They knew.
Vicente and Arturo have known about the contract for weeks. Serbian money, Yakuza muscle, old grudges converging into an active threat. They’d sat in Arturo’s office treating it like a scheduling conflict. An inconvenience to be managed.
We’re aware of the threat, Arturo had said, calm as ever. We have resources in place. Our security is more than adequate.
And Vicente, lounging in that leather chair like he owned the room, had added: These things tend to resolve themselves. The people who want us dead have wanted us dead for thirty years. We’re still here.
Like it was nothing. Like Nina wasn’t sitting in their courtyard, still recovering, surrounded by people who could become collateral damage if the Serbians decided today was the day.
I’d wanted to grab him by the throat. Ask if he’d considered what happens when assassins can’t get to their primary targets and settle for secondary ones. Say she’s not a fucking acceptable loss.
Didn’t say any of it. Couldn’t.
Because Vicente was watching me the whole time. That patient, assessing look I remember too well, cataloging my reactions, filing them away for later use. If I showed how much Nina mattered, he’d have leverage. He’d find a way to use it.
“—anyway, hopefully we’ll be in by spring. You okay? You look like you’re somewhere else.”
“Long day.” I force my attention back to Mason. “You should talk to Wyatt’s contact at the DEA field office—his brother-in-law’s a contractor. Might have leads on subs who actually show up.”
He gives me a look that says he knows I’m deflecting, but he’s too polite to call me on it. That’s Mason. Reads a room better than most agents I’ve worked with, knows when to push and when to let something slide.
Across the courtyard, Vicente is holding court near the bar. Drake and Arturo flank him, Elle contributing a remark that makes all three men laugh. He looks relaxed. At home. The gracious host enjoying his first real Thanksgiving in decades.
Nobody watching would guess there’s an active contract on his head.
That’s the thing about Vicente. He compartmentalizes better than anyone I’ve ever known. Threat assessment in one box, social performance in another, and never shall the two meet unless it serves him. I used to admire that. Used to try to learn it.
Now it just makes my skin crawl.
His gaze finds mine across the courtyard. Holds for a beat. Then he smiles—warm, familiar, like no time has passed at all—and turns back to his conversation.
My hand tightens around my glass.
Old friends. That’s probably how he thinks of it. The years I spent in his organization, in his confidence, in his?—
Don’t. Not here.
“I’m going to check on Nina,” I tell Mason.
“Go.” He nods toward the fire pit, visible past the garden’s edge. “I should rescue Callie from Mom’s interrogation about grandchildren anyway.”
I stop at the bar first. The bartender’s still there, mixing a drink for one of the twins, and I wait until he’s free.
“Bourbon. Neat.”
He pours without comment. I drain half of it before I’ve taken three steps, the burn steadying the knot in my chest.
The fire pit glows at the far end of the garden, flames flickering against the darkness. The chairs around it look empty now.
Wyatt intercepts me before I reach the garden path. He’s been circulating, playing the social game better than I ever could, but his expression sharpens when he sees my face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just—” I glance toward the fire pit. The chairs are definitely empty now. “Where’s Nina?”
“She was with Sadie and Marco.” He follows my gaze, frowns. “Maybe she went to find a bathroom.”
But I’m already scanning the garden, and that’s when I spot her—pressed against the stucco wall near the property’s edge, half-hidden in shadow.
