Chapter 55 Wyatt #2
We change into Mason’s sweats in silence.
But it’s a different kind of silence than before.
By the time we get back to the waiting room, Nina’s already there, dressed in Callie’s yoga pants and sweater, her hair twisted up in a loose bun with a few curls escaping at her temples.
She’s washed her face, but the exhaustion is still there—shadows under her eyes, a tightness around her mouth that won’t quite ease.
I recognize that look. Almost eleven months ago, she wore the same expression sitting by my hospital bed after I took a bullet meant for someone else.
Her face was the first thing I saw when I woke up—worried, sleepless, refusing to leave.
My wound wasn’t critical, but she’d stayed anyway. Hadn’t slept until she knew I was okay.
Now she’s doing it again. Holding vigil for someone else she cares about, running on nothing but caffeine and stubbornness.
She looks between us, reading our faces the way she always does, and her expression shifts. Curious. Hopeful, maybe.
“Callie talked to the nurses,” she says. “They can’t let us in the room, but we can at least see him. Check how he’s doing.”
Chris’s shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly. But he nods.
The ICU is hushed, all soft beeps and murmured conversations. A nurse leads us to a window that looks into one of the rooms, then steps back to give us space. Nina hangs back, recounting things in more detail to Callie and Mason.
Vicente is in the bed, pale against the white sheets, tubes and monitors marking the boundaries of his survival. His eyes are open now, focused on the two men at his bedside. Arturo sits on one side, hand wrapped around Vicente’s like he’s afraid to let go.
And on the other side—Rafael.
He’s still wearing the clothes from last night, torn and bloodstained from his fight on the roof. Someone’s cleaned the wound on his temple, but the bruising is vivid against his skin. He’s leaning forward in his chair, and Vicente’s hand is on his face, thumb tracing the line of his jaw.
The son Vicente never knew he had. And Rafael had been searching for a way in the whole time.
Vicente’s mouth moves. I can’t hear the words through the glass, but I can see the tears on both their faces. See Rafael’s shoulders shake. See Arturo watching them both—grief and relief and hope, all tangled together on his face.
I glance at Chris.
He’s watching the scene through the glass, face absolutely still. But his hands are trembling slightly at his sides.
“He wanted this so badly,” Chris says, barely audible. “A son. An heir. Someone to carry on what he built. He did terrible things trying to find it.” A pause. “Sometimes I felt like some fucked up stand-in. For the love he lost. For the son he never had.”
“And now he has the real thing.”
Chris nods. Doesn’t speak. But I can see it in his jaw, the set of his shoulders—jealousy and relief and resentment, none of it sorted, none of it resolved.
“That’s a lot to carry,” I say quietly. “Nina could help you work through it.”
His jaw tightens. “I’ve put her through enough. Both of you. I’m not going to dump all my shit on her too.”
“There are other therapists in the world. The Agency employs some good ones, I’m sure.”
Chris is quiet for a long moment. “Maybe.”
It’s not a no. I’ll take it.
The elevator announces another arrival. I turn to see Celeste striding toward us, Maddox and Leo flanking her like bodyguards. Her face is tight with fear, hair still mussed from sleep, wearing what looks like whatever she grabbed first from her closet.
“Where is he?” she demands. “Is he out of surgery? Is he—”
“He’s stable,” Nina says, stepping smoothly into Celeste’s path. She catches the other woman’s hands, holds them. Makes Celeste look at her. “He’s in there. He’s going to be okay.”
Celeste’s breathing slows, just slightly. Nina has that effect—she can walk into a room full of panic and bring everyone’s heart rate down by sheer presence. I’ve watched her do it a dozen times now. It still catches me off guard how good she is at it.
Celeste pushes past her toward the glass—then stops dead.
“Who the hell is that?”
The worry on her face has hardened into suspicion.
Protective, territorial. I’ve seen the files on Celeste Flores.
She’s been integral to her father’s business since the federal deal, sharp and capable, but she lost her mother to this world when she was eight years old.
She doesn’t trust strangers at her family’s bedside.
She moves toward the door. I step into her path.
“Celeste. Wait.”
“Get out of my way. I don’t know who that man is, but—”
“That’s Rafael.” Nina’s voice has shifted into the therapist register, calm and steady. “He’s Vicente’s son.”
Celeste stares at her. “Vicente doesn’t have a son.”
“Nobody knew.”
The words hang there. Behind us, Maddox and Leo have gone still, watching the scene with careful attention.
“That’s not possible,” Celeste says. “He would have—someone would have—”
“His mother is Selena Prieto. Lola’s sister.”
Celeste’s face goes blank with shock. “Tía Lena?”
“She came to visit once, when you were little. A family gathering your mother organized.” Nina pauses. “Do you remember—your aunt and grandmother visiting from Mexico?”
Celeste frowns, reaching for something distant.
“I remember a woman who smelled like gardenias. She held me on her lap. My parents fought a lot then.” Her voice goes quiet.
“That was the last time I saw my grandmother.” She pauses, something else surfacing.
“There was a man too. He gave me a little doll—hand-painted, from Oaxaca. I still have it somewhere.” Her eyes cut to the glass, to Vicente’s pale face. “That was him, wasn’t it.”
“Selena was there too,” Nina says gently. “That might have been when—”
“When she got pregnant with his son.” Celeste’s voice is flat. “While my mother was trying to hold everyone together.”
Through the glass, Vicente is saying something to Rafael. His hand is still on Rafael’s face. Arturo watches them both.
Celeste is quiet for a long moment. “He looks like her. Around the eyes. He looks like my mother.”
She turns away from the glass, finding Maddox’s hand without looking.
“I need some air.”
Leo moves to follow, but she shakes her head. “Stay. Keep an eye on things. I’ll be back.”
She and Maddox disappear toward the elevators. Leo settles against the wall, arms crossed, watching the ICU door with the patience of a man used to waiting.
Celeste returns about twenty minutes later, calmer. Maddox stays by the elevators, giving her space. She crosses to the glass and stands there watching for a long moment before turning to Nina.
“You’ve been working with them. Vicente and my father. The therapy sessions.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to thank you.” Celeste’s voice is quieter now, stripped of the sharp edges. “They’re different. Better. They actually talk to each other instead of just—” She waves a hand. “Whatever they were doing before.”
Nina tilts her head, curious. “What were they like? Before the sessions started?”
Celeste lets out a breath. “It was awful. At first. When Vicente moved into the compound, he and my father couldn’t be in a room together without it turning into a war. A month of everyone walking on eggshells.”
“What changed?”
“They had a blow-out fight. A real one. Things got broken. I walked in on them screaming at each other about something that happened thirty years ago, and I just—” She shakes her head.
“I reminded them they’d already killed the man who destroyed their lives.
Together. I asked them what else they needed to punish each other for. ”
“And that worked?”
“I didn’t think it would. But that night, Vicente didn’t sleep in his own room.
He hasn’t since.” Celeste’s voice softens.
“They still have a long way to go. But I watched my father go from treating love like a liability to this.” She gestures toward the glass.
“He wouldn’t let himself love someone that fully if they hadn’t earned it. ”
Nina’s voice is careful, neutral. “Do you think Vicente has? Earned it?”
I watch Chris from the corner of my eye. He’s listening to every word, face unreadable.
Celeste considers. “I think he’s doing the work. That’s more than I expected from anyone.”
We drift back to the waiting room as a group, Celeste walking between Maddox and Leo, Nina falling into step beside her. They’re talking quietly, Celeste’s hand finding Maddox’s arm like she needs the anchor. Chris and I trail behind, giving them space.
Rafael emerges from the ICU about an hour later.
He looks wrung out, but his posture is steadier than before. He’s had an hour with the father he just met, and whatever passed between them has settled him.
Celeste is on her feet before he’s fully through the door. She crosses the room and pulls him into a hug with no hesitation, just the full-body embrace of a woman who just found family she didn’t know she had.
Rafael goes stiff for a second, surprised. Then his arms come up and he hugs her back.
“I’m Celeste,” she says when she pulls away, hands still on his shoulders. “Lola was my mother. Which makes you my cousin.”
“I know.” His voice is rough. “My mother never stopped talking about her sister. I grew up on stories.”
Celeste’s eyes brighten. “I’d like to hear them sometime.”
“I’d like that too.”
She squeezes his shoulders once more, then steps back. The beginning of a connection neither of them expected.
Chris steps forward, and the energy shifts.
“We need to talk,” he says. His voice is professional, level. “You’ve got intel we need.”
Rafael doesn’t resist. “I figured. I’ll go wherever you need me.”