"You faced a man who spent decades destroying your family from the inside,” he contines. “And you survived. You took back what was yours." A beat. "That takes a particular kind of strength. The kind we understand and respect."
He raises his glass. The room follows, every hand lifting crystal in perfect synchronization, a family united in this moment of acceptance.
"To Marisol. Welcome to the family."
The words echo as glasses rise. Alex whoops. Faith smiles. Emma nods. Ana raises her glass with her free hand while supporting Antonia. Even Dante raises his without a word, which from Dante is practically a parade.
Luca catches my eye from across the room. Those unsettling blue eyes hold mine as he tips his glass toward me, not quite the public welcome but something more private. Acknowledgment. You're one of us now. Make sure you know what that means.
I nod back. I know. I raise my own glass in return, accepting what's being offered: not just welcome, but belonging to something that will require blood to maintain.
Nico's hand tightens on my neck, his thumb pausing in its circles, the only tell that his family claiming me has stopped his hands with emotion.
I lean into him, pressing closer until I feel his heartbeat against my shoulder. "I think they like me."
"They're Rosettis. They don't like anyone."
"They like me."
"…They like you."
Later, I find myself in the hallway studying photos on the wall, the family history in frames. My fingers trace along them until I find the one I've been looking for without quite meaning to.
Nico, young. Maybe twelve. Sitting at the piano, hands on keys, his face open and unguarded. No soldier. No discipline.Just a boy making music. Beside him, perched on the bench: a little girl with dark eyes and a gap-toothed smile. Sofia. Watching her brother play with pure adoration.
Two children, before the weapons and grief, before the training taught them that soft things don't survive in this world.
I touch the glass, cool under my fingertips against the warmth of the house.
Arms wrap around me from behind. Nico. His body presses against my back, and even here, even surrounded by family, my stomach muscles clench from his proximity. He sees what I'm looking at and doesn't speak. We study the photo together: the children they were, the people they became, the distance between those two points that might not be permanent after all.
Leaving takes forty-five minutes because Rosettis don't believe in efficient goodbyes. The cold air bites immediately when we step onto the porch, making me press closer to Nico. Maria packs enough food for a small country, pressing container after container into my hands while crying about how I need to eat more, how Miami doesn't feed people properly, how she's including heating instructions written in three languages just to be safe.
"Maria, this could feed an army," I protest, arms already full.
"Good! You eat! Both of you!" She shoves another container at Nico. "This one is the osso buco, you heat gentle, GENTLE, not like last time you turned my bracciole into shoe leather." She complains that we should be staying in the compound in Nico’s suite, but Nico insists on heading back to the hotel, giving me the space I need to recover from this evening.
Marco has a quiet word with Nico by the door: Don business, brother business, the kind of conversation that happens in looks more than words. I catch fragments: "Miami situation," "territory transitions," "additional resources if needed."
Alex extracts promises that I'll visit again, each plea more dramatic than the last. "You have to come back! Who else will appreciate my stories? Emma just corrects me."
"Because you lie," Emma says, physically steering him away.
"I embellish! There's a difference!"
Faith finds me last, Theodore fussing against her shoulder.
"He's happy," she says, meaning Nico. "I've known him almost a year and I've never seen him like this. Whatever you're doing, don't stop."
"I'm mostly just annoying him until he smiles."
"Exactly. Keep doing that."
Luca appears behind Faith, hand on her back. He looks at me with those pale eyes that belong in a Tim Burton film.
"If you hurt him," Luca says conversationally, like discussing the weather.
"Luca," Faith warns.
