Arturo squeezes Rafael’s shoulder once, but he can’t sit still. His knee starts bouncing, then his fingers tap against his thigh. After a few minutes he pushes to his feet again and starts pacing by the window, the restless movement of a man who needs somewhere to put his fear.
The waiting continues.
The surgeon finds us just before noon.
She’s a tired-looking woman in her fifties, scrub cap still on, reading glasses pushed up over the edge of her cap. She scans the room: Arturo frozen mid-pace, Rafael half out of his chair, the rest of us rising to our feet.
“Family of Vicente Amador?”
“I’m his partner.” Arturo’s voice is rough. “How is he?”
“He’s out of surgery. Stable.” She consults her tablet. “The bullet missed his heart, but there was significant blood loss and some damage to the surrounding tissue. We’ve repaired what we could. He’s being moved to recovery now.”
Arturo’s shoulders drop. Rafael sinks back into his chair, one hand pressed to his mouth.
“Prognosis?” I ask.
“Cautiously optimistic. The next twenty-four hours will tell us more, but barring complications, I expect a full recovery. Several weeks of healing, physical therapy, restricted activity.” She glances at Arturo. “He’s a lucky man. One inch lower and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Lucky. That’s one word for it.
“When can we see him?” Arturo asks.
“He’ll be in recovery for the next few hours, then we’ll move him to the ICU for observation. Once he’s settled there, immediate family can visit. I’ll have someone come get you.” Her eyes move to Rafael. “You’re family?”
“His son.”
She nods and makes a note on her tablet. “I’ll make sure you’re both on the list. The rest of you are welcome to wait in the ICU family area—it’s more comfortable.”
She moves on to her next crisis. The weight that’s been pressing on my chest since the helicopter lifted off eases slightly.
Chris still hasn’t said anything. He’s been silent since we left the safe house, locked somewhere inside his own head.
“Hey.” I touch his shoulder. “You hear that? He’s going to make it.”
Chris nods once, a mechanical movement. His eyes are somewhere else—maybe in that study, watching Vicente’s chest bloom red. Maybe further back than that.
“Let’s go find the ICU waiting area,” Nina says quietly. “We can figure out the rest from there.”
The ICU family waiting area is marginally better than surgical. Newer chairs, softer lighting, a coffee machine that actually works. Lucia’s already here, having arrived separately to coordinate with hospital security and agency personnel. She gives us a brief nod when we enter, then goes back to her phone.
A nurse comes for Arturo and Rafael a few hours later. “He’s been moved to the ICU,” she says. “He’s awake. Groggy, but asking for you.”
Arturo is through the door before she finishes speaking. Rafael follows more slowly, uncertainty in every step. If Vicente was unconscious for the helicopter ride, this will be the first time his father actually sees him.
The door closes behind them. We settle in to wait again.
I’m halfway through a cup of bad coffee when the elevator opens and Callie steps out.
She looks tired. She probably had a long night at work herself, given what the storm did to the roads. But she’s here. Mason’s behind her, a duffel bag over his shoulder.
“Oh, honey.” Callie crosses to Nina first, pulling her into a hug. “You sounded awful on the phone. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Nina sinks into the embrace for a moment—really sinks, her whole body going soft in a way it hasn’t since before the shooting. I watch her shoulders tremble once before she pulls it together and steps back. “You didn’t have to come.”
“Of course I did. Mason was going to pack you all matching cargo shorts.” She shoots her husband a look. “I intervened.”
Mason shrugs, unrepentant, and hands over the duffel. Inside: sweats for me and Chris, yoga pants and a soft sweater for Nina, toiletries, protein bars, phone chargers. All practical. All exactly what we need.
