“Interesting.” He exchanges a look with Arturo. “Secrets have a way of surfacing, Chris. Especially in therapeutic settings. Should I be concerned about what might come up in our sessions?”
The threat lands clean. If I make things difficult for them, they could make things very difficult for Nina. And for me.
“No,” I say. “You shouldn’t be concerned.”
“Good.” He stands, and Arturo follows. Vicente pauses, leans down just close enough that I can smell his cologne—the same one he wore in Mexico. His voice drops low, intimate. “The clothes are a nice touch, by the way. Very much like the boy I met all those years ago. Before I broke you.”
My hands curl into fists under the table, but I keep my expression neutral.
“Enjoy your evening, Chris. And do be careful. Nightclubs can be dangerous places. You never know who you might run into.”
They leave me sitting there with an untouched whiskey and adrenaline flooding my system, fight-or-flight response with nowhere to go.
Tatiana reappears as soon as they’re gone, sliding into the spot Volkov vacated.
“Well,” she says. “That looked like more than old business.”
“We should go.”
She studies me for a moment—whatever she sees makes her drop the teasing. “Fine. But you’re buying me a drink somewhere quieter. And tomorrow you’re going to tell me whether that encounter just helped us or hurt us.”
“It helped.” I’m not sure that’s true, but Cal would say it with confidence, so I do.
“Then you’re buying me two drinks.”
Sunday morning comes too early and too bright. I’m nursing a hangover and coffee when my phone rings.
Callie.
“Hey,” I answer, trying to sound less destroyed than I feel.
“Chris! I heard you’re in LA.”
“Yeah, work thing.”
“Are you staying through Wednesday? Mason’s doing his weekly barbecue. You should come.”
The invitation Nina already extended, now reinforced by family obligation. No way to avoid it now.
“I’ll have to check my schedule?—”
“Oh please. Mason already told me you’re clear Wednesday evening.” Her voice carries that particular Callie smugness when she’s caught me in something. “Nice try, though.”
Knowing Mason, he probably mentioned it casually, like operational security doesn’t exist in their marriage.
“That’s classified information,” I say, but there’s no heat in it.
“Then classify yourself as showing up. Six o’clock. And Chris? Don’t bring anything except yourself. Mason always makes too much food anyway.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I’m not Mom.”
“You sound more like her every day.”
“That’s terrifying.” A pause, then softer, “Besides, Zoey misses her Uncle Chris. She’s been practicing saying your name. It comes out like ‘Kiss.’“
She’s not playing fair, but she never has.
