"Who else, cariña?" His thumb is still on my face, and I have to force myself not to jerk away, not to show him I'm seeing through the uncle mask to something else. "I've been here since before you were born. I held you at your baptism. I know everything about this family. Every secret. Every weakness."
Every secret. The way he says it makes my blood go cold. The Calypso Room. The body. Gabriel's breakdown. He knows about that night. He sent the fixer, arranged the cover-up. He's always known, always had that knife at our throats disguised as protection.
The question circles back, louder now, impossible to ignore: How did he find me here?
I chose this bar at random. A neighborhood I haven't visited in years. A place where Marisol Delgado, the champagne-soaked disaster heiress, would never go.
And Cesar walked in twenty minutes after I sat down.
The door opens again. The change in air pressure seems to announce him before I turn.
Nico fills the doorframe like violence barely contained in human form.
Of course he found me. That's his job, his nature, his promise to my father. I'm not surprised Nico tracked me down. I expect it, count on it even when I'm running from his protection. It's what we are to each other now.
But I'm surprised, no, disturbed, that Cesar got here first.
Something passes between the two men immediately. The kind of recognition that makes the domino players in the back stop mid-game, sensing violence in their midst. The air itself seems to thicken. Nico's hand drifts to where his gun would be,that unconscious motion that means he's calculating how fast he could kill everyone in this room if needed.
"Mr.Rosetti," Cesar says smoothly, warmth never faltering but sharpening into something with edges. "Never off duty, are you? Such dedication. Jorge chose well."
Nico doesn't respond with words. His eyes find mine first, taking in my state: the glass in my hand, the empty one beside it, the slight glaze that says I'm two drinks toward numb. Then those hazel eyes shift, and I see something dangerous flash through them. Not disappointment in me. Something darker, possessive, aimed at Cesar's hand still touching my face.
I set the glass down and pull away from Cesar's touch in the same motion.
Cesar's phone rings with timing so perfect it feels rehearsed. He glances at it, sighs with regret. "Business, always business. These transitions require such careful management." The word 'transitions' hangs in the air like a threat. "I'm afraid I have to go."
He stands, leans down to kiss my forehead. His lips are dry, cooler than they should be, and I have to fight not to flinch. "Take care of yourself. You know I worry. Perhaps you shouldn't wander alone anymore. Miami can be… dangerous for a woman in your position."
The threat is silk-wrapped but unmistakable.
At the door, he pauses. Looks back at us: me on my barstool with rum I'll never finish, Nico standing guard like he's ready to tear the world apart to keep me safe. Something crosses Cesar's face, an expression I finally recognize. Calculation. Assessment. A chess player seeing the board clearly.
Then he's gone, leaving his cologne hanging in the air like a poison I've been breathing for twenty years.
Nico moves with controlled precision, takes Cesar's empty stool. His thigh brushes mine as he settles, and even through myhorror at what I'm starting to understand, my body responds to his proximity. He doesn't order anything. Doesn't mention the rum. Just sits there, radiating that particular tension that means he’s tired of standing guard over my disaster of a life.
"I have proof about Cesar," he says quietly. No preamble, no gentle lead-in. Just Nico being Nico, direct as a bullet aimed at truth.
His hand brushes mine as he pulls out his phone, and that simple contact grounds me more than the rum ever could. He starts showing me evidence, each piece laid out with military precision. Financial documents. Text messages. Photos. No emotion in his voice, just facts arranged like weapons.
"The outlet that ran the embezzlement story has received payments from a company connected to Cesar's operations. Three transfers over the last month, starting right before the first article about you appeared."
My stomach turns, bile rising to compete with rum. But I force myself to look, to see.
"Gunner's been tracking something else. Cesar's nephew has been asking about you. Your schedule, your habits, where you go, who you see. Started three weeks ago, right when the media attacks began."
Each word lands like ice in my chest despite the Miami heat bleeding through the bar's inadequate air conditioning.
"The timeline." He pulls up a document, dates and connections mapped with the same precision he applies to everything. "Every leak contained information only someone in your inner circle would know. Details about your mother's death, specific dates and places, things you only told family."
I want to argue. Want to find holes in his logic. My mind scrambles for excuses: maybe Cesar was trying to protect me, maybe the payments were for something else, maybe, maybe,maybe. But the evidence keeps coming, relentless as ocean waves.
"The yacht photos. The photographer has done work for a company Cesar uses for surveillance."
"That's…" I stop. A coincidence? How many coincidences before they become a pattern? Before they become a betrayal two decades in the making?
"Your phone," Nico continues, and now his hand does cover mine, warm and solid and real. "I track it because that's my job. You know that. But someone else has been tracking you too. The data shows dual access points. Someone else has been following your movements."
