is the government agent assigned to monitor my champagne intake."
"My court-appointed joy thief."
"Proof that the universe has a terrible sense of humor."
The staff are amused. Nico remains unmoved. I'm definitely winning.
My hand trails along the wall as we walk, fingers finding familiar grooves and imperfections. This place grounds me in ways I can't explain. My mother helped build La Sirena from nothing. Her voice on that stage, her vision in every golden detail. When I touch these walls, I almost remember what it felt like to be whole.
"You know everyone," Nico observes as we climb the stairs to the mezzanine level.
"They're mine to know." The words come out more serious than intended. "This place… it's not just a club. It's…"
