Line terminated. Marco doesn’t waste words on decisions already made.
I set the phone down, but the weight of abandoning my brother sits like shrapnel in my chest. I’ve never missed a family gathering. Not once since Afghanistan. After the massacre, our parents’ blood painting the walls while I was thousands of miles away, I swore I’d always be there. Every gathering, every crisis, every moment that matters.
But Marisol presses against my side, her warmth reminding me why I can’t leave.
“You should be there,” she says quietly, reading the tension in my jaw, the way my hands want to form fists.
“No.”
“Nico—”
“I’m not leaving you.” The words come out harder than intended, more growl than reassurance. I soften them withtouch, pulling her against me, noting how perfectly she fits in my arms. “Not with Cesar maneuvering. Not now.”
She doesn’t argue, but guilt shadows her features. She recognizes the cost.
We drink milky over-sweetened coffee for what feels like an eternity.
The video call comes through at 0320 hours, and suddenly my laptop screen fills with Rosetti chaos in high definition.
The hospital waiting room looks like my family has established a forward operating base. Marco commands a corner chair he’s transformed into a command post, suit jacket removed, sleeves rolled up. Valentina is beside him, taking in everything through the screen, her strategic brain whirring loud enough to hear.
Dante holds his position against the wall, baby Antonia secure on his shoulder. Six months old, already adapted to her father’s silence. He meets my eyes through the screen, one nod communicating everything: You should be here. Necessity prevents it. Understood.
Ana offers a careful greeting from beside Dante.
“Brother.” Alex’s voice cuts through first, because Alex always takes point on chaos. He’s claimed two chairs like conquered territory, green eyes sharp despite the hour. “Miami’s upgraded your appearance. You actually look human instead of like a recruitment poster.”
“And you still look sloppy,” I manage, attempting to match his energy despite feeling like I’m watching my family through bulletproof glass. Present but separated.
Marisol guffaws behind me, and Alex’s eyes shift, locking onto a target behind me. His eyebrow lifts.
“And who,” he draws out the words with obvious satisfaction, “is that?”
Marisol. She’d tried to stay outside the camera range, but the penthouse’s open floor plan betrayed her. I adjust the laptop angle, bringing her into frame.
She’s wearing my shirt like claimed territory, hair wild from sleep and sex, coffee mug gripped tight. She looks nothing like the tabloid coverage my family has reviewed. She looks like a woman I’ve marked, claimed, fucked into my mattress until she screamed my name.
The family’s reaction is immediate and revealing.
Alex grins wider, wolfish. “The party princess herself. I’ve studied the files. ‘Heiress Gone Wild.’ ‘Yacht Meltdown.’ Exceptional entrance, making headlines.”
The words land like rounds finding their target. Beside me, Marisol’s spine straightens. Something violent coils in my chest. Family or not, no one targets what’s mine without consequences.
Alex pulls Emma into his lap, and she lets out a little squeak, then gives Marisol a shy wave. I remember that until a few short months ago she was a servant and has probably never met an A-list celebrity like Marisol. Her cheeks pink, and I note the embarrassment, but I’m not sure if she’s ashamed of herself or my heiress.
Marco’s silence carries more weight than Alex’s words. The Don’s eyes move over her through the screen, measuring, calculating. When Valentina whispers something in his ear and he doesn’t respond, maintaining his lock on the camera, I read his analysis.
I am compromised.
“Marisol Delgado,” she says, chin up, not attempting charm or deflection. Just existing in my space, accepting their judgment.
Dismissal radiates through the connection. My brothers see the reports, the reputation, the liability. Not the womanwho held me through Afghanistan flashbacks. Not the strength beneath her chaos.
Marisol takes a step closer, then sits beside me on the mattress. My hand finds her knee below the camera’s range, squeezing once. My family’s approval is not required.
“What’s the ETA?” I redirect.
“Soon,” Marco says, his first word since the connection was established. “Faith and Luca have been inside for two hours.”
