Just like he's protecting me now, a silent shadow ensuring that whatever happens in this house of dying and disappointment, I won't face it alone.
11 - Nico
I’ve walked into enemy territory before. Afghanistan. Chicago. Places where death waits behind every corner and trust gets you killed. But this is different. The enemy here wears a warm smile and opens his arms for the woman I’m supposed to protect.
As soon as Marisol walks into her father’s sickroom, Cesar Vega turns to me. Late fifties, silver at the temples, another expensive suit like the one he wore at La Sirena when I spotted him across the room on the night I arrived in Miami. Up close I see he has warm brown eyes that crinkle when he smiles. Everything about him radiates paternal comfort.
But his footsteps are too quiet for a man his size. Practiced stealth that sets my teeth on edge.
My instincts scream wrong. Something is fundamentally wrong here, though I can't name it yet.
I've seen this before. Men who use affection as control, who make their possession look like love. The way he breathed Marisol in, held her a beat too long, watched her until she shut the door of her father’s room behind her.
My hand drifts to where my Glock sits. It would be easy. One bullet, painted wall becomes modern art. Tell everyone he pulled first. But Marisol would never forgive me for killing her Tío without proof. So I smile instead, baring teeth.
Cesar looks me up and down. That warm smile never falters.
"The Rosetti." Not a question. "Jorge mentioned he'd arranged additional security."
"Nico Rosetti."
"Cesar Vega. I've known this family for thirty years. Since before Marisol was born. I'm glad Jorge found someone capable. Our girl needs protecting."
Our girl. My jaw tightens.
"She's in good hands."
"I can see that." His eyes assess me. Quick, thorough, the evaluation of someone who knows exactly what to look for. "You have the look of a soldier."
"Former Marine."
"Ah. Then you understand discipline. Duty. Protecting what matters."
It's not small talk. It's a test. Seeing if I'll reveal something, give him an angle.
"I understand my job."
"Good. Good." His smile doesn't waver, but something shifts in his eyes. Calculation, there and gone.
I position myself beside Jorge’s door. Back to the wall, clear sightlines both directions down the hallway. Standard security position. Nothing remarkable about it.
Except Cesar doesn't leave.
He leans against the opposite wall, studying me with that warm smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Like we're old friends, just having a casual chat while Marisol visits her dying father.
He wants something. Information about Jorge's concerns, maybe, or confirmation of how much protection Marisol really has. Every question is reconnaissance. Every smile is strategy. This man has been playing a long game, and Marisol is the prize.
"You're very protective of her," he says.
"It's my job."
"Just your job?" The question hangs between us. "I've seen the way she looks at you. And the way you watch her. It's… more than professional."
I don't take the bait. "You're observant."
"I've had thirty years of practice observing this family." He crosses his arms, settling in for a conversation I don't want. "I was there when Marisol took her first steps. When she lost her first tooth. When her mother died."
His voice softens on the last part. Practiced grief, performed just right.
