I stop. He doesn't need my damage laid out like evidence.
"It's your mother's."
I glance back at him, surprised. "How did you…"
"The way you touch everything. Like you're making sure it's still real."
For a moment, neither of us speak. He sees too much, this tactical banana of a man.
"Well," I say, brightening forcefully, “prepare to be bored out of your military mind. I have actual business to handle. You know, numbers and contracts and adult things."
"I'll try to contain my excitement."
Was that… was that almost humor? From the stone statue?
"Did you just make another joke?"
"Unlikely."
But there's something in his eyes. Not quite warmth, but not quite ice either.
Logan's office door is open, and I can see him watching our approach through the glass walls. Immaculate as always in his designer suit, no tie, looking like he should be running Wall Street instead of cleaning up after Miami's messiest heiress. His face always looks freshly printed, as if nothing so ordinary as sweat or sleep could smudge him. Every blond hair in place, suit jacket tailored like a second skin, Logan gives off the sort of precision that makes imperfections sidle out of the room. Except me. I sidle in.
"The prodigal disaster returns," he says as we enter, but there's affection under the sarcasm. "And brings… company."
Logan is perched on the edge of his desk, posture perfect, blue-eyed focus calibrated to our presence like a targeting system.
The territorial energy between Logan and Nico is immediate. Two alphas sizing each other up while I stand between them like a chaos conductor. I can see it in the way Nico's hand drifts toward where his gun would be. He's sorting Logan into categories: ally or obstacle to eliminate.
"Play nice, boys." I drop into a chair, spinning it once because I can't help myself. "There's enough disaster to go around. Logan, meet Nico, my new keeper. Nico, meet Logan, the actual adult who keeps this place running while I perfect the art of public embarrassment."
Logan's eyes narrow. "Rosetti. Your father sent a Rosetti." He turns to me. "Why now? What does Jorge know that he's not telling us?"
The question lands somewhere uncomfortable, but I deflect smoothly. "Maybe he just wants to ensure his disaster daughter doesn't completely implode before he…"
I stop. Can't say it.
Logan's expression softens for a moment, then hardens again as he looks at Nico. "If you hurt her…"
"He won't." The words surprise me as much as them. "He's more of a 'stand there and judge silently' type. Very Protestant work ethic."
I steal Logan's favorite pen from his desk, just to annoy him. He notices. Of course he notices.
"Give it back, Marisol."
"Make me."
"I have three meetings for you this afternoon. You need to handle them if you want to keep the lights on."
Reality check delivered without a smile. I twirl the pen between my fingers, suddenly exhausted. I'm holding it together with mental duct tape and pure spite. Every word feels like glass in my throat, but I keep smiling because that's what sunshine does. It shines even when it's dying inside.
"Fine. But I'm keeping the pen."
The first meeting is with Celeste, our Friday night headliner, who wants double her current rate. I negotiate her down to a twenty percent raise plus two bottle service comps per show, charming her with compliments about her last performance while standing firm on the numbers. My hands shake slightly as I sign the contract. Just leftover chemicals working their way out. Nothing more.
The second is a vendor issue. Dominique Williams, our whiskey distributor, claiming we're behind on payments. Ihandle it with a phone call that's half flirtation with their accounts manager, half subtle threat about taking our substantial business elsewhere. Logan nods approval. Nico watches from the corner, taking in everything.
The third makes my stomach twist.
