"It wasn't meant to be."
He parks, comes around, opens my door. His hand extends, waiting. I take it, and the moment my heels touch Rosetti ground, the front door explodes open.
Maria hits me like a weather system. Apparently she’s the cook, but she acts a lot like a grandmother. She's tiny, barely five-two, but she erupts from the doorway in an apron and a cloud of garlic and pure maternal emotion. She cries before she reaches Nico, grabbing his face in both hands, kissing his cheeks, launching into rapid-fire Italian-English that I can't parse but understand perfectly: you were gone too long, you're too thin, you worry me to death.
Then she turns to me.
The assessment takes maybe two seconds. A mother's scan, checking for damage, for substance, for whatever mysterious quality mothers look for. Whatever she finds must pass, because suddenly I'm being crushed in a hug that smells like rosemary and fresh bread and forty years of feeding people as a love language.
"You," Maria says, pulling back to grip my face. Tears stream down her cheeks. "You are the one who jumped."
"I… yes. That's me."
"Brava. Bravissima." More crying. More face-holding. "You come inside. You eat. You're too skinny, both of you, too skinny, what is this Miami food, nothing, garbage."
She's already steering me through the door with the unstoppable force of someone who's been herding Rosetti children for decades. I glance back at Nico, and there's something new on his face: soft, unguarded, the boy beneath the soldier visible for one perfect second.
He mouths: Told you.
The house wraps around me like a warm embrace after the Chicago cold. Vast surfaces but tempered by dark wood and rich fabrics, art that's expensive but not cold. And the smell: layers of cooking that suggest Maria's been preparing for days. Garlic, basil, something with wine reducing. This isn't the Delgado estate with its careful placement and invisible strings.
Maria pulls me toward the great room, and my nervous system short-circuits.
They're all here. Every single Rosetti, arranged like a Renaissance painting of beautiful, dangerous people. And they're all looking at me.
Cool. Great. No pressure. Just every hot, lethal person my boyfriend is related to, assessing whether I'm worthy of their most disciplined member. My brain helpfully supplies: MAYBE CURTSY? DO PEOPLE CURTSY? IS THIS A CURTSYING SITUATION?
Marco stands by the fireplace like he was born there, one hand holding whiskey, the other at his side where I know a weapon rests, even here, even home. Valentina beside him wears designer silk like armor, sharp as the blade I'm sure she's carrying somewhere. His assessment starts immediately, thosedark eyes studying everything from my dress to my posture to the way I grip the wine glass Maria presses into my hand before disappearing back to the kitchen.
Dante fills an entire corner just by existing. Silent. Enormous. A baby sleeps on his shoulder, Antonia, looking like a doll against his massive frame. When he shifts to adjust her, I catch the glimpse of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Even holding his daughter, he's armed. Ana beside him offers a warm smile that doesn't quite ease the intensity of her husband's presence. Dante nods at Nico. One nod. Their entire conversation complete.
On the couch, Luca holds court with casual menace. Those pale blue eyes should be illegal, too pretty for someone with his reputation. Seriously, what is it with this family and weaponized cheekbones? Is there a Rosetti genetic lab somewhere engineering devastatingly attractive criminals? I need to ask Nico if they all emerged from the same vat of Italian model DNA.
Faith sits beside Luca with Theodore in a carrier, and the contrast is jarring: the family's psychopath rocks his son with hands that ended three men last month, if Nico's updates are accurate. The tenderness in his touch makes the danger more pronounced, not less.
Alessandro sprawls across an armchair like he owns the concept of sitting. Green eyes, devastating smile, the kind of man who's never met a room he couldn't seduce. Emma perches on the armrest: quiet, watchful, another outsider who made it inside. Her stillness reminds me of Nico's, the kind that comes from learning to observe before acting.
"The cliff-jumper arrives," Alessandro announces.
"Alex." Emma's voice carries gentle warning.
"What? It's a compliment. I've never jumped off anything higher than a pool deck."
"That's because you'd never risk damaging your face," Nico says behind me.
The room shifts. Not quite laughter, something warmer. The sound of a family registering that Nico Rosetti just made a joke. In front of a woman.
Alex clutches his chest dramatically. "He speaks! He jokes! Someone check his temperature."
"Your face isn't that special," Nico continues, and my pulse quickens at this playful version of him.
The chaos starts immediately. Multiple conversations layer over each other: Marco taking a phone call in rapid Italian, Alex launching into a story that requires full-body choreography, Faith asking Ana about sleep schedules. The noise is overwhelming, like being inside an affectionate hurricane.
I clutch my wine glass without drinking, trying to track threats and allies like Nico taught me. Each sibling measures me differently. Marco's is the most direct. He approaches after ending his call, during a moment when Nico steps away to help Maria with something heavy.
"Ms. Delgado."
"Mr. Rosetti."
