I can't make myself move. Can't make myself open the door and walk into that house where my mother died whispering my brother's name. Where my father is dying disappointed in what I became.
"Marisol."
"Just… give me a minute."
"Take your time."
"You'll stay? While I'm inside?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
He turns to look at me fully. Those hazel eyes that see too much, that watched me at my worst last night and still made me toast this morning.
"Promise."
The word settles something in me. I take a breath, step out into the Miami heat, into the shadow of my childhood. The foyer will smell like lemon wood polish. My father's office will still have those photos of us from before. When Gabriel smiled, when I swam, when our mother was alive and we were still a family.
Nico follows, always three steps behind, always watching.
The front door opens before we reach it, and Tío Cesar appears. Worry etched into his familiar features, arms already opening.
"Marisol. My beautiful girl. Thank God you're here."
I walk into his embrace, let him hold me, breathe in his cologne. The same expensive scent he's worn my whole life. His arms are warm, familiar, the comfort of childhood. He murmurs soft Spanish into my hair, tells me everything will be alright, that my father is strong, that I'm a good daughter for coming.
Good daughter. I'm not, but I let him say it.
Cesar's eyes flick to Nico over my shoulder, assessing. "The Rosetti soldier. Marco's man." Not a question. Recognition between predators.
"Cesar Vega," Nico responds, voice neutral. But I catch the way his hand rests casual at his side, close to where his weapon sits.
"I've been keeping him comfortable," Cesar says, attention returning to me. "But you know how stubborn Jorge is. Keeps asking for you and your brother."
"Gabriel's coming?"
"Later today, I think. Your father wants his children near."
Gabriel. My perfect brother who fled to the priesthood after that night. Who left me alone with the weight of what we covered up. He'll come in his collar, smelling of incense instead of jasmine and copper, and our father will look at him with pride even while dying.
Behind me, I feel Nico's presence like a physical force. Solid. Watching. Taking in every detail of this interaction with those eyes that miss nothing.
It strikes me suddenly, this disconnect. Cesar's arms around me should feel like safety. He's been Tío since before I could walk, the uncle who snuck me candy, who taught me to dancesalsa in this very foyer when I was seven. His embrace should be home.
But somehow, Nico standing three feet away, silent and still, makes me feel safer than these familiar arms ever have.
I don't understand it. Maybe it's because Nico has seen me at my absolute worst. Drunk, high, grabbing at his cock on a boat, and he still made me toast this morning. Maybe it's because he doesn't lie to me about who I am, even when the truth cuts. Maybe it's because when I couldn't breathe by the pool, he kissed me back to life instead of letting me drown.
Or maybe it's because when he promises to stay, I believe him.
"Come," Cesar says, keeping one arm around my shoulders. "Your father is waiting."
We walk deeper into the house, toward the sound of medical equipment humming, toward the smell of illness and endings. Nico follows, his footsteps silent on marble that used to echo with my mother's laughter.
I think about last night, about whatever I said that Nico won't tell me. About the lie in his eyes when he said I just fell asleep.
Whatever I confessed in that tequila haze, whatever truth slipped out when my defenses were down, he's keeping it. Protecting me from my own words.
