My mind goes to Gunner's text. Something's off with Cesar's people. "Any movement from rivals? The Zayas family?"
"They're circling. Jorge's illness has them smelling blood." Marco pauses. "Why? You seeing something?"
"Nothing concrete. Instinct."
"Your instincts kept you alive through two tours. Trust them."
"Send someone else," I say, even knowing it's futile. "Anyone else. I should be in Chicago."
"You're the one I trust for this."
"With Sofia gone, security needs—"
"Sofia made her choice." His voice goes cold, then softer. "She's with Volkov. That's done."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you've been a ghost for a month, Nico. Every room in the compound reminds you of her. Her chairat dinner. The training mats where you two sparred. I'm not punishing you by sending you to Miami. I'm giving you distance."
The truth of it hits like a tactical assessment I've been avoiding. A month of counting. A month of wondering if I broke my sister by making her too hard, turned her into a weapon that couldn't love, or if she was always strong enough to choose and I just couldn't see it.
Sofia had nightmares too, after our father died. I taught her to bury them, to become steel. Look how that turned out. She buried everything so deep she had to leave to find it again.
"She's not Sofia," Marco says, reading my silence. "Don't make her a replacement."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I know you. You couldn't save Sofia from whatever drove her to Volkov, so you'll try to save someone else. Just make sure you're seeing Marisol Delgado, not a second chance at redemption."
The call ends before I can argue. I stare at the phone, then at the Glock beside it. Marco sees too much, my older brother. Always has.
I holster the weapon as I hear movement from her room. Soft footsteps, a door closing, water running. She's awake. Functional. That's something.
She emerges at noon like a smile wearing armor, every piece of her deflection perfectly in place. The sundress is soft, floral—nothing like her usual war paint. It keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing a strap of something lacy underneath, and I have to force my attention to the window, the exits, anything but the golden skin she's displaying.
"Horse Man! Did the pull-up bar file assault charges? Should I get you a lawyer? I know a good one, but he only handles champagne-related incidents."
"We need to talk about last night."
"There's nothing to talk about." She reaches for a mug on a high shelf, the sundress riding up her thighs. I track the movement without meaning to—the length of her legs, the way the fabric clings. I look away. Count ceiling tiles. Remind myself of the mission parameters. "Nightmares happen," she continues. "Very normal. Very boring. Not worth discussing."
"Marisol—"
"Look at the time! I should probably eat something. Or drink something. Or literally anything except have this conversation."
She's performing so hard I can practically see the spotlight. All day she talks, constant motion, constant noise, filling every silence before questions can form. She's not drinking—two days sober now—and without the alcohol her hands shake worse, her energy more manic, more desperate.
I watch her move through the penthouse, cataloging the way her body cuts through space. The sway of her hips. The nervous energy in her gestures. Stop it. This isn't surveillance. This is something else. Something dangerous.
Evening comes like a weight. She doesn't want to go out, claims she's tired, but we both know it's more than that. The penthouse feels too small with both of us in it, her pacing from room to room while I watch from corners, from doorways. Always watching. Telling myself it's professional.
She tries to watch TV—gives up after five minutes. Tries to read—throws the book across the room. Tries to cook, burns water somehow, laughs like it's hilarious when it's really just sad.
"Does it bother you?" she asks suddenly. She's wearing silk shorts now and an oversized shirt that keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her neck, the delicate architecture of her collarbone. "Being stuck here with me?"
"It's my job."
"That's not what I asked."
