"He's handing the kingdom to Cesar." Her voice is hollow. "He's dying, and his last wish is for me to obey the man who's trying to bury me."
I don't have comfort for this. There isn't any. So I offer the only thing I can: "Then we prove it before he dies. We show him who Cesar really is."
She looks at me, and something fierce ignites in her honey eyes despite the devastation. That's my girl. Knocked down but never out.
"Where is he?"
We find Cesar exactly where I expected. In Jorge's study, behind the desk that isn't his yet but might as well be. Papers spread before him, reading glasses perched on his nose, the picture of devoted service managing the empire while the king dies upstairs. The sight makes my trigger finger twitch.
He looks up when we enter, and the warmth is immediate, automatic, practiced. Everything about him is practiced. The concerned uncle, the devoted friend. All of it lies.
"Mari, I didn't know you were coming today." He removes his glasses, sets them aside carefully. "How is Jorge?"
She doesn't sit when he gestures to the chairs. I position myself by the window. Sight lines to both doors, watching every tell, noting every lie.
"He's dying," she says flatly. "But you know that."
"We're all praying for more time." Cesar's voice carries just the right note of sorrow. "But we must be realistic. Preparations need to be made."
The way he says 'preparations,' already measuring for the crown. My hands clench into fists.
"Preparations." She moves closer to the desk, not quite accusing but not friendly either. "Like dealing with these media attacks on me?"
"I've been working on that, actually." He shuffles papers, finds one. "More investigators. More calls. We'll find who's behind this elaborate frame job. The family protects its own."
I note the slight delay before his response. Accessing fabricated memory instead of real ones. The way his hands stay perfectly still, too still, conscious control. A liar managing his body language. The deflection when she pushes for specifics.
"The evidence we've gathered points to someone with inside knowledge," Marisol says carefully, not revealing everything we know. "Someone who has access to financial systems, media contacts."
His expression flickers. Just for a moment. A tightening around the eyes, calculating how much we know. Then it's gone, replaced with concern that almost looks genuine.
"Mari… that's a serious accusation. Are you suggesting someone in our organization would do this to you?"
She doesn't answer directly. Just watches him. She's learned to read people better these past days, and pride mingles with protective rage in my chest.
Cesar leans back, sighs. The disappointed patriarch.
"You're under so much stress. Your father's decline accelerating, these vicious attacks in the media… It's natural to look for patterns, even where none exist. But we must be careful not to let paranoia divide us."
Every word calculated to make her doubt herself. My jaw aches from clenching it.
"Your mother trusted me," he continues when she doesn't respond. "She trusted me with everything. She would be heartbroken to see this family turning on itself with suspicion."
The guilt card, played perfectly. Using a dead woman to manipulate her daughter. I've put men in the ground for less than what he's done to her.
"That Rosetti security." His eyes flick to me, measuring. "They see enemies everywhere. It's what they're trained to do. But this family isn't Chicago. We don't operate on suspicion and violence."
The dismissal makes something primal claw at my chest. He's trying to separate us, make her doubt me.
"You've always had remarkable timing," Marisol says suddenly. "Finding me when I need help. Being there at the right moments."
A micro-expression. Wariness now, sensing a trap. Then smooth recovery.
"I've watched over you since you were born." He spreads his hands, the picture of paternal devotion. "Call it instinct. I know when my goddaughter needs me."
Every accusation, deflected. Every probe, turned to make her the villain for questioning. He plays the victim beautifully. Thirty years of devotion questioned, wounded by her suspicion. Watching her suffer through his manipulation is like taking shrapnel. Slow, deep, designed to fester.
Near the end, his tone shifts. Still warm, but underneath, something harder. Something that makes my hand drift toward my weapon.
