He pours without comment, slides the glass across scarred wood. Condensation beads immediately in the humidity, pooling at the base like tears. I stare at it for a long moment.
I've been doing so well. Four days since the yacht, four days of feeling everything sharp and clear instead of blurred at the edges. Nico made me want to stay present, made me feel like maybe I was worth experiencing without chemical assistance. But Gabriel's face, my father dying by degrees, someone trying to destroy me through headlines and lies… the walls are closing in and I need to not feel this for just one hour.
I drink.
The rum burns familiar and wrong and perfect all at once, like greeting an old lover you know will hurt you. Relief floods through me, followed immediately by defeat. Here I am again. Marisol Delgado, living down to every expectation. Alone in a dark bar where no one knows my name, trying to disappear.
The second one goes down easier. I watch the domino game, listen to the Spanish washing over me. Here, I'm invisible. Anonymous. Just another woman drinking alone at 5:30 in the afternoon, no photographers, no disappointed looks, no one tracking my failures.
I'm reaching for my phone to turn it off completely when the door opens and the air shifts.
Cesar Vega walks into the bar like he owns it, like he owns every room he enters.
My first reaction is pure warmth flooding through me. Tío Cesar, here when I need someone most, finding me like he always does when I'm drowning. My second reaction, a whisper underneath that I try to ignore: How did he know I was here?
No.Stop. It’s just a coincidence. Miami's smaller than people think, our circles overlap. Has to be a coincidence.
"Mari." He slides onto the stool beside me, and his expensive cologne, something French and heavy, clashes with the bar's accumulated decades of smoke and spilled beer. His suit is perfectly pressed despite the humidity. "What are you doing in this place? I've been worried sick."
He orders something local without looking at the menu. Knows bars like this, knows exactly what to order to fit in without trying too hard. Of course he does. Cesar knows every level of this city, from penthouses to these forgotten corners.
"The articles about you," he continues, his hand settling on my shoulder. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of my dress. "Your brother's return, visiting Gabriel after all these years. Your father's decline. So much for my beautiful girl to handle. You shouldn't be alone with all this weight."
The endearments roll off his tongue: cariña, pobrecita when I flinch slightly at his grip. Spanish words that once meant safety now sound different, like names for a pet that performs on command. His hand on my shoulder feels heavier than it should, and when I shift slightly away, he follows, maintaining contact like he has a right to it. Always touching. My shoulder, my arm, my face. Has he always done this?
No.Don't think like that. This is Tío Cesar. He held you when your mother died.
"Where's your guardian?" Cesar asks, and something in how he says it makes my skin prickle. "The Rosetti soldier?"
"I needed space."
"Ah." He nods like this makes perfect sense, takes a sip of his drink. His fingers drum once on the bar. "He doesn't know where you are?"
The question lands wrong, too interested, too specific. I take another sip of rum to avoid answering immediately.
A few minutes later: "Your protection, this Nico. He lets you wander alone? That seems… careless."
He's fishing. The realization hits cold despite the rum's warmth. Why does he need to know where Nico is?
"Someone's been looking into the media leaks," I say, watching his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Trying to find the source of all these lies about me."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. Fast, controlled, but there, like watching someone realize they're losing a game they thought was already won.
"You shouldn't worry about such things," he says smoothly, his fingers pressing harder on my shoulder, just shy of painful. "Let me handle the investigation. I'll take care of it, make sure the truth comes out. You have enough burdens, cariña."
Take care of it. Handle it. The phrases feel like doors closing, like being managed rather than helped.
"Papa’s always trusted you," I say, testing.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Your father built an empire on trust. When he decided to expand to Miami. When he chose this life for his family."
Every reference in past tense, like my father is already in the ground, already mourned, inheritance already divided.
His hand moves from my shoulder to my cheek, thumb stroking my jaw in what should be paternal affection. But his touch lingers too long, possessive in a way that makes my stomach turn. When did his touches start feeling like ownership? He's always done this, I realize with creeping dread. Always had his hands on me: my shoulder, my face, my waist when he guides me through doors. Little claims of territory I never questioned because I was too drunk, too lost in my own chaos to notice patterns.
"You know," he says, leaning close enough that I can smell the rum on his breath, "after everything is settled, after the dust clears from your father's passing, you'll need guidance. Someone to help you navigate the transition. The vultures will circle, youunderstand. The Zayas family especially. You'll need someone you trust to protect your interests."
"Like you?"
