"I don't care what it says. I'm not letting you out of my sight. Not here. Not with Cesar somewhere in this house." The thought of him near her without me there makes my jaw clench hard enough to ache.
She looks ready to argue, jaw set, honey eyes flashing with that defiance that makes me want to press her against the wall and remind her who's protecting whom. Then the fight drains out of her. She's too tired to battle on two fronts.
"Fine. But let me talk to him alone. Stay by the door."
"Close enough to intervene if needed."
She almost smiles at that. "You think my dying father is going to attack me?"
"I think this house has too many threats to count."
The smell hits first. Antiseptic fighting a losing battle against something worse, the scent of a body shutting down despite the fortune being spent to keep it running. Medicalequipment crowds the room, machines beeping, IV drips feeding medication into veins that barely want it anymore. The smell brings back Afghanistan. Field hospitals, men dying slow.
Jorge Delgado lies in what used to be his bed, now a hospital setup with rails and monitors. The disease has carved him hollow since I saw him weeks ago. Where once his eyes held sharp calculation despite the illness, now there's a flickering. Moments of clarity between longer stretches of fog. A private nurse sits in the corner, pretending not to exist while definitely listening to everything.
His eyes open and find his daughter. For a moment they're sharp, carrying the weight of a lifetime building an empire. Then they cloud slightly, refocus.
"Mija." His voice comes out as a rasp. "You're here."
She moves to his bedside, takes his hand carefully. I position myself by the door, close enough to read every micro-expression, far enough to give the illusion of privacy. Close enough to get to her in two seconds if needed.
Jorge's gaze moves from her to me and back. Even through the fog of medication and disease, he knows exactly who Marco Rosetti sent to protect his daughter.
"The articles," he says without preamble. "The embezzlement. Tell me they're lies."
Marisol's voice stays steady. "They're not true, Papa. Someone is doing this to me."
He studies her, and I can see him fighting through the haze, trying to focus. His face gives little away even now. He built an empire by being unreadable. But I see the doubt Cesar has planted taking root.
"You've always been…" He pauses, searching for words through the medication fog. "Chaotic. But I never thought you were a thief."
"I'm not. I would never."
"The evidence says otherwise." He shifts, grimacing at the movement. "Receipts. Transfers. Your signatures."
"Forged. All of it."
Silence stretches between them. His eyes drift closed, then snap open again, fighting the pull of exhaustion and medication. Then Jorge reaches for her hand with both of his. The gesture should be tender but isn't. My fingers flex at my sides, wanting to pull her away from even this gentle cruelty.
"I'm tired, mija. So tired. The family needs stability. When I'm gone…" He takes a labored breath, eyes losing focus for a moment before sharpening again. "When I'm gone, you need to lean on the people who know how things work. Who've been here longest."
My jaw tightens hard enough that something pops. I know where this is going, and every instinct screams to intervene.
"Promise me," Jorge continues, his voice fading, then strengthening with effort, "that you'll listen to Cesar. He knows what's best for the family. He's been with us thirty years. When I'm gone, you listen to him."
The words land hard. Not shock, she knows exactly what Cesar is now, but resignation. The cruel irony of her dying father's last wish being to trust the man we both know is destroying her. Her eyes find mine, and I see the weight of it crushing her.
"Papa…"
"Promise me, Marisol." His grip tightens with surprising strength before weakening again. "Cesar has given his life to this family. He deserves our trust. Promise me."
She looks at me again, just for a second. Not desperation but bitter acceptance.
"I promise," she whispers.
Jorge's eyes close, the brief window of lucidity closing. His breathing evens out into medicated sleep. The nurse moves in to check vitals, adjust medications. Our audience is over.
She makes it to the hallway before her composure cracks. Not crying. Marisol doesn't cry where people can see. But her hands shake as she leans against the wall, and I move closer, not quite touching but close enough that she can feel my heat, my presence. Close enough that she knows she's not alone in this.
