Chapter 38 Nina #2
Callie’s wedding seems like ages ago, but the memory has stuck with me. The easy way Maddox talked about their relationship—It’s about creating space for different connections—and how that conversation cracked something open in me I didn’t even know was sealed shut.
The helicopter announces itself with a distant thrum that grows until it’s hovering over the helipad.
“Finally,” Celeste says, craning to see. “Toni said she was bringing a surprise.”
The four of us rise and head toward the fountain as the helicopter touches down.
Drake steps out first—tall, polished, carrying himself with the easy confidence of a man whose last name does the heavy lifting—with Elle a half-step behind. Ben and Baz follow, then Toni and Sam, Toni clutching an enormous soft-sided cooler she’s clearly been protecting with her life.
Elena and Marcella have moved toward the helipad to greet them.
I watch the two women embrace their respective daughters—Elena pulling Toni into a hug, Marcella doing the same with Elle—and find myself cataloging the ease between them.
No tension, no territorial posturing. Just two mothers welcoming their children home for the holiday.
It’s striking, given what I know. Arturo fathered daughters with both of them. Toni and Elle are half-sisters. And yet here are Elena and Marcella, standing side by side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Some families would shatter under that kind of history. This one just... absorbed it.
“Tamales!” Toni announces, holding up the bag as she heads toward the long table. “From that place in Barrio Logan. Since somebody canceled the tamalada this year.”
Elena’s expression goes flat.
“I had my reasons.”
“Yeah, your reasons are standing right over there.” Toni jerks her chin toward Vicente, who’s watching from near the fountain with studied neutrality. “But God forbid we let his existence stop us from—”
“Antonia,” her mother warns.
“No, you know what? Fine. You didn’t want to make tamales with your kids. Message received.” She holds up the bag. “At least Leo asked me to grab some so we’d have something.”
Vicente’s smile is small. Satisfied.
Toni catches it. She shoves the bag into Sam’s hands and crosses toward Vicente, her heels sharp against the stone. The distance closes between them, and Vicente’s smile widens as she approaches, like he’s been waiting for exactly this.
Beside me, Leo mutters, “Mierda.”
“Leo asked me,” Toni says when she reaches Vicente, voice low but carrying. Her eyes cut to Leo, who’s suddenly very interested in his drink. Celeste’s hand moves to his back, protective. “Because you asked him to.”
Vicente spreads his hands, all innocence. “I simply mentioned to a friend that I’d miss having tamales this year. That’s all.”
“That’s all.” Toni’s laugh is sharp and humorless. “You couldn’t just—you had to go through my best friend. You had to make me the one who twisted the knife for you.”
“Elena made her choice,” Vicente says calmly. “I wanted tamales. She refused. I found another way. Ask yourself who’s really being unreasonable here, mija.”
Toni flinches at the endearment. I remember, suddenly, that this man kidnapped her earlier this year. That she was leverage. That he held her life in his hands and used it.
“No te atrevas a llamarme así.” Her voice shakes. Don’t you dare call me that.
Sam appears at her elbow, having handed off the tamales somewhere. She lets him guide her toward the bar, but not before she throws one last look at Leo—hurt bleeding through the anger.
Elena watches them go from her post near the table. If she feels any victory, it doesn’t show. She just looks tired. Worn down in a way that speaks to decades, not a single afternoon.
Vicente turns to me—deliberately, I think, choosing his audience. That conspiratorial tone I recognize from our sessions slides into place. “You see what I have to deal with? I ask for one small thing. A tradition. And somehow I’m the monster.”
“Me traicionaste en mi propia cocina,” Elena says without turning around.
“Your kitchen.” He lets that sit for a beat. “In his house.”
The air between them crackles. Arturo steps forward from where he’d been watching near the bar, positioning himself like a buffer—a role he’s clearly played before.
“Ya basta.” Arturo’s voice is low but firm. “It’s a holiday. We’re going to enjoy it. All of us.”
Vicente inclines his head. The graciousness is flawless. The sincerity, absent. Elena disappears toward the kitchen without another word.
I file it away—the dynamic I’ve only heard described in sessions, now playing out in front of me. Vicente’s manipulation. Elena’s cold spite. The children caught in their war. Arturo trying to hold it all together.
Some things you have to see to understand.
Arturo turns to me once Elena is gone, something apologetic in his expression. “I’m sorry you had to witness that. Family gatherings can be... complicated.”
“I’m a therapist,” I say. “Complicated is familiar territory.”
Vicente laughs—genuine, I think, or a convincing imitation. “You see why we need you, Dr. Palmer.”
Seeing them here, in their home, surrounded by the family they’ve built—it’s different than the therapy room.
Vicente in a dark henley instead of tailored business casual.
Arturo in a linen shirt the color of sand, at ease in a way he never quite manages during our sessions.
Two men enjoying their first real holiday together in thirty years, even if the celebration comes with landmines.
“Thank you for coming,” Arturo says, and his warmth seems genuine. “It means a great deal to have you here.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” The professional distance I usually maintain feels inadequate. They’re not my clients right now. They’re hosts. “Your home is beautiful.”
“It’s Arturo’s,” Vicente says. “I’m just a guest who won’t leave.”
“A guest who rearranged my entire library,” Arturo counters. “And reorganized the wine cellar.”
“Improved both significantly.”
Their bickering is comfortable, lived-in. The kind that comes from decades of history, even when those decades were spent apart.
A hand touches my elbow—Chris, with Wyatt a step behind. They must have been watching the tamale situation unfold from across the courtyard.
“You okay?” Chris asks, voice low.
“Fine. Just observing.”
His jaw tightens as he takes in Vicente standing three feet away, but he keeps his expression neutral. Professional.
Wyatt catches Ben’s eye across the courtyard and lifts his chin in a subtle summons. Ben nudges Baz, and the twins extricate themselves from where they’d been hovering awkwardly between their mother and Toni—clearly grateful for the excuse.
“We should take that meeting,” Wyatt says to Vicente and Arturo, voice pitched for only our small group. “While everyone’s distracted.”
Vicente’s gaze flicks to Chris, assessing and curious, before he nods. “Arturo’s office. This way.”
“You okay if we—” Chris starts.
“Go,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates, his jaw working like he wants to say more. Then his hand brushes mine—brief, almost accidental—before he and Wyatt head inside with the twins. Vicente and Arturo follow a moment later, Arturo’s hand at the small of Vicente’s back as they slip away from the gathering.
They disappear into the house, Vicente and Arturo leading the way.
They haven’t told me what this meeting is about—need-to-know basis, operational security, all the phrases that mean you’re not cleared for this.
I’m here as Vicente and Arturo’s therapist, not as an intelligence asset.
The distinction matters to them, even if the lines feel increasingly blurred to me.
And here I am, surrounded by my clients’ entire extended family, pretending this is just Thanksgiving dinner.
Celeste sees me and tugs me toward the south wing.
“Come, let me show you Papá’s gallery. It’s his pride and joy.
” I gratefully let her take my hand and lead me through the garden, down a set of steps and into a climate controlled, hermetically sealed, but vast and well-lit art gallery that rivals most museums. It’s the perfect distraction from the chaos.