Chapter 12 Nina #2
Vicente nods once. “We had power then. But not choice. Not real choice.”
I wait. Let the silence pull more from them.
“Power without choice is just expensive slavery,” Vicente continues. “You project strength because weakness gets you killed. You enforce control because chaos means death. You pretend until you forget there’s a person underneath the mask.”
His voice has gone quieter. More real.
Arturo’s eyes never leave Vicente’s face. “We can afford to be ourselves now. To want small things. To care about shadows and flowers and whether the coffee’s too weak.”
“Because you have actual power now,” I say. “Not just the performance of it.”
“Exactly.” Vicente straightens, and the man who told me about Esteban Solis resurfaces—the one who commanded rooms full of killers. Then it softens again. “Real power is being able to choose vulnerability. Being able to say ‘I don’t want to be the one who decides tonight’ and know you’re safe.”
The observation hangs in the air. Men conditioned to see love as weakness. Need as failure.
“Someone once wrote that the first act of violence patriarchy demands of men is not violence against women,” I say carefully. “It’s the violence of emotional self-mutilation.”
Vicente’s eyebrows lift. Arturo leans forward.
“You’ve read bell hooks,” Vicente says. It’s not a question.
“You have too.”
“Celeste’s influence,” he admits. “She left The Will to Change on my nightstand with a note that said ‘required reading for stubborn patriarchs.’“ He pauses. “I don’t use her language. But she wasn’t wrong.”
Arturo’s mouth twitches. “She left me the same book. Different note. Hers said ‘for men who think feelings are a luxury they can’t afford.’“
“And what did you think?” I press.
They exchange another look, as if coming to a silent understanding for the first time.
“I thought she was right,” Arturo says finally. “I spent forty years cutting away pieces of myself because they seemed inconvenient. Impractical. Dangerous.” He pauses. “I nearly lost everything that mattered because I thought being invulnerable was the same as being strong.”
Vicente reaches over, not quite touching Arturo’s hand but close enough to offer the option. Arturo doesn’t take it, but he doesn’t move away either.
“We’re learning,” Vicente says. “How to want things. Need things. Ask without it feeling like surrender.”
The honesty in the room has shifted something. Made the air feel cleaner.
I glance at the clock on the side table. Forty minutes. The session should be winding down, but I’m not ready to let this go. Not when they’re finally peeling back layers most clients spend months protecting.
“What does that look like day to day?”
“It looks like Arturo admitting when he’s tired instead of working until he collapses,” Vicente says. “It looks like me saying ‘I missed you’ when he comes home instead of pretending I don’t notice he was gone.”
“It looks like fighting about gardens instead of territory,” Arturo adds. “Arguing about aesthetics instead of control.”
I nod, making another note. Not for the Agency—they have everything they need from the recording. This is for me. For the part of me that still believes in the possibility of repair.
“How long did it take?” I continue. “To get here.”
“We’re still getting here,” Vicente says. “Every day.”
By the time I check the clock, fifty-three minutes have passed. The session has run long, but I don’t regret it. This—this honesty, this careful excavation of intimacy—this is why I’m here.
Not just for the Agency. For me. To remember what healing looks like when people commit to it.
“Next week,” I say, as they rise.
Vicente offers a small nod. “We’ll be here.”
Arturo stands more slowly, but his expression is lighter than when they arrived. “Same time?”
“Same time,” I confirm.
They move toward the door with the same practiced choreography they entered with, but something has shifted. The space between them feels softer somehow. More permeable.
Vicente pauses at the threshold. “Dr. Palmer?”
I look up from my notes.
“Thank you,” he says simply. “For seeing us as we are.”
I start to nod but stop. “I appreciate the level of willingness you both showed to share today, all things considered.” I cock my head sideways as if toward one of the invisible cameras.
Arturo’s mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile. “The truth is the only thing we own that can’t be taken from us anymore, Dr. Palmer. Everything else—money, property, freedom—is negotiable.”
Vicente nods, his gaze steady. “In our previous lives, every word was calculated. Every truth was a liability. Now?” He spreads his hands. “Our transparency is our armor. The moment you have nothing to hide is the moment you become truly untouchable.”
I watch them leave, their footsteps fading as the door closes behind them.
They’re right, of course. There’s a certain invulnerability that comes with radical honesty.
But I wonder what truths they’re still keeping—not from the Agency, not from me, but from each other.
Some wounds heal too perfectly, leaving no visible scar but changing everything beneath the surface.
After they leave, I sit in the silence for a long moment. The room still holds traces of their presence—the faint scent of Arturo’s cologne, the impression left by their weight on the sofa cushions. But more than that, it holds the echo of something real. Something that might actually heal.
I walk to the door and step into the reception area in the foyer. Darius is at his desk, fingers dancing over his fidget cube while he reviews intake schedules on his monitor.
“How’d it go?” he asks, not looking up.
“Better than expected.” I lean against the doorframe. “What’s my next appointment?”
He glances at his screen. “Petrov evaluation at one-thirty. Should be interesting.”
“Any word on what specifically they want assessed?”
“Psychological fitness for ongoing asset integration. Standard trauma-informed eval to determine optimal handling protocols.” He finally looks up, dark eyes serious. “She’s been through some serious shit, from what I understand. They want to make sure she won’t crack under pressure.”
I nod. Standard enough. “How long do I have?”
“Hour and a half. Want me to grab you lunch? There’s a decent poke place around the corner, or I can do a coffee run if you just need fuel.”
“Poke sounds good, actually. Spicy tuna if they have it.” I realize I haven’t eaten since the piece of toast Callie forced on me this morning. “And buzz me when she arrives?”
“You got it.”
I retreat to my office and close the door. Record the mandatory session notes on autopilot—clinical language, professional observations, none of what actually mattered. When I’m done, I set the phone aside.
Darius knocks and enters with a takeout container, setting it on my desk with a bottle of sparkling water. “Spicy tuna with extra avocado.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
He pauses at the door. “You okay? You look a little pale.”
I manage a smile. “Just reviewing my session notes. I’m fine.”
After he leaves, I pick at the poke while reviewing the Petrov file. The fish is fresh, perfectly seasoned, but I can barely taste it. My stomach is still tender from the last two days, and the wasabi makes my eyes water.
The file on Tatiana Petrov is thin. Too thin. Three pages of basic biographical data, criminal associations, and a terse summary of her extraction circumstances. Former Serbian mafia. Worked for Bogdan Corluka before his arrest. Cooperating witness status. High-value intelligence asset.
But nothing about her psychological state. Nothing about trauma history. Nothing about what broke her enough to flip on her former associates.
The photo shows a woman in her early thirties with sharp cheekbones and pale eyes that seem to look straight through the camera. Dark hair cut in a messy bob. No expression. She looks like someone who learned early that showing nothing was safer than showing anything.
I’ve seen that look before. In the mirror, sometimes. In clients who’ve survived things that shouldn’t be survivable.
My phone buzzes. A text from Callie:
CALLIE: How’s the first day going? You holding up okay?
I stare at the message, throat tight, even though I’m used to the twice-a-day check-ins.
She was with me through everything just two days ago—the bathroom floor, the tears, the drive to Dr. Keaton’s office.
She held my hand through the worst of it and didn’t leave until she was sure I could stand on my own.
I type back:
NINA: First session went better than expected. Clients are complex but genuine. I’m okay. Really.
CALLIE: Good. Call me tonight if you need anything. Anything at all. Also Mason’s talking about doing his famous carne asada sometime next week if you want to come. Nothing fancy, just family dinner in the backyard. In case you want some normalcy for a change.
NINA: Sounds perfect.
I set the phone down and return to the file. Three pages. Twenty minutes until she arrives. I need to be ready for anything.
The intercom buzzes.
“Your one-thirty is here,” Darius says.
I glance at the clock. She’s early. I close the file and stand, smoothing my skirt, checking my reflection in the dark computer screen. Professional smile in place. Ready.
I walk to the door and open it, expecting to see a sharp-featured woman with black hair and pale eyes.
Instead, Chris Longo is sitting in my waiting room.
He looks up when the door opens, and for a moment neither of us moves. He’s in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. His hair is slightly longer than it was at the wedding, and there are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there before. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Hello, Nina,” he says quietly.
My professional composure cracks. Just for a second. But I feel it happen—the careful mask slipping, my heart rate spiking, my breath catching in my throat.
“Chris.” I manage to keep my voice steady. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He stands slowly, hands at his sides. “I know. I’m sorry for the surprise. Can we talk?”