"Marco."
"Marisol."
The exchange has the weight of treaty negotiations. Two people who understand power measuring each other's version.
"My brother tells me you inherited an empire."
"My father isn’t dead yet," I say evenly.
"But you plan to run it." Not a question, an assessment.
"I plan to run it well."
I resist the urge to add "sir" or possibly salute. My internal menace monster is screaming DON'T MAKE A JOKE DON'T MAKE A JOKE HE WILL HAVE YOU KILLED but my external face stays calm. Growth. This is growth.
Something shifts in his expression, not warmth exactly, but recognition. The Don identifying another operator.
"Miami's complicated now,” he says. “The situation with Cesar, the imminent power vacuum. There will be challenges."
My spine straightens. He's not pulling punches. "I'm aware."
"Are you? Because territory transitions are bloody, and you're at the center."
"I've already survived one war. I can handle another."
Marco studies me with the kind of focus that probably makes grown men confess to crimes they didn't commit. I hold my wine glass steady, observing him right back, refusing to be the first to look away. The weight of what I'm due to inherit presses between us: not just money and territory, but the responsibility of keeping it all from burning.
Then, not quite a smile, but close, his eyes soften fractionally. The Don's version of approval.
"Welcome to Chicago, Marisol."
He walks away, and Valentina catches my eye from across the room, giving me the smallest nod. Translation: You passed.
The assessment continues in waves. Alex tests my humor with increasingly inappropriate comments about tabloid coverage, pushing until he finds my edge.
"So the yacht party photos, were those staged or just lucky timing?"
"Are you asking if I plan my mental breakdowns for better lighting?"
"I'm asking if you always look that good when you're falling apart."
"Alex," Emma warns.
"No, it's fine," I say, meeting his green eyes directly. "I absolutely schedule my disasters for golden hour. The mascara runs more photogenically."
Alex grins like I've given him a present. "I knew I'd like you."
"Most people do. It's the ones who don't that keep things interesting." I take a sip of wine. "Also, for the record, the yacht photos were taken at the worst possible angle. My ass looks way better in person."
Emma chokes on her drink. Alex looks like Christmas came early.
Even Dante, silent and massive, watches me navigate his family's chaos with something that might be interest. When Antonia starts fussing, he shifts her smoothly, and I notice how his free hand never strays far from his weapon, even here, even safe.
Dinner becomes a full contact sport. Maria produces enough food to feed a small army: platters of osso buco, mountains of risotto, bread that steams when broken. The table groans under the weight. Alex steals bread before it reaches the table. Dante silently rearranges place settings so Ana stays beside him. Luca cuts Faith's meat without being asked, without looking, the gesture so automatic it must predate the baby.
I end up between Nico and Emma, strategic placement, I realize. My anchor on one side, another outsider on the other. Emma leans close during a brief lull while Alex and Marco argue about something in rapid Italian.
"It's overwhelming at first."
