The ICU is hushed, all soft beeps and murmured conversations. A nurse leads us to a window that looks into one of the rooms, then steps back to give us space. Nina hangs back, recounting things in more detail to Callie and Mason.
Vicente is in the bed, pale against the white sheets, tubes and monitors marking the boundaries of his survival. His eyes are open now, focused on the two men at his bedside. Arturo sits on one side, hand wrapped around Vicente’s like he’s afraid to let go.
And on the other side—Rafael.
He’s still wearing the clothes from last night, torn and bloodstained from his fight on the roof. Someone’s cleaned the wound on his temple, but the bruising is vivid against his skin. He’s leaning forward in his chair, and Vicente’s hand is on his face, thumb tracing the line of his jaw.
The son Vicente never knew he had. And Rafael had been searching for a way in the whole time.
Vicente’s mouth moves. I can’t hear the words through the glass, but I can see the tears on both their faces. See Rafael’s shoulders shake. See Arturo watching them both—grief and relief and hope, all tangled together on his face.
I glance at Chris.
He’s watching the scene through the glass, face absolutely still. But his hands are trembling slightly at his sides.
“He wanted this so badly,” Chris says, barely audible. “A son. An heir. Someone to carry on what he built. He did terrible things trying to find it.” A pause. “Sometimes I felt like some fucked up stand-in. For the love he lost. For the son he never had.”
“And now he has the real thing.”
Chris nods. Doesn’t speak. But I can see it in his jaw, the set of his shoulders—jealousy and relief and resentment, none of it sorted, none of it resolved.
“That’s a lot to carry,” I say quietly. “Nina could help you work through it.”
His jaw tightens. “I’ve put her through enough. Both of you. I’m not going to dump all my shit on her too.”
“There are other therapists in the world. The Agency employs some good ones, I’m sure.”
Chris is quiet for a long moment. “Maybe.”
It’s not a no. I’ll take it.
The elevator announces another arrival. I turn to see Celeste striding toward us, Maddox and Leo flanking her like bodyguards. Her face is tight with fear, hair still mussed from sleep, wearing what looks like whatever she grabbed first from her closet.
“Where is he?” she demands. “Is he out of surgery? Is he?—”
“He’s stable,” Nina says, stepping smoothly into Celeste’s path. She catches the other woman’s hands, holds them. Makes Celeste look at her. “He’s in there. He’s going to be okay.”
Celeste’s breathing slows, just slightly. Nina has that effect—she can walk into a room full of panic and bring everyone’s heart rate down by sheer presence. I’ve watched her do it a dozen times now. It still catches me off guard how good she is at it.
Celeste pushes past her toward the glass—then stops dead.
“Who the hell is that?”
The worry on her face has hardened into suspicion. Protective, territorial. I’ve seen the files on Celeste Flores. She’s been integral to her father’s business since the federal deal, sharp and capable, but she lost her mother to this world when she was eight years old. She doesn’t trust strangers at her family’s bedside.
She moves toward the door. I step into her path.
“Celeste. Wait.”
“Get out of my way. I don’t know who that man is, but?—”
“That’s Rafael.” Nina’s voice has shifted into the therapist register, calm and steady. “He’s Vicente’s son.”
Celeste stares at her. “Vicente doesn’t have a son.”
“Nobody knew.”
The words hang there. Behind us, Maddox and Leo have gone still, watching the scene with careful attention.
