Chapter 47
Nina
I’m used to adapting.
New clients, shifting dynamics, the occasional crisis that rewrites a session plan mid-sentence. You meet people where they are, not where you expected them to be.
But I’ve never had to adapt to this. I’ve never had to conduct therapy while my primary clients have active contracts on their lives and their entire household is in protection mode.
Darius sits at his desk in my waiting room with a gun visible under his jacket for the first time since I’ve known him, and Wyatt works from my kitchen table because it’s already inside the secure perimeter.
Adán Pareto is talking, and I’m listening, but part of my brain keeps circling back to a recognition I can’t quite place.
It’s not just that I’ve seen him before.
The café, weeks ago. That I remember. We were both waiting for our drinks, struck up a conversation.
I mentioned my practice, he asked for my card.
Nothing unusual. But there’s a pull underneath that memory.
A familiarity in his bone structure, the set of his shoulders, the particular darkness of his eyes.
“—I’ve tried everything else,” he’s saying. “I can’t get past their security. No one will listen. And I’m running out of time.”
I lean forward slightly. “Running out of time for what?”
He meets my gaze. Holds it.
And tells me something that makes the pieces fall into place so fast I almost can’t breathe.
My mouth is still open, response not yet formed, when the door explodes inward.
Darius comes through, weapon drawn, and everything happens too fast to track. Adán is already moving, reacting with a precision that has nothing to do with panic. He catches Darius’s arm, redirects his momentum, and puts him on the ground with a controlled strike that speaks to real training.
Not trying to hurt him. Just enough to create an opening.
And then he’s through the door to the waiting room, and I hear the front door slam a second later. Darius is struggling to his feet cursing, and I’m standing in the middle of my office with my heart pounding and my mind still reeling from everything Adán said before the world went sideways.
“Nina!” Wyatt’s voice from the hallway. He appears a second later, weapon drawn, taking in the scene: Darius on his feet but clearly rattled, me standing frozen.
“I’m fine,” I manage. “He ran.”
Wyatt doesn’t hesitate. He’s out the front door in a flash, disappearing after Adán.
“Fuck.” Darius presses a hand to his ribs where Adán struck him. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Dr. Palmer. He moved like—I didn’t expect—”
“It’s okay.” It’s not, but that’s not Darius’s fault. “Are you hurt?”
“Pride, mostly.” He’s already pulling out his phone, calling it in.
Wyatt reappears through the office door a minute later, breathing hard. “Lost him. He had a motorcycle stashed down the block. He’s gone.”
And I’m left standing in my office, heart still racing, holding a secret that changes everything.
Lucia appears in the doorway that connects to my living space, her expression tight with controlled alarm. “Dr. Palmer. We need to move you.”
“The man who was in here—he’s not dangerous. He was trying to help—”
“With respect, ma’am, I don’t care what he was trying to do. Grab your go bag. You’re being relocated. Now.”
She doesn’t touch me, but she doesn’t need to. Her body language makes it clear that this isn’t a discussion.
I grab my bag, my phone, the essentials, and let her guide me through my own house like I’m a stranger in it. Kitchen, back hallway, garage. A black SUV idles in the driveway, windows tinted dark enough that I can’t see inside.
Lucia opens the rear door and gestures me in. “Go.”
I climb in. Wyatt slides in beside me a moment later, his jaw tight, still breathing harder than normal from the chase.
The interior of the SUV is cool, leather seats, that new-car smell that always feels artificial.
The driver pulls out before either of us has gotten our seatbelts fastened.
It registers that Wyatt didn’t have a go bag since he wasn’t technically living with me, but he doesn’t seem fazed.
He’s too focused on watching the street as we pull away from the house.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Safe house at Point Dume.” Lucia’s already on her phone, thumbing through contacts from the front seat. “The other principals went to ground this morning. You’re being moved as a precaution until we assess the threat level.”
I want to argue. I want to tell her that the man they’re treating like an assassin is actually trying to save lives. But Lucia’s already talking to someone, her voice clipped and professional.
“We’re mobile. Both packages secure. ETA forty minutes, depending on traffic.” A pause. “Copy. Tell Longo to meet us there.”
She hangs up.
Chris. He’ll be there too.
I glance at Wyatt. The bruises on his throat have faded to that sickly yellow-green stage, but they’re still visible above his collar. He catches me looking and awareness flickers across his face, tinged with guilt.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“I don’t know yet.”
He nods like that’s a fair answer. We ride the rest of the way in silence, the Pacific Coast Highway unspooling outside the tinted windows.
My mind keeps circling back to Adán’s face in those last moments before Darius burst in.
The way his voice cracked when he talked about his father.
The weight of a secret carried for years, finally spoken aloud to a stranger.
He’s Vicente’s son.
And now that I know, I can’t unsee it. The height, the powerful build, the refined way he held himself even under pressure. That calculating gaze—though Adán’s had something softer underneath. Less jaded. Like he hadn’t yet learned to wall off the parts of himself that could still be hurt.
I should tell Wyatt. He deserves to know what I learned before Darius burst in. What changes everything about the threat we thought we were facing.
But Wyatt’s staring out the window, jaw tight, and I don’t know how to start that conversation. Not here, in the back of an Agency SUV with Lucia in the front seat. Not when Chris is waiting at the end of this drive, and I don’t know what state any of us will be in when we get there.
I close my eyes and try to breathe.
The SUV pulls into a gated driveway, and Lucia is out before the engine stops, scanning the perimeter.
The safe house is a sleek modern thing perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. All glass and clean angles. Probably seized from some convicted financier, I think. Or maybe a drug lord with an eye for real estate.
I follow her along a walkway of travertine slabs, Wyatt close behind me.
There’s so much glass I can see clear through to the ocean from the back of the house, and I wonder if this is really the most secure place we could hide.
It’s in an exclusive, gated part of Malibu, but gates and guards won’t stop someone with enough skill and determination—or incentive.
Lucia punches a code into the keypad and pushes the door open.
Chris is coming down the stairs from the second floor, weapon drawn as if he’s sweeping for threats. He lowers it when he sees us.
He looks like he’s been in a fight. Face bruised, one eye swollen, knuckles split and scabbed. That’s new. That happened in the days he was missing. His gaze sweeps over me first, checking for damage, then locks onto Wyatt.
“What the fuck happened?”
Wyatt’s shoulders tighten. “He took Darius down and was out the door before I could get there. Had a motorcycle waiting.”
“So we’ve got nothing.” Chris’s voice is hard. “He’s in the wind, Darius got his ass handed to him, and we still don’t know what the fuck he wanted with her.”
“He didn’t hurt her.” Wyatt steps past me into the house, squaring up like he’s bracing for a fight. “He had the training to take Darius down—he could have done a lot worse. He just ran.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
They’re standing in the middle of a sprawling open-plan living area now, squared off like they’re about to throw punches.
The space is huge: white walls, dark wood floors, an expansive living area with sectionals flanking a wide gas fireplace.
The kitchen stretches beyond a long marble island.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the view behind them: a landscaped yard bordered by a lap pool, its rippling infinity edge bleeding into the roiling Pacific beyond.
All that intimidating power of nature completely ignored.
And seeing them together—Chris’s battered face, Wyatt’s fading bruises—hits differently than seeing them one at a time. The whole ugly picture, finally in frame.
“Are you okay?” Chris asks. “Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine. He didn’t—he wasn’t trying to hurt me.”
Behind me, I hear Lucia coordinating with someone, securing the perimeter, checking entry points. The professional machinery of protection humming along while we stand frozen in the wreckage of our personal lives.
“Kitchen’s stocked,” Lucia announces, returning to the living room. “Security system is state-of-the-art. Panic buttons in every room. Someone will check in every six hours, but otherwise you’re dark until we neutralize the threat.”
“He wasn’t a threat,” I say. “I told you—he wasn’t trying to hurt me.”
Lucia’s expression doesn’t change. “That may be. But there’s a very real threat out there, Dr. Palmer, even if he’s not it.
” She pauses, something flickering behind her professional mask.
“Two of the security team at the Flores compound were found this morning. Executed. Clean shots, professional work. The family had already relocated, but whoever’s behind this is getting closer.
And if they learn about your connection to Flores and Amador. ..”
“How long?” I ask, my mouth dry.
“Unknown. Could be days. Could be longer.”
“Adán knew something.” I push past the dismissal in her eyes. “He was about to tell me who’s behind the contract. If your people hadn’t barged in, we might actually have that information right now.”
Lucia’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“We’re looking for him too. If we locate him, I’ll keep in mind that he might have more intel.
” She pauses at the door. “And we already have it on good authority who’s pulling the strings.
That still doesn’t help us track the assassin.
The Agency’s taking point on that. You three just need to stay put and stay quiet. ”
“Like hell.” Chris straightens, the operative surfacing through the exhaustion. “I should be out there. I know Tatiana’s intel better than anyone, I know the players—”
“You’re compromised.” Lucia’s voice is flat. “You’ve been off-grid for four days, you look like you went ten rounds with a cement mixer, and your asset is the one who had to drag you out of whatever hole you crawled into. You’re not operational right now, Longo. You’re a liability.”
Chris’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Because she’s right, and he knows it.
“Booth and I can handle security here,” he says instead. “Free up you and Darius to join the hunt.”
Lucia considers this for a moment, then nods. “Fine. You’re both armed?”
“Yes.” Wyatt speaks for the first time since I arrived, his hand moving briefly to his hip, a reflexive check of the weapon I know he carries there.
“Good. Perimeter checks every two hours. Don’t leave the property. Don’t answer the door for anyone who doesn’t use the code phrase.” She rattles off a string of words that sounds like nonsense—something about a red bicycle in Tuscany—and both men nod.
The door closes behind her. The lock engages with a heavy click.
And then it’s just us.