Chapter 35 Nina #2
“Great. That’s helpful.” I don’t bother hiding my frustration.
“Look, the compound is probably one of the most secure places I could be,” I counter.
“And Vicente and Arturo aren’t a threat to me.
They’re still figuring out how to be together again after years apart.
What their relationship looks like now. It’s not that different from what we’re doing.
” I pause, trying to articulate what I’ve observed in our sessions.
“I think after sharing what they’ve shared, they see me as family—not just a therapist. And by extension, you two as well.
I’ve watched how they are with people they consider theirs.
They’d burn the world down before letting anything happen to family. ”
A complicated expression that might be fear flickers across Chris’s face—there and gone so fast I almost miss it.
“This is them testing boundaries,” he says, voice flatter than before. “Seeing how much access you’ll give them. How far you’ll blur professional lines.”
“Or it’s just dinner. With family.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘just dinner’ with men like Vicente and Arturo.” Chris’s jaw is tight. “Every invitation has an agenda. Every gesture is calculated.”
“Chris, I hear you. But you’re asking me to distrust my own read on these men based on something you won’t tell me about.” I keep my voice steady. “Help me understand. Because right now I’m making clinical judgments without all the information, and that’s what’s dangerous.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then explain it to me. Help me understand why you’re so convinced this is dangerous.”
We stare at each other across the kitchen. Wyatt looks between us, clearly calculating intervention points.
“They’re cartel,” Chris finally says. “Former, maybe. Protected, definitely. But that doesn’t change what they are at their core. What they’re capable of.”
“I know what they are.”
“Do you? Because you keep talking about them like they’re just two complicated men trying to do better. But Vicente Amador—” He stops. Forces control back into his voice. “He’s not a good man, Nina. He never was.”
“I never said he was good. I said he was complex. Human.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive with being dangerous.”
“I know that too.”
Wyatt shifts. “What if we go with her?”
Both Chris and I turn to stare at him.
“What?” I ask.
“Think about it.” Wyatt leans against the counter, working through the logic. “If Nina decides to go—”
“I’m going,” I say. Both of them look at me. “Callie will be there. It’s a chance to build rapport with my clients in their own environment. And frankly, it might be Thanksgiving, but it’s still basically a dinner party—therapists attend client functions all the time. It’s not that unusual.”
“So if you’re going,” Wyatt continues, “we should go too. Turn it into an operational advantage.”
Chris’s eyes narrow. “What kind of advantage?”
“Access.” Wyatt straightens, warming to the idea. “We’ve been working this case from the outside. Gathering intel, building profiles, trying to figure out who’s connected to what. But if we’re actually inside their home, at a family gathering—”
“We can observe security,” Chris finishes slowly. “Family dynamics. Who’s there, who isn’t. What information they’re comfortable sharing in that environment.”
“Exactly.”
“And we could coordinate with both agencies,” Chris adds, thinking it through. “Get authorization to treat it as an intelligence-gathering opportunity rather than a social obligation.”
“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “This is supposed to be Thanksgiving. A family dinner. Not a surveillance operation.”
“It’s always a surveillance operation with them,” Chris says.
Not cruel. Just matter-of-fact. “You want to go because you see people trying to build a normal family experience. But they want you there because it serves their purposes somehow. Maybe it’s rapport-building, like you said.
Maybe it’s something else. Either way, there’s an agenda. ”
“That’s incredibly cynical.”
“That’s realistic.” He softens slightly. “Look, I’m not saying Vicente and Arturo don’t care about family. They clearly do. But caring about family doesn’t mean they don’t also have operational goals. With men like them, it’s always both. Always.”
I want to keep arguing. Want to defend my clients, insist they’re capable of simple human kindness without ulterior motives.
But I can’t. Because deep down, I know Chris is right.
“So we go,” Wyatt says. “But we go smart. Eyes open. Prepared.”
Chris looks at me. “You okay with that? With us treating your therapy clients’ family dinner as an intelligence opportunity?”
Am I? I’m supposed to be building trust, creating safe therapeutic space.
But I also walked into this knowing I’m an intelligence bridge between their world and the federal government.
That’s the whole point of this arrangement—disguising the fact that they’re cooperating with the feds so they can keep operating their way.
Using their hospitality for surveillance just makes that role more explicit.
“Fine,” I say finally. “We go. Together. But I need you both to promise me something.”
“What?” Chris asks.
“That you’ll try—really try—to see them as people. Not just as threats or assets or cartel scum. They’re complex, damaged men trying to rebuild their life together. Even if they’re also everything else you think they are.”
Not so different from the two men standing in my kitchen, really. But I keep that observation to myself.
Chris and Wyatt exchange a look.
“We’ll try,” Wyatt says.
“Chris?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “I’ll try. But I’m not making promises about what I’ll see.”
“That’s fair.”
He nods once. “I need to call McIntyre. Clear this with the Agency. And Wyatt, you’ll need—”
“Already know. I’ll coordinate with Walsh tomorrow.”
They’re already sliding into operational mode. Planning, strategizing, turning a family dinner into a mission.
I made my call. They can handle the logistics.
“I’m going to rest,” I announce. “You two can plot your reconnaissance of Thanksgiving dinner without me.”
Wyatt grins. “That obvious?”
“Extremely.”
Chris has the grace to look slightly guilty. “We’ll keep it simple.”
“Sure you will.”
I leave them to it, Nikita trailing behind me. In my bedroom, I can hear their voices continuing—lower now, more technical. Running scenarios, identifying risks, planning contingencies.
I curl up on my bed with Nikita purring against my side.
We never did have that conversation. The one Wyatt promised we’d try again “tomorrow.” Saturday came and went, then Sunday, and somehow we slipped into this comfortable rhythm of recovery and quiet domesticity without ever circling back to what I overheard in the dark.
He broke me down to remake me into something useful to him.
Chris’s words. About Vicente. About whatever happened during those years undercover that he still can’t—or won’t—explain.
I don’t have the full picture. Just fragments overheard at 3 AM, sharp-edged pieces that don’t quite fit together yet.
But I have enough to know that walking into Vicente’s home means something different to Chris than it does to me.
That when he looks at my client, he sees someone I haven’t met yet.
Someone he’s afraid I will.
Nikita kneads my hip, claws pricking through the blanket. I scratch behind her ears and stare at the ceiling, listening to the murmur of operational planning from the other room.
Thanksgiving should be interesting.