Chapter 38 Nina
Nina
The Flores compound announces itself before we even reach the gate—pale stucco walls visible through a corridor of palms, elegant Spanish Revival archways catching the afternoon light.
I’ve seen photos, heard descriptions from Callie, but nothing prepared me for the scale of it.
This isn’t a house. It’s a small kingdom carved into the Los Feliz hills.
Chris’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as we pull up to the security checkpoint.
He hasn’t said much since we left my place.
Neither has Wyatt, who’s been tracking our surroundings from the passenger seat with that quiet vigilance he gets when he’s working.
I’m in the back, conserving energy. Six days post-op and I’m functional, but my body reminds me with every speed bump that it’s still healing.
A guard approaches—young, professional, armed—and Chris rolls down his window.
“Dr. Palmer and guests,” he says. His voice is steady. Nothing in it betrays the fact that he spent several years of his life inside places like this, playing a role that nearly destroyed him. “We’re expected.”
The guard checks a tablet, nods, and waves us through.
The driveway curves downward through acacia trees and birds of paradise, everything lush and perfectly placed to suggest nature rather than the army of gardeners it must require.
Lucia and Darius are already here—I spot them near the garage, chatting with one of Arturo’s regular security staff.
They arrived an hour ago, posing as friends of Ben and Baz who’d agreed to provide extra coverage for the event.
With Arturo’s daughters all in attendance and Drake Stavros on the guest list, additional security didn’t raise any eyebrows.
“There’s a helipad,” Wyatt observes, nodding toward a flat expanse visible beyond the main structure. “Drake’s group hasn’t arrived yet.”
“The twins are with them?”
“Should be. We’ll want to loop them in on the threat intel—they ran security for Flores before they went to work for Drake. Know this compound better than anyone.”
Chris nods once, jaw tight.
I study the back of his head, the rigid line of his shoulders.
He’s been like this since Monday—present but distant, going through motions.
Wyatt told me he found Chris alone in his apartment, headphones on, listening to recordings of my therapy sessions.
Vicente’s voice on a loop. I don’t know exactly what he heard or why he was torturing himself with it, but I know it cost him something.
And I know he’s walking into that man’s home right now, about to share a meal with him, and there’s nothing I can do to make that easier.
The car rolls to a stop in a parking area beside a long expanse of open bays. Through the window, I can see vintage chrome gleaming inside the large garage—Arturo’s collection that Callie mentioned.
“Ready?” Wyatt asks, turning to look at both of us.
“No,” Chris says flatly. Then he opens his door and gets out.
Wyatt helps me from the car, his hand warm and steady at my elbow. I’m moving carefully—the incision sites don’t hurt exactly, but there’s a tenderness that reminds me not to push.
“You good?” he murmurs.
“I’m fine.” I smooth my dress—a deep burgundy wrap that Callie helped me pick specifically because it’s forgiving on my midsection. “Just need to pace myself.”
Chris is already scanning the property, cataloging exits and sightlines the way he does everywhere. His body language screams tactical assessment even as he tries to look casual. I wonder if Vicente will notice. I wonder if that’s the point.
The front entrance is a heavy wooden door set beneath an archway, flanked by terracotta pots overflowing with bougainvillea.
Before we reach it, the door swings open and Elena appears—silver-streaked hair pulled back, quiet authority in every line of her posture.
Decades of running this household have settled into her bones.
“Nina.” Her smile is warm. “Welcome. And your guests?”
“Wyatt Booth and Chris Longo,” I say. “Thank you for having us.”
Elena’s gaze lingers on Chris a beat too long—watching him watch the perimeter, maybe cataloging his vigilance. But she recovers quickly, stepping aside to usher us in.
“The family is gathering in the courtyard. We have tapas out now, and we’ll sit down for dinner in about an hour.”
“That sounds lovely,” I say. “Thank you.”
The interior is exactly what I expected from my sessions—tasteful, expensive, art everywhere.
But seeing it in person adds dimension. The hallway opens onto a vast living area, comfortable despite its size, with more of those elegant arches framing the space.
French doors stand open to a central courtyard embraced by the wings of the house: a fountain at its center, three nymphs in classical bronze with water cascading from the shells they hold aloft, garden beds lush with bird of paradise, sage, and agave.
Beyond, I can see a fenced pool area and the flat expanse of the helipad, the city sprawling beneath us in layers.
Last night’s storm left the air crystalline, that particular Los Angeles clarity that makes the hills look close enough to touch. The afternoon sun pours gold across the terra cotta tiles, and somewhere in the garden, jasmine is blooming—sweet and heavy on the November air.
“Nina!”
Callie appears from the courtyard, Zoey balanced on her hip and a diaper bag slung over her shoulder.
The knot between my shoulder blades eases at the sight of her—cream sweater, loose dark slacks, hair loose, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen her in weeks.
She’s heading toward a powder room off the foyer, but stops short when she sees me.
“You made it.” She pulls me into a one-armed hug, careful of my midsection. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired but good.” I nod toward Zoey. “Emergency?”
“She has impeccable timing.” Callie shifts Zoey higher on her hip. “I swear she waits until the worst possible—”
“I’ve got her.” Mason appears behind Callie, Marcella at his side. He lifts Zoey from Callie’s arms and snags the diaper bag in one smooth motion. “Go. Catch up.”
Zoey reaches for me with grabby hands as Mason turns toward the powder room, but he redirects her. “Not today, mija. Aunt Nina needs gentle.”
“Nee-na,” Zoey says solemnly over his shoulder, as if confirming she understands.
Marcella pulls me into a careful hug before following them. “You look tired, chérie,” she says, studying my face with that maternal concern I’ve come to expect from her. “Are you taking care of yourself?”
“I’m fine. Just a long week.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she squeezes my hand and heads toward the kitchen, leaving me with Callie.
“How are you really?” Callie asks, her voice lower now. “And don’t give me the polished answer.”
“Nervous,” I admit. “It’s one thing to treat them in my office. It’s another to eat turkey with their entire family.”
“You’ll be fine. Just remember—half these people are criminals and the other half are sleeping with them.” She grins. “Still more ethical than Mom’s donor dinners.”
I snort. “That’s a low bar.”
“And yet.”
Chris and Wyatt have drifted slightly apart—Chris gravitating toward the perimeter while Wyatt positions himself near the French doors.
It’s our first time out together in public, the three of us, and I’m suddenly aware of how little I know about navigating this.
Do we stand together? Touch casually? Pretend we’re just friends?
They’re not making it easier. Both of them have slipped into operational mode, scanning the space like it’s a threat assessment rather than a family gathering. I want to grab them both by the arm and hiss act normal, but I’m not sure any of us know what that looks like yet.
The courtyard is larger than it first appeared—a broad stone patio shaded by a pergola dripping with wisteria, the vines bare now but the structure still graceful.
Elena’s staff has set up a long table that stretches the length of the space, white linens catching the light, place settings gleaming.
Tall propane heaters stand at intervals like sentries, unlit for now but ready for when the November evening turns cool.
Beyond the garden wall, the fenced pool glitters in the late afternoon sun, and past that the city unfolds in layers—Silver Lake, Echo Park, the downtown towers catching the light. On a day this clear, you can see all the way to the ocean.
A bar has been set up near the fountain, and people cluster around it in loose groups—cocktails in hand, settling into the comfortable shorthand of family, even when family is this complicated. A server in black and white approaches with a tray of champagne flutes, but I shake my head.
“Sparkling water, if you have it?”
She nods and returns a moment later with a glass. I thank her and let myself drift, taking in the scene.
The food appears in waves. Platters of manchego and membrillo. Ceviche in delicate glass cups. Elena’s empanadas, bite-sized and perfect. Dates stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in ham.
It feels good to move after a week of enforced rest. I wander the courtyard’s edges, stretching legs that have spent too long horizontal, letting the afternoon sun warm my face.
Zoey toddles between groups, accepting bites of food like tribute from her subjects.
Near the fire pit—a sunken seating area by the pool, unlit for now—Maddox is teaching Leo something on his phone while Celeste laughs at both of them.
I drift closer, drawn by the easy warmth of their little cluster, and Celeste looks up as I approach.
“Nina!” She pulls me into a hug like we’ve known each other for years instead of one drunken wedding reception conversation. “I’m so glad you came. Papá hasn’t stopped talking about you since you started working with them.”
“All good things, I hope.”
“Terrifying things, mostly. About how you see right through them.” She grins. “Which tracks, honestly.”