“You’ll be fine. Just remember—half these people are criminals and the other half are sleeping with them.” She grins. “Still more ethical than Mom’s donor dinners.”
I snort. “That’s a low bar.”
“And yet.”
Chris and Wyatt have drifted slightly apart—Chris gravitating toward the perimeter while Wyatt positions himself near the French doors. It’s our first time out together in public, the three of us, and I’m suddenly aware of how little I know about navigating this. Do we stand together? Touch casually? Pretend we’re just friends?
They’re not making it easier. Both of them have slipped into operational mode, scanning the space like it’s a threat assessment rather than a family gathering. I want to grab them both by the arm and hiss act normal, but I’m not sure any of us know what that looks like yet.
The courtyard is larger than it first appeared—a broad stone patio shaded by a pergola dripping with wisteria, the vines bare now but the structure still graceful. Elena’s staff has set up a long table that stretches the length of the space, white linens catching the light, place settings gleaming. Tall propane heaters stand at intervals like sentries, unlit for now but ready for when the November evening turns cool.
Beyond the garden wall, the fenced pool glitters in the late afternoon sun, and past that the city unfolds in layers—Silver Lake, Echo Park, the downtown towers catching the light. On a day this clear, you can see all the way to the ocean.
A bar has been set up near the fountain, and people cluster around it in loose groups—cocktails in hand, settling into the comfortable shorthand of family, even when family is this complicated. A server in black and white approaches with a tray of champagne flutes, but I shake my head.
“Sparkling water, if you have it?”
She nods and returns a moment later with a glass. I thank her and let myself drift, taking in the scene.
The food appears in waves. Platters of manchego and membrillo. Ceviche in delicate glass cups. Elena’s empanadas, bite-sized and perfect. Dates stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in ham.
It feels good to move after a week of enforced rest. I wander the courtyard’s edges, stretching legs that have spent too long horizontal, letting the afternoon sun warm my face. Zoey toddles between groups, accepting bites of food like tribute from her subjects. Near the fire pit—a sunken seating area by the pool, unlit for now—Maddox is teaching Leo something on his phone while Celeste laughs at both of them.
I drift closer, drawn by the easy warmth of their little cluster, and Celeste looks up as I approach.
“Nina!” She pulls me into a hug like we’ve known each other for years instead of one drunken wedding reception conversation. “I’m so glad you came. Papá hasn’t stopped talking about you since you started working with them.”
“All good things, I hope.”
“Terrifying things, mostly. About how you see right through them.” She grins. “Which tracks, honestly.”
Callie’s wedding seems like ages ago, but the memory has stuck with me. The easy way Maddox talked about their relationship—It’s about creating space for different connections—and how that conversation cracked something open in me I didn’t even know was sealed shut.
The helicopter announces itself with a distant thrum that grows until it’s hovering over the helipad.
“Finally,” Celeste says, craning to see. “Toni said she was bringing a surprise.”
The four of us rise and head toward the fountain as the helicopter touches down.
Drake steps out first—tall, polished, carrying himself with the easy confidence of a man whose last name does the heavy lifting—with Elle a half-step behind. Ben and Baz follow, then Toni and Sam, Toni clutching an enormous soft-sided cooler she’s clearly been protecting with her life.
Elena and Marcella have moved toward the helipad to greet them. I watch the two women embrace their respective daughters—Elena pulling Toni into a hug, Marcella doing the same with Elle—and find myself cataloging the ease between them. No tension, no territorial posturing. Just two mothers welcoming their children home for the holiday.
It’s striking, given what I know. Arturo fathered daughters with both of them. Toni and Elle are half-sisters. And yet here are Elena and Marcella, standing side by side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Some families would shatter under that kind of history. This one just... absorbed it.
“Tamales!” Toni announces, holding up the bag as she heads toward the long table. “From that place in Barrio Logan. Since somebody canceled the tamalada this year.”
Elena’s expression goes flat.
“I had my reasons.”
“Yeah, your reasons are standing right over there.” Toni jerks her chin toward Vicente, who’s watching from near the fountain with studied neutrality. “But God forbid we let his existence stop us from?—”
“Antonia,” her mother warns.
“No, you know what? Fine. You didn’t want to make tamales with your kids. Message received.” She holds up the bag. “At least Leo asked me to grab some so we’d have something.”
