Rafael goes stiff for a second, surprised. Then his arms come up and he hugs her back.
“I’m Celeste,” she says when she pulls away, hands still on his shoulders. “Lola was my mother. Which makes you my cousin.”
“I know.” His voice is rough. “My mother never stopped talking about her sister. I grew up on stories.”
Celeste’s eyes brighten. “I’d like to hear them sometime.”
“I’d like that too.”
She squeezes his shoulders once more, then steps back. The beginning of a connection neither of them expected.
Chris steps forward, and the energy shifts.
“We need to talk,” he says. His voice is professional, level. “You’ve got intel we need.”
Rafael doesn’t resist. “I figured. I’ll go wherever you need me.”
56
Wyatt
Lucia finds us a quiet room down the hall, one of those family consultation spaces where doctors deliver bad news. Small, private, a box of tissues on the table that nobody touches. Nina stays with Celeste and Callie. Rafael takes a seat. Chris and I remain standing.
I pull out my phone, set it on the table between us. “This is going to be recorded and sent up the chain. You okay with that?”
Rafael nods. “I expected as much.”
I hit record. “Start from the beginning,” Chris says. “How did you find out about the assassination plot?”
Rafael leans back in his chair. “My mother has connections. She runs a resort empire in Cancún, but that’s not all she runs. When money started moving through certain channels—Serbian money, Japanese money—she heard about it.”
“And she told you?”
“She told me they were coming for Vicente Amador.” He pauses. “She never told me who my father was. I’d been looking for years, following threads she thought were just curiosity. When she mentioned the name, I did my own digging. The timeline matched. So did other things.” He shrugs. “I confronted her. She admitted it.”
“So you came to warn him.”
“I tried. But have you ever tried to get close to that man? His security is impressive. And I had no proof of who I was—just my mother’s word, which she wasn’t willing to give publicly.” Rafael’s mouth twists. “So I found another way in.”
“Dr. Palmer.”
“She was the only person who had regular access to Vicente without going through his security. I watched her for weeks, tried a few different approaches.” He shrugs. “Eventually one worked.”
“Walk us through the network,” I say. “Serbian and Yakuza—how did they connect?”
“Money. The Serbians wanted revenge for their leadership—Vicente and Arturo dismantled their operation earlier this year. The Yakuza wanted revenge for their oyabun. They pooled resources, hired professionals. Ex-Mossad, some freelancers. The contract was substantial.”
“How substantial?”
“Enough to attract serious talent.” Rafael’s expression darkens. “The two who came last night weren’t the only ones. There’s a network. Probably scattered now that the primary hitters failed, but others are still out there. Waiting.”
“Can you give us names? Locations?”
“Some. My mother’s people are still working on the rest.” He pauses. “I’ll cooperate fully. Whatever you need. Vicente is—” He stops. “He’s my father. I didn’t come this far to lose him now.”
“One more thing,” Chris says. “We ran you through every database we have access to. You don’t exist. No birth certificate, no school records, no tax filings. Nothing.”
Rafael’s expression doesn’t change. “By design.”
