"Of course. A father's love." His smile is warm, sympathetic. "Though sometimes love makes us see threats that aren't there. Jorge's been… paranoid lately. The medication, the stress. He thinks someone close to him is plotting something."
He says it casually, like gossip. But he's watching my reaction. When I give none, he continues:
"When Jorge passes, Marisol will need guidance. Someone to help her navigate the transition. The vultures will circle, you understand. The Zayas family especially. She'll need someone she trusts to protect her interests."
He's already planning for after Jorge's death.
"Paranoia's not always wrong," I say.
"No.Sometimes the person we trust most is the one holding the knife." He lets that image sit between us. "That's why I'm glad you're here. An outsider. Someone with no agenda except keeping our girl safe."
Our girl. Again.
The door opens before I can respond. Marisol emerges, eyes red, shoulders curved inward. I watch the devastation written across her face, the way her whole body seems smaller, like Jorge's words have physically diminished her.
"He wants to see you," she tells me. Her voice is thick with tears she's fighting not to shed.
I glance at Cesar. He's already reaching for her, ready to provide comfort.
"Go," he says. "I'll look after Marisol. A nice cup of tea, perhaps. Or something stronger."
"No." She shakes her head, steps closer to me instead of him. "I want to stay near Nico. I'll wait here."
Something flickers across Cesar's face. Just for a moment. Annoyance, maybe. Or something darker.
"Of course, cariña. Whatever you need."
I enter the sickroom, already knowing this conversation will confirm what my gut's been screaming since we arrived.
The room is tomb-dark, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. Medical equipment hums. Monitors tracking the steady decline of a man who built an empire just to watch himself crumble. The smell hits immediately: medicine and decay. Antiseptic fails to mask something worse. The scent of a body shutting down, system by system.
Jorge Delgado is propped in a hospital bed. He's been carved hollow by disease, a big man reduced to sharp bones and stubborn will. But his eyes. Dark, piercing, missing nothing. Those eyes are still alive. Still dangerous.
They fix on me like rifle sights.
"Come closer. I want to see the man Marco sent."
I approach, stop at parade rest without thinking. Old habits.
"You're younger than I expected."
"Twenty-nine."
"Twenty-nine." A sound that might be a laugh rattles in his chest. "I built my empire by twenty-nine. What have you built?"
"Bodies. Mostly."
The honesty surprises him. Good. I'm tired of games, of Cesar's warm manipulations, of everyone dancing around truth.
"Honest. I like that." He gestures to the chair beside the bed. The one Marisol just vacated, a crumpled tissue on the floor beside it. "Sit."
I sit.
"Marco speaks highly of you. Says you're his best. Disciplined. Deadly. Incapable of being compromised."
"I do my job."
"Your job is keeping my daughter alive." His voice sharpens. "How is that going?"
