The text is simple:
Mari. I saw what they're saying about La Sirena. We need to talk. I need to know what's happening. Call me. - G
My hands shake worse now. Gabriel. After everything. After eight years of silence. NOW he reaches out?
I need to know what's happening.
Not "how are you?" Not "I'm sorry I abandoned you." Not "I love you, hermana." He needs to know what's happening. Like I'm a problem to be managed from a distance. Like his reputation might be at stake.
"What is it?" Nico asks, noticing my face.
I can't speak. Just hand him the phone.
He reads, and his expression hardens dangerously.
The phone buzzes again:
Mari. Please. It's important.
Important. Eight years of nothing, and now it's important. Does he believe the articles? Does he think I'm stealing from our father's empire while Papa lies dying? Is he reaching out to help or to accuse?
With Gabriel, I can never tell.
A third text arrives:
I'm coming over. We need to talk in person.
The phone slips from my numb fingers.
My brother is coming here.
Father Gabriel, patron saint of abandonment, is gracing us with his presence.
"Perfect," I say, laughing but it comes out cracked, desperate. "Someone's framing me for embezzlement, my father's dying, and now my brother wants to what, hear my confession? I already have enough guilt for both of us."
Nico's arms tighten around me, but even his solid presence can't stop the truth from settling in my bones like ice water. If Gabriel coming here now, after all this time, after all this silence, it's not to save me.
It never is.
19 - Nico
“How do I look?” She catches my eye in the reflection, attempting her cheeky smile. “Innocent? Wrongly accused? Definitely not embezzling from the family business?”
The joke falls flat. She knows it. I know it. The white dress is a shield, but nothing can hide the terror in her honey eyes.
"You look like you're about to face something difficult."
I set down the file I've been reviewing. Gabriel Delgado, twenty-eight, fled to seminary at twenty, ordained five years later. The file is clean. Too clean. Men don't flee to God without demons chasing them.
"Something difficult." She laughs, but it cracks at the edges. "That's one way to describe seeing my brother for the first time in eight years."
I cross to her, hands finding her shoulders. The muscles beneath are rigid with tension. Even through the thin fabric, I can feel her pulse racing. My body responds to her proximity, always does now, but I lock that down. She needs steady, not hungry.
"You don't have to do this. We can meet him another time. Or never."
She shakes her head, leaning back into my touch for just a moment before straightening. "If I don't face him now, I never will. And with everything that's happening…" Her voice trails off.
The tactical assessment runs automatically: neutral ground selected. The Setai hotel lobby, public enough for safety, private enough for conversation. Multiple exits, minimal security, easy extraction if needed. She insisted on somewhere that wasn't her penthouse (too intimate), wasn't the estate (absolutely not), wasn't the club (too loaded with memory). Smart choices for someone who claims she doesn't think tactically.
