"We should go," she says, turning from the mirror. "I want to get there first. Control the ground, right? That's what you always say."
I don't point out that she's been listening to my security protocols. Don't mention that her hands are still shaking as she reaches for her purse. Just follow her to the door, watching the way she holds herself together through sheer force of will.
The drive to the hotel is silent except for her knee bouncing against the leather seat. I reach over, hand covering her knee until it stills. The touch is meant to be calming, but heat shoots through me at the contact. Her skin is warm through the thin fabric, and I have to force myself not to stroke my thumb across her thigh.
"He's just your brother," I say.
"No," she replies, staring out the window at Miami streaming past. "He's never been just anything."
The Setai's air conditioning fights a losing battle against Miami humidity that seeps through the glass doors every time they open. Chlorine from the pool deck mingles with Cuban coffee from the bar. Outside, South Beach traffic crawls past. Lamborghinis and Ubers in equal measure.
I position us at a corner table. Sight lines to both entrances, back to the wall, two exits within twenty feet. Marisol clutches a cup she won't drink, checking her phone every thirty seconds.
"He's late," she says.
"Three minutes."
"Priests are supposed to be punctual. It's like, a virtue or something."
I'm about to respond when I see him.
Gabriel Delgado walks through the lobby doors, and my threat assessment immediately shifts into overdrive. Priest's collar, black clothing, hands clasped in front of him, all deliberately non-threatening. But there's something underneath the practiced serenity. The way he moves, controlled and aware. The slight tension in his shoulders. One soldier recognizing another, even if one wears cloth instead of kevlar.
Every woman he passes turns to stare. The concierge actually stops mid-sentence. Two women at the bar abandon their conversation entirely. I can see why. The priest is tall, with broad shoulders, a commanding presence, a strong jaw, and dark hair that would make God himself jealous. Gabriel either doesn't notice or has trained himself not to react. Both options interest me tactically.
"Mari." He stops three feet from our table. Not close enough to embrace, not far enough to be cold. Calculated distance.
"Gabriel." She stands but doesn't move toward him.
Eight years of silence packed into two names. The air between them practically vibrates with things unsaid.
His attention shifts to me, and the assessment is quick, professional. He's done this before, sized up threats. His dark brown eyes intense even through the priestly calm. "You must be the Rosetti security Marco sent."
I don't offer my hand. "Nico."
"Father Gabriel Delgado." The title is deliberate, a shield and sword combined.
"He knows who you are," Marisol says, voice sharp.
We sit. The conversation that follows is like watching people dance around landmines. Gabriel asks about the embezzlement accusations carefully, like he's drawing out confession. Marisol'sanswers are defensive, clipped. They circle the real conversation without ever touching it. The night that sent him to God and her to bottles.
"The articles are lies," Gabriel says. "I know that."
"Do you? You haven't known anything about my life in eight years."
"That's not…" He stops, swallows. "I deserved that."
"You deserve worse."
Then Marisol mentions Cesar. "Tío Cesar has been helping. He's been there through all of this, with Papa sick and everything falling apart."
The reaction is immediate and violent, though I don’t think Marisol catches it. Gabriel's face maintains perfect priestly composure, but his hands betray him completely. Fingers pressing into the table hard enough to turn his knuckles white, tendons standing out like rope. Something dangerous flashes behind those holy eyes before he locks it down. This isn't casual dislike. This is specific rage, barely controlled.
"Cesar." His voice achieves perfect neutrality, and I can see he is a man who hides himself from the world. "Yes. He would be… involved."
Marisol doesn't notice the pause, the way he has to search for a neutral word. She's looking at his face, not his hands. But I note every micro-expression, every tell. Gabriel Delgado knows something about Cesar Vega. Something that makes a man of God contemplate violence.
"Can I speak with you alone, Mari?" Gabriel's request is soft, but there's urgency underneath. "Just five minutes."
