Chapter 56 Wyatt
Wyatt
Lucia finds us a quiet room down the hall, one of those family consultation spaces where doctors deliver bad news. Small, private, a box of tissues on the table that nobody touches. Nina stays with Celeste and Callie. Rafael takes a seat. Chris and I remain standing.
I pull out my phone, set it on the table between us. “This is going to be recorded and sent up the chain. You okay with that?”
Rafael nods. “I expected as much.”
I hit record. “Start from the beginning,” Chris says. “How did you find out about the assassination plot?”
Rafael leans back in his chair. “My mother has connections. She runs a resort empire in Cancún, but that’s not all she runs. When money started moving through certain channels—Serbian money, Japanese money—she heard about it.”
“And she told you?”
“She told me they were coming for Vicente Amador.” He pauses.
“She never told me who my father was. I’d been looking for years, following threads she thought were just curiosity.
When she mentioned the name, I did my own digging.
The timeline matched. So did other things.
” He shrugs. “I confronted her. She admitted it.”
“So you came to warn him.”
“I tried. But have you ever tried to get close to that man? His security is impressive. And I had no proof of who I was—just my mother’s word, which she wasn’t willing to give publicly.” Rafael’s mouth twists. “So I found another way in.”
“Dr. Palmer.”
“She was the only person who had regular access to Vicente without going through his security. I watched her for weeks, tried a few different approaches.” He shrugs. “Eventually one worked.”
“Walk us through the network,” I say. “Serbian and Yakuza—how did they connect?”
“Money. The Serbians wanted revenge for their leadership—Vicente and Arturo dismantled their operation earlier this year. The Yakuza wanted revenge for their oyabun. They pooled resources, hired professionals. Ex-Mossad, some freelancers. The contract was substantial.”
“How substantial?”
“Enough to attract serious talent.” Rafael’s expression darkens. “The two who came last night weren’t the only ones. There’s a network. Probably scattered now that the primary hitters failed, but others are still out there. Waiting.”
“Can you give us names? Locations?”
“Some. My mother’s people are still working on the rest.” He pauses. “I’ll cooperate fully. Whatever you need. Vicente is—” He stops. “He’s my father. I didn’t come this far to lose him now.”
“One more thing,” Chris says. “We ran you through every database we have access to. You don’t exist. No birth certificate, no school records, no tax filings. Nothing.”
Rafael’s expression doesn’t change. “By design.”
“Whose design?”
“My mother’s.” He doesn’t elaborate.
Chris waits. Rafael doesn’t fill the silence.
“That’s a lot of effort,” I say. “Keeping someone completely off the grid. Requires resources. Connections. Infrastructure that doesn’t come cheap.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Rafael’s gaze is steady, assessing.
“But I’m more interested in something else right now.
You two are federal agents. CIA, DEA—I’m guessing one of each.
” He looks between us. “And you’re sitting in a hospital waiting room with two cartel bosses, not making any arrests. Not even pretending to.”
Chris goes still.
“Vicente Amador has a federal file thicker than my arm,” Rafael continues. “Arturo Flores isn’t far behind. And yet here you are. Bringing them coffee. Pacing the halls. Acting like family.” His head tilts. “That’s not standard procedure.”
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“I’m sure it is.” Rafael leans forward. “Here’s what I think. There’s a deal. Something that keeps Vicente and Arturo out of prison, probably in exchange for information or access. Something big enough that the federal government is willing to look the other way on decades of cartel activity.”
Neither of us confirms it. Neither of us denies it.
Rafael nods slowly, reading our silence.
“I’m not going to pretend my family’s business is entirely legitimate.
My mother has her own arrangements. But I’ve spent my whole life on the clean side of the line—publicly, at least. That was the point of keeping me invisible.
” He pauses. “If there’s a framework here that could extend to her interests—to mine—I’d want to know about it. I have a lot to offer US intelligence.”
“That’s above our pay grade,” Chris says.
“Then run it up the chain.” Rafael’s voice is calm, but there’s steel underneath.
“I just gave you actionable intel on an international assassination network. I’m offering more—everything my mother has on the Serbian and Yakuza operations, plus the methodology she used to keep me hidden for three decades.
That’s tradecraft you could use. Plus my own skills.
” He spreads his hands but doesn’t elaborate on what “skills” he has to offer. “All I’m asking is a conversation.”
Chris and I exchange a look. He’s right—this is way above us. But Rafael just handed us leverage we didn’t have before.
“We’ll make some calls,” I say.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
The debrief continues for another hour. Rafael gives us everything he has: names, financial trails, safe houses, communication methods. It’s good intel. Enough to give the Agency a real foothold.
I stop the recording and pocket my phone.
When we’re wrapping up, Rafael asks, “The woman at the house. Tatiana. Is she one of yours?”
Chris and I exchange a glance.
“She’s complicated,” I say.
Rafael nods slowly. “I noticed.” His expression shifts, more than professional interest. “She fights like someone who learned it the hard way. And she tracked me through Topanga in a storm, on those roads, in the dark.” He pauses. “If she resurfaces, I’d appreciate knowing.”
“We’ll keep that in mind.”
She vanished before sunrise. Wherever Tatiana is now, it’s not anywhere we’ll find her unless she wants to be found.
I think about what I know of her, mostly from Tatiana’s file and Nina’s psychological assessment. A woman who survived things that would’ve broken most people, rebuilt herself into something dangerous and self-contained. Rafael has that same quality. That same careful distance.
His interest in her isn’t casual. I file that away for later.
Callie finds us as we’re leaving the quiet room.
“Official update,” she says. “Vicente’s stable. Vitals are strong, no sign of infection. They’re keeping him in the ICU overnight for observation, but barring complications, he should be moved to a regular room by tomorrow.”
The relief is quiet, exhausted. We’ve been running on fumes for too long to muster anything more.
“He’s going to be okay,” Callie says, softer now. She’s looking at Chris. “Whatever else happens—he’s going to survive this.”
Chris nods. Doesn’t speak.
Nina slides her hand into mine. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly—she’s been holding it together for hours, being the steady one for Arturo, for Celeste, for everyone who needed her. Now the cracks are starting to show.
“We should go home,” she says. “There’s nothing more we can do here tonight.”
I bring her hand to my mouth, press a kiss to her knuckles. She leans into me, just for a second—lets me take some of the weight. Then she straightens, squares her shoulders. Ready to keep going.
She’s right. Lucia will handle the remaining coordination. Celeste and her partners will stay with Vicente’s family. Rafael’s intel is already being processed by people with more resources than us.
It’s almost eight in the evening. We’ve been running on adrenaline since before dawn, and it’s all crashing now.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
Nina’s house is quiet when we arrive. The lights are off, the familiar stillness of a home that’s been empty all day. Everything looks exactly the way it did yesterday morning, before the safe house, before the storm, before any of this.
Nina checks her phone as we walk in. “Darius texted. He’s home from the hospital—minor concussion, but he’s fine.” She tilts the screen toward me. It’s a photo of Nikita curled up on what looks like a well-worn armchair, eyes half-closed in feline contentment.
DARIUS: She’s not going anywhere tonight. You three get some rest.
“Smart cat,” I say. “Knows where the good chair is.”
Nina smiles, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. One less thing to worry about.
We barely make it through the door.
The exhaustion hits all at once. Nina kicks off her shoes and heads straight for the bathroom, peeling off her jacket as she goes. She moves like someone whose body has finally won the argument.
“Shower,” she says over her shoulder. “I can’t get into bed smelling like hospital.”
Chris follows without a word. I lock the door behind us, check the windows out of habit, then follow the sound of running water.
The bathroom is already filling with steam when I get there.
Nina’s borrowed clothes are in a pile on the floor, and she’s stepping into the shower, Chris right behind her.
He’s stripped down too, and the sight of them together under the water, exhausted, vulnerable, still reaching for each other, does something to my chest.
I shed my own clothes and join them.
Nina’s back is against my chest, Chris’s hands working shampoo through her hair. She tips her head back, eyes closed, and for a moment she looks almost peaceful.
Her hand finds my thigh, slides higher. “We could—”
“You’re half asleep,” I murmur against her temple.
“I’m aware.” But she doesn’t push it. Her hand stills, then drops. “Tomorrow. When I can stay awake long enough to enjoy it.”
“Deal.”
Chris rinses the last of the soap from her hair, then reaches for me. We take turns washing each other. Nothing urgent, nothing heated. Just hands and water and the simple intimacy of caring for each other after a day that tried to break us.
By the time we’re done, Nina can barely keep her eyes open.
We dry off quickly, stumble into the bedroom. Nina climbs in first, Chris behind her, and I take my place on the other side. Clean sheets, clean skin, the three of us tangled together in the dark.
Nina’s breathing evens out within seconds. Chris lasts a little longer, his hand finding my hip, anchoring us together. Then he’s gone too.
I lie there listening to them breathe, feeling the warmth of their bodies against mine. We made it. Against everything—the assassins, the storm, the weight of secrets that nearly broke us—we made it through.
I close my eyes.
Sleep comes fast.
The bed shifts, and I’m awake.
Not all the way, just enough to track Chris climbing out, the soft pad of his feet on the floor, the bathroom door clicking shut. I stay half-asleep, listening. The toilet flushes. Water runs. Then the door opens again and he’s moving around the bed instead of back to his side.
The mattress dips behind me. Chris sliding in, his chest warm against my back.
“Someone’s a bed hog,” he murmurs. “Ran out of room over there.”
Nina stirs against my chest, making a soft questioning sound.
“Hey,” she murmurs.
“Hey.”
She doesn’t go back to sleep. Instead she presses closer, her body warm and soft against my front. And now Chris is behind me, his chest against my back, already half-hard where he’s pressed against my ass.
She shifts, tilting her hips back against me. I’m already responding, my body waking up faster than my brain.
Chris’s mouth finds the back of my neck. His hand slides down my hip, pulling me tighter against him.
Everything is slow, unhurried. No urgency. Just warmth and touch and the need to be close after everything.
“Is this okay?” Nina asks, her hand finding mine in the dark.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
She pulls my hand to her breast. Her nipple tightens under my palm, a soft sound escapes her as I squeeze gently. Behind me, Chris is tugging my sweats down, his cock pressing hot against the curve of my ass.
We move together slowly. Nina shifts her hips, finding the angle she wants. I slide into her easily, a sigh escaping both of us.
Chris’s fingers trail down my spine. He takes his time, kissing my shoulder, my neck, the spot behind my ear that makes me shiver. I feel him reach for something on the nightstand. The click of a bottle. Then his slick fingers pressing between my cheeks, slow and careful.
I reach back, find his wrist. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” His voice is steady. No hesitation. Just languid and relaxed and confident. “I’m not going anywhere this time.”
I believe him. I let go of his wrist.
He presses into me slowly. I feel every inch—the stretch, the burn, the fullness. Nina rocks back against me, taking me deeper, and for a moment I’m suspended between them, overwhelmed by sensation.
“Fuck,” I manage.
Chris huffs a laugh against my shoulder. “Good fuck or bad fuck?”
“Give me a minute to decide.”
He gives me more than a minute. He gives me all the time I need—holding still inside me, one hand on my hip, the other reaching around to where I’m joined with Nina. His fingers brush us both and she gasps, clenching around me.
“Move,” she says. “God, both of you, move.”
We find a rhythm. Slow, rocking, nothing athletic or performative. Just three people who almost lost each other, proving we’re still here.
Nina comes first, her whole body shuddering, pulling me over the edge with her. Chris follows a few strokes later, his forehead pressed to my shoulder, breathing my name.
Afterward: tangled limbs, slowing hearts, the quiet of Nina’s bedroom.
“We should do this more often,” Nina murmurs against my chest. “The sleeping part, I mean. Not just the—”
“Both,” Chris says, his arm tightening around my waist. “Both is good.”
She laughs, soft and tired, and I feel it vibrate through me.
I close my eyes, feeling both of them warm against me, and let sleep take me again.