Six words. For Gunner, that’s practically poetry.
“You look good,” I say, the words awkward and insufficient.
Gunner’s expression doesn’t change. “You don’t.”
I almost laugh. There’s the Gunner I remember. No cushion to his words, no attempt at social niceties.
“Let’s go,” I say.
The Turnpike stretches north in the darkness, Miami’s glow starting to paint the horizon.
Gunner drives. Says nothing, which is his way. Sera and I sit in the back of the SUV, not touching but aware of every inch between us. The wrapped wooden spoon rests in her bag at her feet. Her hand keeps going to her chest, checking the ring underneath her shirt, the secret she’s still carrying.
While she was packing, I went back to the church one last time. The nave was dark, just the sanctuary lamp’s red glow. The pew where Sera had set my collar two nights ago, it was still there, white against the dark wood, untouched. As if even the cleaning volunteers knew not to move it, sensing something had changed.
I picked it up, held it, waited to feel something. Guilt, maybe. Or calling.
Nothing came. Just cloth in my hand.
I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket. Not wearing it, not throwing it away. Just carrying it. The ambiguity feels right. I don’t know what I am yet. Not a priest. Not quite a Delgado. Something in between.
“You okay?” Sera asks quietly.
“I don’t know.”
She takes my hand. Simple, direct. Her thumb traces circles on my palm.
The city rises around us as we leave Homestead behind. First the outlet malls, then the suburbs, then the real Miami starting to wake up. Towers and lights and the complicated beauty of a city that never quite sleeps.
“Terrified and honest, remember,” she says, and somehow it calms me.
18 - Seraphina
La Sirena is not what I expected.
I've been bracing since we left Homestead, muscles tight with the memory of Julian's world. Cold marble, hushed voices, beauty that existed to remind you of the power behind it. Every surface polished, every interaction curated, every person aware they were being watched and assessed. The world where warmth was a liability.
But as Gunner pulls up to the back entrance, I can hear the club through the walls. Music, voices, laughter, the hum of a place that's actually being enjoyed. The building itself is beautiful, art deco renovated with care, but there are imperfections. A crack in the steps. A flickering neon letter. The place has lived.
Gabriel sits quietly for a moment. His posture has been shifting since Miami, the priest falling away mile by mile. Now he looks at me with something vulnerable in his eyes.
“You’re about to meet everyone.”
“I can handle it,” I say, as a pulse of adrenaline stabs me.
"They're a lot," he says.
"I've handled a lot."
"Not this kind of a lot."
Gunner pushes past us with a grunt and knocks on the heavy steel door. A specific pattern, I notice. Code. Even the back entrance has protocol.
Inside, the corridor is industrial, narrow, walls covered in show posters and framed photographs. Gunner walks ahead andpeople press against walls to let him pass. Not with fear but with comfort. A woman carrying glasses says "Hey, Gun" and he grunts and apparently that's a full conversation because she smiles.
I note everything. The deference that isn't fear. The greeting that suggests affection. This man is terrifying and beloved. Julian's muscle were feared and avoided. Gunner is feared and greeted. The danger here isn't pointed at the family. It's wrapped around it.
Upstairs, the private area is warmer than I expected. Not a corporate office or crime-movie war room but a comfortable space with good furniture, golden lighting, a bar with fresh orchids. Someone cares about beauty here, even in the operational spaces.
