I don’t pull away.
“I know,” I say.
Arturo’s hands are steady on the wound but his voice isn’t. “Por favor, Dios, no me lo quites ahora. Acabo de recuperarlo. Por favor.”
Please, God, don’t take him from me now. I just got him back. Please.
The words hit somewhere I wasn’t expecting. Vicente told me once, in a rare unguarded moment, about the night that drove them apart. One night when they were young, just the two of them without Lola between them—and Arturo couldn’t face what it meant. Ran from it. Ran from Vicente. And they spent thirty years punishing each other for that shame.
If they can find their way back after all that wreckage, maybe I’m not beyond saving either.
“Helicopter’s eight minutes out,” Lucia says. “They’ll fly him inland to West Hills—UCLA has a trauma center there.”
“I know it,” Callie says from the phone. “I’ll call ahead.”
Vicente’s grip loosens on my wrist. His eyes flutter.
“Stay awake,” Callie says. “Vicente. Stay with us.”
He doesn’t respond.
The helicopter lands on the back lawn, rotors flattening what’s left of the storm into swirling chaos.
The paramedics take over, their movements efficient and grim. Vicente’s on a stretcher, IV in his arm, oxygen mask over his face. Arturo’s right beside him, refusing to let go of his hand.
“I’m going with him,” Arturo says. Not a question.
“Agents will meet you at West Hills,” Lucia tells him. “We need to secure this location and make sure there aren’t more coming.”
Rafael steps toward the helicopter. He’s soaked, bruised, blood smeared across his temple, but he hasn’t left Vicente’s side since we got back inside.
Arturo looks at him. Really looks.
“Get in,” Arturo says. “You’re our son. Of course you’re coming with us.”
Rafael’s shoulders tense, then release. He nods once and climbs in.
The helicopter lifts off, disappearing into the gray sky. The storm’s finally breaking, rain softening, the worst of it moving inland.
I watch it go. Nina slides her arm around my waist. Wyatt’s shoulder presses against my other side.
“He might not make it,” Nina says quietly.
“I know.”
“How do you feel about that?”
I consider the question. The man who shaped me, who broke me, who finally offered something that looked like genuine remorse. The man bleeding out in a helicopter somewhere over the Pacific.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Ask me when this is over.”
If it’s ever over. If any of this ever ends.
Somewhere in the house, Lucia’s securing the captured assassin for interrogation. The other one’s been pulled from the pool—Yakuza, based on the tattoos running up his forearms. Just like Rafael tried to warn us. Rafael’s in a helicopter watching his biological father hover between life and death.
And I’m standing here, with Nina and Wyatt, trying to figure out what comes next.
“We should go inside,” Wyatt says. “Lucia will want to debrief.”
