Nico's hand slides to my throat, not threatening but claiming, his thumb finding my pulse point. "He's already dead," he says, voice so cold it burns. "He just doesn't know it yet."
The monster in his voice makes me feel safe for the first time since I walked into that room. Not because Nico will protect me, though he will, but because we're going to hunt together.
Cesar used my worst trauma against me, thinking it would break me the same way twice.
He's about to learn that broken things can become weapons too.
24 - Nico
She’s not really sleeping. Just hiding somewhere I can’t follow.
She's curled on her side, hands tucked against her chest like she's protecting something vital. The woman who fills every room she enters has made herself as small as possible.
Even destroyed, even hollow, she's beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight. Her vulnerability doesn't diminish the want. It transforms it into something fiercer, more protective. The silk pajamas cling to her curves, and I force my gaze away.
The rage sits cold in my chest, patient as winter. Not the hot fury of combat but something arctic, calculating. Cesar Vega arranged a woman's body to replicate an eight-year-old trauma. He called her "cariña" while planning this. He put his hands on her yesterday, touched her face while her world shattered. Those will be the last words he speaks with an intact jaw.
My hands ache. Not from pull-ups but from the physical need to hurt someone. The pressure behind my sternum won't release until Cesar is bleeding under my hands. My jaw aches from clenching. There's a metallic taste in my mouth from adrenaline and fury mixing into something toxic.
Control. Not yet. Not until she's safe.
Another message. Marco:
What do you need?
Marco's offer isn't just brotherly support. It's the promise of Rosetti soldiers, Rosetti money, Rosetti vengeance. The fullweight of our machine ready to deploy. I type back:Working on it.
Four hundred and twenty-five minutes now. Each breath counts, marking time in this vigil. I've run every angle while she hides in that place between sleep and consciousness. The wiped footage means Cesar has people inside La Sirena. The media already has the story. Someone leaked details about the sealed room, her presence, the body.
Architecture, not impulse. Everything Cesar does is patient, meticulous.
My phone buzzes again. The lawyer Marco keeps on retainer:
Authorities want interview. Negotiating terms.
I set the phone down, watch her breathe. She shifts slightly, and her hair brushes my wrist where it rests on the bed. Even now, exhausted and traumatized, my body responds to her proximity, blood heating at the simple contact.
She surfaces around ten AM. Not waking, just her eyes opening slowly, taking a moment to remember where she is and why everything hurts.
I see the exact moment it hits her. The body. The room. The blue wallpaper. Her eyes go flat.
"Hi." Her voice is stripped of everything that makes her Marisol. No warmth, no chaos, no tactical banana jokes.
"Hi."
She sits up mechanically. Goes to the bathroom. The shower runs for forty minutes while I make coffee and check updates. Three more from Gunner about movement at the estate. One from the lawyer about managing media narrative. The smell of her shampoo drifts out. Vanilla and jasmine cutting through my focus.
She emerges scrubbed raw. Hair wet, no makeup. Younger, fragile, like someone peeled the Marisol Delgado persona off and left the girl underneath exposed. Her skin is pink from the hotwater, and I notice the slight tremor in her hands as she reaches for the coffee mug.
"Have authorities been in contact?" Her voice is flat, clinical.
"They want to talk. The lawyer's handling it."
I steady her mug as her hands shake, our fingers brushing. The contact grounds us both, just for a moment.
"Media?"
"Someone leaked. It's everywhere."
