Logan stands at a desk covered in papers, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. Even less than fully armored, he looks like he should be on a business magazine cover. He looks up when we enter, those dark eyes doing their assessment. Quick, comprehensive.
"Gabriel." Neutral. Professional. Then to me: "Ms.Marin."
Gabriel briefs him about everything—the cottage break-in, the escalation with those men, our sudden need for security. Logan listens with total absorption, his dark eyes never leaving Gabriel's face as he mentally calculates solutions. Without wasting a moment, he makes arrangements for us in a suite on the upper floor. I realize then that La Sirena isn't just a club; it contains residential space too. Not a hotel where people pass through, but something more permanent. A home.
"Any dietary restrictions? Allergies?" The question is practical, not warm but not cold.
"No allergies," I say. "But I cook. If the kitchen's accessible."
Something shifts in his expression. Micro. I almost miss it. The same ghost of not-quite-amusement from the rectory when I mentioned groceries.
"The kitchen is accessible," he says. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "Third shelf has the good olive oil."
It's not warmth. It's not acceptance. It's a door opened half an inch. The most Logan Cruz is willing to offer on a second meeting. But I get the feeling that half an inch from Logan is worth more than a bear hug from most people.
Logan leads us downstairs to the backstage area. The air thickens with perfume and stage makeup. Sequins catch the light from a mirror-lined wall, and someone's humming scales in a corner. A heavy curtain separates us from the main floor, but the music bleeds through, bass vibrating through my shoes.
"Holy shit. Gabriel?" The voice carries across the room, disbelief and delight mixed. "Without the collar? Logan said you were coming but Jesus, get over here."
A man is inhabiting the bar. Not just leaning against it but owning the space. Average height, lean, but his presence fills more room than his body accounts for. Dark eyes that dance, a smile that reaches them, hair artfully messy in that twenty-minute way that looks effortless.
He sees Gabriel and his face lights up with full, unguarded delight. Crossing the room in three fluid strides, he pulls Gabriel into a hug that isn't performative but real—arms wrapped around him in tight, holding. Gabriel stiffens for a fraction, then hugs back, and I watch something in his shoulders release.
"It’s been too long, buddy." The man pulls back, hands on Gabriel's shoulders. "After all this time, and you walk in looking like that. No collar. Just you. Do you know how long we've been waiting for this?"
"We just got here, Adrian. I didn't have time to warn anyone."
"I know, I know. Logan just texted me two minutes ago that you were coming up. But still. Eight years, Gabriel. And you brought a woman to La Sirena. How does a priest get a girlfriend?"
Gabriel almost smiles. Adrian sees it, eyes narrowing with delight.
"Is that a smile? Was that a smile? Logan, did you see that? Call the Vatican, there's been a miracle."
"I didn't smile."
"You were one millimeter from a smile. I have witnesses." Adrian turns to me and the full beam of his attention lands and I understand immediately why this man is La Sirena's host. When Adrian looks at you, you feel like the only person in the room. The charm isn't a weapon. It's a frequency he broadcasts naturally.
"And you," he says, "are the woman who made a priest smile. I don't know who you are yet but I already owe you a drink."
He extends his hand. The handshake is firm, unhurried, genuine.
"Seraphina," I say. "Sera."
"Sera." He tastes my name, deciding where it fits. "Beautiful. Has he been feeding you? He can't cook. The man survives on protein shakes and guilt."
"She feeds me," Gabriel says quietly. Simple. Loaded.
Adrian catches it, eyes flicking between us. The mischief softens into something deeper, almost relief.
"Then you're already family," Adrian says to me. And he means it. The sincerity, so easy, offered to a woman he met thirty seconds ago, makes something in my chest ache.
The word family has been empty so long I've forgotten it could carry weight. Julian's family was transactional. Mine was Abuela Rosa, and she's gone.
Adrian pours drinks, talks while he pours. Stories, gossip, the running commentary half performance and half genuine delight. He tells Gabriel what he's missed:
"Remember Valentina? The one with all the scarves? Lit the whole damn curtain on fire mid-act. Flames shooting up to the ceiling while she's still singing, didn't miss a note." He leans in, voice dropping. "And last month, some health inspector shows up unannounced. Logan just stares at him, slides a business card across the desk—his lawyer's, not cash—and says, 'Perhaps we should discuss this properly.' Guy was stammering apologies by the time he left."
The stories are small and full of life and this is what a family sounds like. Not Julian's silent dinners. This. The teasing, the laughter, the man who pulls you into a hug and calls you family before knowing your last name.
