“I’m not interested in the fiction of normalcy,” I add. “You live in a house full of history. Children. Lovers. Staff. Visitors. Power doesn’t leave a relationship untouched. Neither does grief. Or surveillance. Or betrayal.”
Arturo’s eyes narrow, not in challenge but consideration. Vicente doesn’t drop his gaze, but he’s not smirking now either. They’re recalibrating. Adjusting to the fact that this isn’t a debrief, that I intend to make them do the work, and that I know enough to find some of their cracks.
I give them a few seconds to absorb it, then press forward.
“Tell me about your mornings.”
Vicente raises an eyebrow. “Mornings?”
“Yes. Walk me through it.”
“Arturo makes the coffee,” Vicente says after a beat. “Black. Strong enough to dissolve a spoon.”
“I don’t like waiting for caffeine,” Arturo says, voice low but not entirely dry. There’s a hint of warning beneath the surface—habit, not hostility.
Vicente shoots him a sideways glance, amused. “He’s territorial about the machine. No one else is allowed to touch it.”
Arturo shifts slightly, his hand brushing his knee. “I don’t like explaining myself twice.”
It isn’t sharp. Just matter-of-fact. Like he’s used to being obeyed.
I nod, filing that away. “Territory. Structure. Predictability. All of those are useful.”
Vicente watches me closely. “You’re not asking about the deal. Or the arrangement. Or the chain of command.”
“I’m asking about you,” I say. “That’s the assignment.”
Arturo leans back for the first time, just slightly. “They don’t just want intel, do they? They want psychological profiling. Stability metrics.”
“They want insight into how you function. I can only provide that if I see you as you are.”
“Meaning what?” Vicente asks. Less deflection this time.
“Meaning I want to know who picks the music. Who leaves dishes in the sink. Who disappears when things get hard.”
“Neither of us,” Arturo says. Instantly. Followed by, “Not anymore.”
That answer came fast. Clean. The kind of response most men this powerful would bury beneath dominance or bravado—if it were spontaneous. I file it. Too early to know if it’s progress or polish.
I glance at Vicente. He nods, slow and certain. No hesitation. No need to elaborate.
I pick up my tablet and jot a single line.
One of them names the wound. The other acknowledges it.
When I look up again, they’re both still watching me. Waiting.
Good.
I wait for more. When neither elaborates, I lean forward slightly. “That’s significant. Most people spend years avoiding that kind of vulnerability.”
Arturo glances toward Vicente, then back to me. “We ran out of time for pretending.”
A longer silence follows. I let it stretch. There’s something bigger here—loss, grief, maybe regret—but now isn’t the time to excavate it. This session is about taking the shape of them, not digging too deep until they’re ready to open up on their own.
“I’d like to understand your household,” I say. “From what I know, it’s multigenerational. There are children, staff, other family members.”
Arturo nods. “Celeste is my daughter. She’s thirty now, but she’s never left home. Her partners moved in a few years ago.”
