She looks at Vicente and Arturo, still toweling off. “There’s emergency clothes in the hall closet. Should be something close to your sizes. Darius, grab what’s there.”
“On it,” Darius says. A moment later he returns with a stack of generic gray sweats and t-shirts that match what Wyatt and I wear. Arturo takes them with a murmured thanks, and he and Vicente change right there, no false modesty, just practicality.
Vicente’s watching the rest of us the whole time. That careful blankness he uses when he’s cataloging information, storing it away for later use. I know that look. Five years of proximity burned it into my memory.
Nina steps forward. “The others—Mason and Callie’s family—are they in danger?”
Lucia shakes her head. “This is a targeted operation. Whoever’s funding these hits wants Vicente and Arturo specifically. There’s no indication they’re going after peripheral connections.” She gestures down the hall toward the study. Vicente and Arturo head that direction.
Nina nods, visibly relieved. I hadn’t even thought to ask about the others. She did. Callie’s my sister, and I didn’t even think?—
Wyatt’s hand finds my shoulder. Steadying.
“Chris.” Nina’s voice is gentle. Careful, like I’m something that might shatter. “You okay?”
“Define okay.”
“Capable of getting through the next few hours without doing something you’ll regret.”
I consider the question. Consider the man standing ten feet away, toweling off his hair like this is a spa retreat. Consider the weapon I’m still holding, the way my finger hasn’t left the trigger guard since I saw him.
“Yeah.” I set the Glock on the kitchen counter. Safety on. “I can get through the rest of the night.”
Wyatt rests a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. Warm. Solid. Real.
“We’re right here,” he says. “Whatever you need.”
I want to want him dead. It would be simpler if I did. But I know it wouldn’t help—wouldn’t undo any of it. I need him to never have touched me. I need to go back five years to that night in Colombia when they dragged me in hog-tied and naked, and I need to have died there instead of becoming what he made me. I played the part too well. Deep cover means becoming the lie, and some days I believed it so completely I forgot there was anything else. Now I can’t look at myself without remembering everything I did in his name.
But I can’t have any of that. So I nod, and I let them guide me toward the study.
The room is modern like everything else in this place. Clean lines, low leather sofas, floor-to-ceiling bookcases that look more decorative than functional. A sleek desk dominates one corner, angled to face the door. The main windows have shades, and someone’s already drawn them.
Through the clerestory windows I can see the sky—black and churning, lightning flickering in sheets. The storm’s getting worse, not better. Thunder rolls so close the walls vibrate.
Vicente claims the chair behind the desk without asking, settling in like he owns the place.
Arturo takes one of the leather sofas. Nina and Wyatt and I claim the other, as far from the desk as we can get. Lucia positions herself near the door, laptop open on a side table, one eye on the security feeds. Darius heads out to take his position at the front gate.
Nina’s restless beside me. I can feel it in the way she’s holding herself, contained energy, the therapist in her wanting to crack this room open and make everyone talk. She catches my eye, and I see the question there.
Do you want me to intervene?
I give a small shake of my head. Not yet.
The silence stretches. Rain hammers the roof like fists. Lightning turns everything white, then plunges us back into shadows.
Vicente’s gaze moves from me to Nina to Wyatt. Lingers on Wyatt. On his throat.
The bruises have faded, but they’re still visible. Finger-shaped marks that tell a story.
“You always did like to leave marks, Christopher.” Vicente’s tone is mild. Curious. “I’m glad you found someone who can take it.”
I know what he’s doing. Provoking. Poking at wounds to distract himself from his own fear, or maybe just out of boredom. Part of me wants to let it slide, refuse to give him the satisfaction.
But my hatred is rotting inside me. Poisoning everything I’m trying to build with Nina and Wyatt if I don’t cut it out. And he’s the only one who can help me do that.
“He couldn’t take it.” The words come out quieter than I expect. “I wasn’t there. I was with him, I was supposed to be present, and instead I checked out—went somewhere else—and when I came back my hands were around his throat and he was telling me to stop and I almost didn’t hear him.”
