Chapter 40 Chris
Chris
“I need a minute,” Nina murmurs to Callie, and I track the movement before I’ve consciously decided to. The way she braces one hand on the table as she rises. The careful way she moves—still favoring her midsection, still healing.
“I’m fine,” she says when I half-stand. “Just need to rest my eyes.”
I should go with her. But Mason’s mid-sentence beside me, and Wyatt’s across the table with his foot still pressed against the empty space where hers was, and if both of us follow her to the fire pit it’ll look like what it is. Protective. Possessive. Obvious.
So I sit back down and watch her walk away, and I tell myself she’s fine. She’s just tired. She’s six days post-op and surrounded by strangers and she needs five minutes alone.
Sadie and Marco drift that direction a few minutes later. Social. Harmless. Probably.
Wyatt waits a beat for her to settle, then rises and wanders toward the bar. Watchful, but not hovering. I try to focus on the conversation again. Sam, Maddox, and Leo sip their beers, listening while Mason continues his diatribe.
“—which is why I told the inspector he could shove his timeline up his ass,” Mason is saying. “Three weeks to review a permit revision that took them two days to reject in the first place.”
“Mm.” I drag my attention back to him. The house. He’s talking about building the house. “Sounds about right for LA.”
Mason continues his rant about his contractor threatening to walk, the electrician who won’t return calls, why half of LA construction ends up unpermitted in the first place. I nod at what I hope are appropriate intervals while my brain chews on what happened in Arturo’s office.
They knew.
Vicente and Arturo have known about the contract for weeks. Serbian money, Yakuza muscle, old grudges converging into an active threat. They’d sat in Arturo’s office treating it like a scheduling conflict. An inconvenience to be managed.
We’re aware of the threat, Arturo had said, calm as ever. We have resources in place. Our security is more than adequate.
And Vicente, lounging in that leather chair like he owned the room, had added: These things tend to resolve themselves. The people who want us dead have wanted us dead for thirty years. We’re still here.
Like it was nothing. Like Nina wasn’t sitting in their courtyard, still recovering, surrounded by people who could become collateral damage if the Serbians decided today was the day.
I’d wanted to grab him by the throat. Ask if he’d considered what happens when assassins can’t get to their primary targets and settle for secondary ones. Say she’s not a fucking acceptable loss.
Didn’t say any of it. Couldn’t.
Because Vicente was watching me the whole time. That patient, assessing look I remember too well, cataloging my reactions, filing them away for later use. If I showed how much Nina mattered, he’d have leverage. He’d find a way to use it.
“—anyway, hopefully we’ll be in by spring. You okay? You look like you’re somewhere else.”
“Long day.” I force my attention back to Mason. “You should talk to Wyatt’s contact at the DEA field office—his brother-in-law’s a contractor. Might have leads on subs who actually show up.”
He gives me a look that says he knows I’m deflecting, but he’s too polite to call me on it. That’s Mason. Reads a room better than most agents I’ve worked with, knows when to push and when to let something slide.
Across the courtyard, Vicente is holding court near the bar. Drake and Arturo flank him, Elle contributing a remark that makes all three men laugh. He looks relaxed. At home. The gracious host enjoying his first real Thanksgiving in decades.
Nobody watching would guess there’s an active contract on his head.
That’s the thing about Vicente. He compartmentalizes better than anyone I’ve ever known. Threat assessment in one box, social performance in another, and never shall the two meet unless it serves him. I used to admire that. Used to try to learn it.
Now it just makes my skin crawl.
His gaze finds mine across the courtyard. Holds for a beat. Then he smiles—warm, familiar, like no time has passed at all—and turns back to his conversation.
My hand tightens around my glass.
Old friends. That’s probably how he thinks of it. The years I spent in his organization, in his confidence, in his—
Don’t. Not here.
“I’m going to check on Nina,” I tell Mason.
“Go.” He nods toward the fire pit, visible past the garden’s edge. “I should rescue Callie from Mom’s interrogation about grandchildren anyway.”
I stop at the bar first. The bartender’s still there, mixing a drink for one of the twins, and I wait until he’s free.
“Bourbon. Neat.”
He pours without comment. I drain half of it before I’ve taken three steps, the burn steadying the knot in my chest.
The fire pit glows at the far end of the garden, flames flickering against the darkness. The chairs around it look empty now.
Wyatt intercepts me before I reach the garden path. He’s been circulating, playing the social game better than I ever could, but his expression sharpens when he sees my face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just—” I glance toward the fire pit. The chairs are definitely empty now. “Where’s Nina?”
“She was with Sadie and Marco.” He follows my gaze, frowns. “Maybe she went to find a bathroom.”
But I’m already scanning the garden, and that’s when I spot her—pressed against the stucco wall near the property’s edge, half-hidden in shadow.
“Something’s wrong,” I say.
Wyatt sees her too. His expression shifts. “She looks—”
“Off. Something’s off.”
“Go,” Wyatt says. “I’ll make excuses if anyone asks.”
The garden is quieter here, away from the heaters and the lingering dinner conversation. I find her pressed against the wall, one hand flat on the stucco, her head bowed.
“Nina.”
She doesn’t startle. Just lifts her head, and in the dim light I can see her face. Composed, distant. That therapist mask she wears when she’s holding something too big to process.
“I need to leave,” she says. Her voice is steady. Too steady. “I’m exhausted. Can we go?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired.”
She’s lying. I’ve interrogated enough people to know the difference between exhaustion and evasion, and this is evasion wrapped in clinical detachment.
“Nina—”
“Please.” Something cracks in the word. Just for a second. Then she smooths it over, straightens her spine, becomes Dr. Palmer again. “I don’t want to talk about it here. I just want to go home.”
I want to push. Want to know what Sadie or Marco said, what broke behind her eyes, what’s making her hold herself like she’ll shatter if she doesn’t stay perfectly still.
But I know that look. Wore it myself for years.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
The goodbyes take forever. Hugs from Callie and Marcella, promises to call from Mason, Zoey’s sleepy wave from Elena’s arms. Vicente watches from near the bar as we make our way toward the door, that small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
Then he sets down his drink and closes the distance, Arturo falling into step beside him.
“Christopher.” He reaches us at the entrance. “Leaving so soon?”
“Nina’s tired.” I keep my voice neutral. “It’s been a long day.”
“Of course. Recovery takes time.” His gaze slides to Nina with what looks like genuine concern. “You’re in good hands, Dr. Palmer. These two will take excellent care of you.”
“Thank you for having us,” Nina says. Perfect manners, perfect composure. “It was a lovely evening.”
“You’re family now.” Vicente’s smile widens. “That’s what Thanksgiving is for, isn’t it? Gathering the people who matter.”
The word family in his mouth makes my stomach turn.
Arturo steps forward, clasping my hand in both of his. “Safe travels. And thank you—for the conversation earlier. It’s good to have allies who understand the landscape.”
Allies. Like we’re all on the same side. Like there aren’t a thousand ways this could go wrong.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Goodnight.”
Wyatt’s hand finds the small of Nina’s back, guiding her toward the door. I follow, feeling Vicente’s gaze on me until the heavy wood closes between us.
The walk to the car is silent. The drive down the winding driveway is silent. The security checkpoint, the palm-lined road, the freeway on-ramp. All silent.
Nina sits in the back, staring out the window at the city lights. Wyatt drives, his hands steady on the wheel, but I catch him glancing sideways at me. Questions in his expression that I can’t answer. I stare out the passenger window and try not to think about what Nina might have heard.
The paranoia spirals. Maybe Vicente orchestrated it. Maybe he wanted Nina to find out this way. Not from me, not on my terms, but dropped like a grenade in the middle of a family gathering. Maximum impact. Maximum damage.
Sadie and Marco both know things. They were there for part of it.
When Sadie stepped into my old role, I gave her everything she needed to survive Vicente.
Which means she knows too much of what he was like with me.
And if Nina showed up on my arm, Sadie might have assumed she already knew the rest.
What did she say? How much? The broad strokes or the details? The years I spent in Vicente’s organization, or what those years actually looked like up close?
That’s how he operates. That’s what he does.
Or maybe I’m seeing patterns that aren’t there. Maybe Sadie just said something careless and Nina’s processing it the way she processes everything: clinically, carefully, at a distance.
Either way, something broke tonight.
I can feel it in the silence. Not the tension I’ve been carrying all week—that’s familiar, survivable. This is something else. Something in the way Nina hasn’t touched either of us since we got in the car.
“Nina,” Wyatt says finally, twisting to look at her. “You okay back there?”
“Overdid it.” Her voice is rueful, self-deprecating. Perfect deflection. “I think I need pain meds and about twelve hours of sleep. Marcella warned me not to push too hard.”