Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The echo of the ball ricocheted through the vaulted space as Rafael dribbled. Sneakers squeaked against the hardwood, the air smelling faintly of sweat and rubber.
Nico was hunched over, chest heaving. “Did that interview give you superpowers or something?”
Rafael shook his head, stepped around him with zero effort, and sank an easy layup. “Looks like you’re out of shape.”
“I’m literally in the military.” Nico groaned, collapsing onto the floor.
Rafael nudged Nico’s ribs with his foot. “Get up.”
“No. I live here now.”
Bea finally burst. “Nico!”
He sprang upright at her voice, face lighting when he saw her. His arms flung wide like a human boom gate. “Bea!”
She ran to him, and he crushed her in a bear hug. Six months in military training had transformed her lean and lanky student into something startlingly solid, the kind of build that came from drills, not puberty. His dark hair was cut close, and he even had some serious stubble.
“I watched the interview, you killed it. Told everyone in my barracks that you were my tutor. Half of them think I’m lying. My credibility has never been higher.”
Bea snorted. “That feels like an indictment of your starting position.”
“Also, El Jefe’s two fingers are now famous.” Nico mimed closing an invisible notebook. “Someone looped it. It’s a GIF.”
Bea laughed. “Of course it is. The man looks like a movie star and the internet makes a GIF of his hand.”
Then she stepped back and inspected Nico like a proud nonna. “I was worried they were starving you in training. Turns out they’ve been injecting whey protein directly into your bloodstream.”
He flexed, posing shamelessly. “If I get any more ripped, they’ll draft me into movies instead of the army.”
Rafael was spinning the ball on his fingertip, relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen in weeks. She knew the same expression was mirrored on her face.
After the chaos of the past few weeks, Nico’s visit was exactly what they needed.
“You didn’t tell me he came early,” she scolded her husband. “I would’ve skipped dessert.”
“But you love the panna cotta at that restaurant,” Rafael said. “Also, I’m still waiting for my wife to greet me as enthusiastically as she did the plebe.”
She went to peck him. Rafael, as usual, turned it into a real kiss, slow and thorough.
“Not in front of your godson,” she chided, heat crawling up her neck as he let her go.
Rafael appeared amused. “The boy should be taking notes.”
“I’m a grown man,” Nico said. “Don’t you see this beard? I shaved this morning. And we have a game to finish.”
“Mind if I watch?” Bea asked.
“You sure you want to see your husband get annihilated, tutor lady?”
Bea snorted, sank onto the bench, and propped her chin on her palm like she was about to tune in to her favorite telenovela. “I’m sure.”
The ball snapped out of Rafael’s grip. Nico was halfway to the basket before Rafael even turned. The shot hit glass, rimmed once, then dropped.
“Yes!” he crowed, arms raised. “You see that, Bea?”
“That was actually impressive.”
Rafael retrieved the rebound. “Not bad, but don’t celebrate yet.”
“I’m not celebrating,” Nico shot back, looking like he was a millimeter away from flossing.
Bea laughed. “Laurent would’ve loved it.”
“Where is he?” Nico asked.
“He was in New York,” answered Rafael from the center of the court.
“Rude of him to schedule that on my first week off.”
“He volunteered to be our liaison there,” Rafael said, passing him the ball. “He’s been going monthly. Laurent does what he does.”
“I guess he’s excused then,” Nico said, sounding disappointed. He jogged backward as he dribbled. “So we playing or we chatting, El Jefe?”
They collided again, ball snapping between them, no more banter, all focus. Nico pivoted, slipped under Rafael’s arm only to get spun wide by a sharp rebound. Her pulse echoed the pace. She whooped and clapped like she was courtside at the playoffs.
The game was good. Her husband was better. Every movement drew across the muscles in his back, the taut lines of his torso glistening with sweat. Whenever his calves flexed she had the absurd urge to bite something.
Nico banked a three, breathless and triumphant. “That’s five!”
“What am I on again?” Rafael asked.
“I don’t know. Bea only taught me to count to five.”
“Hey, don’t besmirch my good name,” Bea called out, half distracted by the gunshow as Rafael carelessly wiped his face with the back of his hand.
After another stretch of brutal play, Nico finally bent double, hands on his knees, soaked with sweat.
Bea stood, protective instincts kicking in. “Don’t break him on his weekend off.”
“I’m just getting started,” Rafael said, still dribbling.
Nico’s hand came up, as if waving a white flag. “Respectfully retiring.”
“Go shower, cadet,” Bea said, having mercy. “We’ll give you the tour.”
“Does it have a cinema room?” he asked, barely lifting his head.
Rafael nodded, swigging water.
“A pool?”
“Of course,” said Bea, and tossed him a towel.
“A fridge that’s not empty like my barracks?”
“I made brownies,” she said with a slow smile. “They were supposed to be for tomorrow. Choc-peanut-butter ones, with Reese’s on top.”
Nico popped up like a meerkat. “I’ll be ten minutes max!” He was already sprinting.
Rafael watched him vanish down the hall, then reached out and caught her wrist. His voice dropped. “You let him off the hook.”
“He was tired,” she said, suddenly wary.
“Now I need another outlet.” His lips brushed her ear, and goosebumps rose along her arms like a chorus of alarm bells. “You bought yourself a very hard night.”
“That’s…a big portrait,” Nico said around a mouthful of brownie. He held a piece in each hand as though he didn’t trust them to still be there by the time they finished touring.
The east-side rec room was still bare, which was why the portrait had been propped against the far wall.
One of the new staff had offered to unwrap it that morning.
Bea was still adjusting to the idea of live-in helpers.
People who materialized with lint rollers and lemon water. Boundaries were pending.
Rafael had excused himself earlier to get something from the garage and hadn’t returned yet. Bea didn’t think twice about it. Nico was already halfway through a breathless breakdown of military training politics, gesturing wildly with chocolate-covered fingers, licking them clean between points.
He stopped midsentence and glanced up. “Why does it feel like he’s judging us?”
“Right?” Bea followed his gaze.
Nico took a step back, as if taking it in from a little farther away. “Imagine being the intern who had to mix enough beige for that forehead.”
“I hope they were compensated for the overtime.”
They turned in time to see the doorframe fill. Laurent Duret stepped in first, travel creasing at the collar of his shirt. Rafael was right behind him.
Nico went still. Then: “You’re back!”
He crossed the room in four strides.
Laurent caught him easily, pulling him into a hug and thumping his back once. “Mon petit officier.”
“Petit?” Nico scoffed, flexing both arms. “That’s outdated intel.”
Laurent’s mouth curved. “Did you finally win a game against Jefe?”
“No, but only because he had home-court advantage.”
“That’s why you’re still mon petit.”
Rafael glanced at Laurent. “He didn’t beat me, but he did make Command. They took less than five percent.”
Laurent scruffed his hair. “I knew you wouldn’t embarrass us.”
Nico tried for nonchalance and almost managed it. He straightened, chest puffing out on instinct. The place behind Bea’s nose stung as she watched him bask in the casual praise of his idols, still nineteen beneath all that bravado.
Laurent’s gaze moved from Nico to Bea, who had joined them. “You appear to have broken a journalist.”
“Not by myself.” Bea glanced at Rafael. He was watching her with quiet satisfaction. “It was more Mission Impossible than Batman.”
“My favorite clip adds clown music when Fox says ‘that’s how interviews happen,’” Rafael volunteered. She’d heard him replay it more than once.
“I’m just relieved the memes are more of Oliver than me.”
“Not so fast.” Laurent pulled his phone out, tapped, and angled the screen toward her. “You have clips too, Beya Slaya.”
The moment had been slowed. No audio. Just her, frame by frame—smiling slowly, head tilting, lips forming “Trust” with exaggerated clarity. It looped.
Laurent’s thumb tapped the screen again. “Top comments.”
Bea took the phone from him. The internet had lost all restraint when challenged to “CAPTION THIS”:
when you already saw the uber receipts, texts, and credit card statement
she knows the answer she just wants to see if you’re stupid
the face of every woman who’s ever dated a gaslighter
bold request from a man clinging to youth via facelift and hair plugs
Bea laughed under her breath as she scrolled. “People online are hilarious.” She squished up her face. “And vicious.” She shuddered, and passed the phone back to Laurent. “Anyway. What are you doing back?”
Nico looked at Rafael. “Yeah, you said he’s in New York.”
“I said he was in New York.”
“Couldn’t let the cadet visit home and not feel welcomed,” Laurent threw in.
“Did you leave important business to be here?”
“I left things…well taken care of,” Laurent said, not without a gleam in his blue eyes.
Rafael’s gaze flicked past them all. He reached out, taking Bea’s hand in his. “Let’s relocate before the Dynasty Griffins weigh in.”
Laurent smirked. “You gonna put this in the formal dining?”
“Only if we start hosting heads of state,” came the deadpan reply.
Nico stared up at the portrait one last time. “You know, I didn’t clock it before, but at billboard scale? Bea has full mob-mistress bone structure.”
Bea blinked. “Uh…thanks?”
“Also, after what you did to Oliver Fox?” He studied her, then snapped his fingers. Lifted both hands and dipped into a theatrically low bow. “La Jefa.”
RAFAEL
Nico and Laurent had barely cleared the driveway.