Nina
The air in the room shifts. My pulse kicks once, hard, but I keep my expression neutral. Professional.
Does he know about Chris? About us?
He must. These men didn’t survive by being careless about the people in their orbit. But the way he said it—not a threat, not even particularly pointed. Just a question designed to hit its mark.
Chris was undercover in Vicente’s organization—I know that much. But how much does Vicente know about the man who very likely helped orchestrate his fall? Did Chris wear a different name, a different face? Or does Vicente know exactly who Chris Longo is?
The thought chills me. Vicente was the operation—Chris lived in his world for years, close enough to gather intelligence that helped bring everything down. Close enough to—what? To earn trust? To betray it? What kind of proximity did that require?
Stop. Professional boundaries. Whatever Chris was to this man, whatever Vicente knows or doesn’t know about who Chris really is—that’s not my concern here. I’m their therapist, not an investigator piecing together classified history.
“In my experience,” I say carefully, “people change during separations. Coming back together often means learning who you’ve each become.”
Vicente nods slowly, like I’ve confirmed something. “Exactly. We’re not the same men who walked away from each other thirty years ago. Neither of us would want to be. But we haven’t forgotten who we were either.”
Arturo’s gaze flicks between us, reading the undercurrent. He doesn’t speak, but his posture has shifted almost imperceptibly. More alert.
I’m reminded why these men are in protective custody rather than prison. Why they’re assets instead of inmates. They see everything. Miss nothing. And they can weaponize a casual observation with razor accuracy.
“That must have been... challenging to navigate,” I manage.
“All the best things are,” Vicente says, settling back into the cushions like nothing happened. But his eyes never leave my face. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
I study them. The way they don’t look at each other, but they don’t contradict either. This isn’t a show. But Vicente has just shifted the power dynamic in the room, and I need to get it back.
“What are you hoping to get out of these sessions?” I ask, steering us back to safer ground.
This is where most couples stall. Where deflection takes over. But neither man looks away.
Vicente answers first. “Clarity.”
Then Arturo adds, “Endurance.”
That, too, matters.
“What’s the last thing you fought about?” I ask.
Arturo doesn’t answer. Vicente does.
“The garden. He doesn’t like the landscaper.”
“I don’t like being billed for bad design,” Arturo mutters.
“You tore out a whole bed of salvia because it clashed with the new sculpture we chose.”
“It did.”
The ease between them surprises me. Not the disagreement—that’s normal. It’s how they disagree. No edge. No underlying threat. Just two people who’ve earned the right to be particular about their shared space.
“So aesthetics matter to you both,” I observe.
“Control matters,” Arturo says.
“Balance,” Vicente corrects, then glances at his partner. “Though your idea of balance involves replanting the entire east garden because you didn’t like how the morning light hit the fountain.”
“The shadows were wrong.”
