"I will, sir."
"Good." Jorge releases me, sinks back into the pillows. Already, our conversation has exhausted him. "You know what I see when I look at you?"
"What?"
"A man who's already half in love with her." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Don't deny it. I'm dying, not blind. The way you defended her just now… that's not professional concern."
I don't confirm or deny. Just wait.
"She needs someone to protect her."
"Wasn’t that your job?"
The words come out harder than intended. Jorge's eyes flash. Anger, then something like shame. "You think I don't love my daughter?"
"I think you love her. But I think your love comes wrapped in so much disappointment she can't tell the difference anymore."
"How dare you?"
"She came here for you. Sober. Trying. And whatever you said to her, I'm asking you to think about whether it helps her or just makes you feel better about your own failures as a father."
The silence that follows could suffocate us both. Jorge's face cycles through emotions. Rage, grief, maybe even recognition.
"Leave me," he says finally.
I stand to leave, but his voice stops me at the door.
"Rosetti."
I turn.
"When you find out who the threat is, and you will, don't hesitate. Don't show mercy. This world doesn't forgive weakness."
"I know."
"Do you? Because if it's someone she cares about, she'll hate you for it. Can you live with that?"
I think about Marisol, broken and beautiful, drowning in pain she can't name. Think about the morning she'll wake up to find I've destroyed someone she loves, even if they deserved it.
"I can live with her hatred," I say. "I can't live with her death."
Jorge nods slowly. "Then you're the right man for this."
I leave him there, dying alone in his dark room, and wonder if being the right man means being the one willing to break her heart to save her life.
I emerge from the sickroom to find Marisol waiting exactly where I left her. Cesar hovers too close, his hand reaching for her shoulder. She shifts away, subtle but deliberate, and moves toward me instead.
"We're leaving. NOW."
"Marisol." Cesar reaches for her.
But she's already moving, heading for the exit with the desperate energy of someone fleeing a fire. I follow without question.
Behind us, Cesar calls out, voice smooth as silk: "Call me later, cariña. We'll talk."
She doesn't acknowledge him. Just keeps walking, almost running, through the marble halls of her childhood home.
We make it to the car. She stands beside it, shaking too hard to open the door. I open it for her, help her in, then round to the driver's side. We pull away from the estate, and she stares out the window. Tears stream silently down her face.
