The Agent
Chapter 23

Roman had over a decade’s worth of specialized training under his belt. He’d faced more hardened criminals than he could even count, had interrogated cold-blooded killers—for Chrissake, last year, he’d been shot in the chest by a guy who had stolen and laundered millions of dollars from his own company (and still thanked God every single day for the body armor that had saved his bacon). But as he looked at Camila’s parents’ house, with five cars already parked in front and people visible in every backlit window on the first floor, he was starting to think he might be out of his depth. His family had always been just him and his parents, except for a few distant great-aunts and uncles living all the way in Hawaii, and now that his mother was gone, his family-gathering skills had definitely grown more than a little rust.

“We can one hundred percent still run,” Camila said from her spot in the passenger seat of his BMW, and he knew her well enough by now to understand that she genuinely meant the offer.

Roman shook his head, his resolve turning to cement. “We’re not running. Unless you want to,” he added, because he’d have her back no matter what that looked like.

“Ugh, if we did, they’d replace us eventually. Or, at least, they’d replace me. We might as well go in.”

“I’m ready whenever you are,” Roman said. Camila slid out of the passenger seat, and he paused just long enough to take a covered dish from the spot where he’d secured it in the backseat, then joined her on the walkway leading to the house.

“You really didn’t have to bring anything. Trust me, my mami has probably made enough to feed a football team,” Camila said, but here, he laughed.

“Oh, yes, I did. My mother taught me to never attend a party empty-handed. Plus, even if the whole evening turns into a steaming dumpster fire, at least we know there’ll be cobbler.”

His words made her laugh, just as he’d intended, and they headed to the front door together.

“Knock, knock,” Camila called out, stepping over the threshold. There was so much chatter sounding off from further inside the house that Roman was certain no one had heard her, but then a dark-haired woman in her mid to late thirties bearing a very strong family resemblance to Camila and Matteo appeared in the foyer.

“Camila’s here,” she called over her shoulder, her eyes widening as they landed on Roman. “And she has her man with her!”

In less time than it took Roman to blink, another woman with the same family resemblance but shorter, curlier hair, appeared beside this first.

“Miguel! You were supposed to come get us when they pulled up,” she said to the little boy sitting by the window in the adjacent living room, playing a handheld electronic game.

“Sorry, Tía Gigi. I got to level seventy and I couldn’t stop,” he said, holding up the game and giving the woman a gap-toothed smile before running off.

Camila shook her head and sighed. “Very subtle, guys. I knew I shouldn’t have told you I was bringing someone. Camping out by the door? Really?”

“You never bring anyone,” the first woman said, leaning in to k**s Camila’s right cheek before stepping back so the second woman could do the same. “There was no way we weren’t going to make a huge deal out of it. Sorry,” she said, turning to Roman. “But it’s true.”

“I don’t mind,” Roman said, letting Camila make the introductions.

“Roman, these are my very nosy sisters, Marianna and Gianna. Mari, Gigi, this is Kai Roman. Be nice to him.”

Both women looked offended, although not mad. “We’re always nice,” Gianna said, making Camila snort.

“You’re barracudas,” she said, and it wasn’t lost on Roman that neither sister argued.

“We’re still nice, though,” Marianna said.

Roman took a step forward, ready for whatever they wanted to toss in his direction. “Marianna. Gianna. It’s nice to meet you. I brought a peach cobbler. Family recipe. I hope that’s okay.”

“Oh, my God,” Gianna murmured, arching a brow at Camila. “If you don’t keep him, mami just might. How long did you say you two have been together?”

Camila’s cheeks turned pink. “Really, you guys? We haven’t even made it out of the foyer.”

“I’m just asking,” Gianna said, taking the baking dish from Roman with a semi-sheepish shrug. He was saved from having to respond to Gianna’s question by the sight of a familiar figure appearing in the foyer, and oh, hell. Here we go.

“You seriously brought him to Sunday dinner,” Matteo said, crossing his arms over his chest as he moved a stare from Roman to Camila, his frown growing deeper with each passing second.

Roman bit back everything he wanted to say—and it took a lot of f*****g restraint—

letting Camila answer for herself. “Yes. I seriously brought Roman to dinner, and I don’t really care if you have a problem with it.”

“Whoa,” Marianna said, her brown eyes wide and her gaze darting between her brother and Roman as if they were playing hate-stare tennis. “Please tell me you two have already met. Otherwise, this is over the top, even for you, mijo.”

Roman scraped in a deep breath and cobbled together a smile he didn’t quite feel. As much as he wanted to have it out with Matteo, once and for all, he didn’t want to cause a scene that would stress Camila out. “I work for the FBI,” he told Marianna. “Our paths have crossed professionally.”

Delia appeared in the now-crowded hallway, her blond brows furrowed. “Matteo, your mother sent me in here to see what all the fuss—oh. Oh.” She caught sight of Roman and Camila, breaking into a huge grin. “Well, I guess that answers that. Hi, Roman. Hi, Camila. I’m so happy to see you guys!”

“Wait,” Gianna said, looking at Delia in surprise. “You know Roman, too?”

“And you obviously like him a lot more than your cranky beloved,” Marianna added.

Delia, being Delia, just laughed. “Yes and yes, although I wouldn’t say Matteo is cranky so much as just very protective of the people he loves. Roman collaborated with the Intelligence Unit on the case against my former boss. My safety was an issue at the time, so…”

“Ahhhh,” Marianna murmured. “Well, at least that explains all the frowning.”

“I’m not frowning,” Matteo said, and she turned to pat him on the shoulder.

“Mkay. You keep telling yourself that.”

Delia laughed, kissing Matteo’s definitely frowning face before slipping past him and Marianna and Gianna to hug first Camila, then Roman, effectively redirecting everyone’s attention. “Let’s grab something to drink. I haven’t seen either of you forever and I’m dying to catch up.”

Delia slipped between him and Camila, linking arms with both of them and leading them further into the house. Roman went along for the ride—he could table his irritation with Matteo for now, because this wasn’t the time or the place to address it—letting Delia lead him down the hallway and into the open-concept main room of the house. A large, well-appointed kitchen with a butcher block island and butter-yellow cabinets stood off to one side, flowing into a dining room that housed a table nearly longer than the room itself. An expansive breakfast bar separated the kitchen from a living space that was equally large and warmly inviting, with a three-sided sectional and several comfortable-looking chairs arranged for maximum socialization. Four men were clustered in the space, all of them playing with or caring for—okay, wow—seven? No, eight children who looked to range in age from an infant that had to be the baby Camila had told Roman about to maybe nine years old. His senses exploded from the riot of sounds and sights and smells, his heart lurching at the sight of an older woman, who had to be Camila’s mother, wearing an apron and tending a cooktop full of pots and baking dishes in the kitchen.

“Camila!” the woman said, a genuine smile moving over her face as she looked at her daughter. “You’re finally here. Better late than never.”

Camila tensed at the semi-subtle jab, but took it in stride. “Yep. Sorry I’ve had to miss the last few family dinners.”

“You’re here now, eh?” Her mother’s eyes traveled over Roman, sparkling with curiosity. “And you brought a guest.”

Camila moved behind the kitchen island to k**s her mother’s cheek. “Mami, this is Kai Roman. Roman, this is my mother, Valeria Garza.”

“Mrs. Garza.” He offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She made a face, waving off his hand in favor of stepping into his personal space to k**s him on the cheek. “‘Mrs. Garza’ makes me feel old. I’m Valeria. Or mami, if you like.”

The word hit too close to home, although something about it warmed the edges of Roman’s heart in a way that took him entirely by surprise. “Valeria, then. Can I help with anything?”

Her gray-black brows lifted. “You any good in the kitchen?”

“He brought a peach cobbler,” Gianna chimed in, lifting the baking dish he’d passed off to her in the hallway.

Valeria looked at him, her eyes assessing and sharp. “Have you ever made tamales before?”

Roman shook his head, meeting her scrutiny head-on. “No, ma’am.”

“Hmm.” She turned to make her way back behind the kitchen island, and Camila opened her mouth, likely to intervene on his behalf.

But then Valeria said, “Are you coming or not? I don’t teach this to just anybody, you know.”

Marianna let out a low whistle that matched the shock expanding in Roman’s gut, and Camila dropped her voice to keep her words from reaching anyone’s ears but his.

“You totally don’t have to do this,” she said. “She’s probably going to ask you, like, ten thousand really personal questions while criticizing your every move.”

Roman shook his head. “It’s okay. I’ll manage. But if you need something—”

“I’ve got her back,” Delia said, putting her arm around Camila and reminding Roman exactly why he’d always liked her. “Come on. I’ll distract your sisters with wedding talk. Believe me, they have some serious opinions about lilies versus dahlias in table arrangements. Don’t even get me started on their feelings about hors d’oeuvres selections.”

“Okay,” Camila said after one last hesitation. “But I mean it. If she gets out of hand—”

“I’ll be alright,” Roman promised, kissing her cheek despite the fact that Matteo was sitting less than ten feet away. Rolling up the sleeves on his dark blue button-down shirt, he made his way to the kitchen sink, washing his hands before joining Valeria at the island. “Okay, Valeria. Put me to work.”

“Making tamales is a long process,” she said, gesturing to an assembly-line setup of bowls containing several types of filling and masa, a stack of corn husks, and two large baking sheets piled high with little rectangular bundles.

“You’re coming in at the end, but you can still learn.” She took a corn husk from the stack and placed it flat on the island, dipping her fingers in a little bowl of what looked like water before she scooped out some masa and placed it on the center of the husk. “We soak the husks in water before we start, otherwise they crack. This way, they roll up nice and easy, see? Perfecto. Masa goes first”—she spread it over the husk, her fingers like lightning—“wide enough to encase the filling. That will come next.”

Roman nodded, placing a husk in front of him and clumsily trying to mimic her movements. Damn, this was harder than she made it look, and she didn’t measure anything. “Like that?”

“Not even a little bit,” Valeria said, although not unkindly. Taking the tamale-in-progress from him, she readjusted the masa on the husk, removing some and patting the rest flat with her fingers. “See the difference?”

He tried again, getting at least a little closer this time. “Okay, so what’s next?”

“Next, you can tell me how you met my daughter.”

Shock stilled his hands, his heartbeat going from zero to well, shit in about four-point-four seconds. “I, um. It’s actually a long story.”

“Good for telling while you make tamales, then,” she said, scooping up a small amount of filling and placing it in the middle of her tamale-in-progress, waiting for him to do the same before then showing him how to bundle the whole thing up and tie it together. Roman knew she was waiting for him to dive into the story, and part of him hesitated at talking about Camila without her there. But the story of how they met wasn’t really private or personal, so he gave in with a shrug.

“Camila and I met originally through Delia,” he said, slowly assembling the tamale in front of him, trying to copy Valeria’s much tidier movements. “But then we were actually both in Remington Financial when it was robbed last month.”

Valeria stilled, clearly surprised, but only for a second. “So, you were both lucky to get out alive.”

“Yes,” Roman said, because as much as he couldn’t really talk about the details, luck did play a part. “But Camila was also very brave.”

Valeria’s head snapped up. “She was brave?”

“She is brave.”

Whether it was the calming motions of putting together the tamales, the comfort of being in a kitchen after such a long absence, or the fact that he just plain had something that deserved to be said out loud, Roman couldn’t tell. But he didn’t hesitate.

“As a matter of fact, Camila is one of the bravest people I know. She’s not afraid to be exactly who she is, no matter what anyone thinks. That takes more courage than most people have.”

“She’s brash,” Valeria said, and Roman’s pulse kicked faster in his veins.

“I think she’s perfect, just as she is.”

Okay, so that had just flown right out. But even though he hadn’t meant to be confrontational or disrespectful, especially within the first ten minutes of being here, Roman was never not going to be in Camila’s corner.

To his absolute shock, Valeria laughed. “Of course she’s perfect! She’s my daughter.” After a beat of silence, she continued. “You will quickly learn that this family is full of stubborn women. But Camila”—she sent her gaze heavenward—“is by far the most obstinate. Doing her own thing. Always changing her mind.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Roman said, and again, Valeria laughed.

“Not at all. But she always wants to do things her way, without help. I know she thinks we baby her, and sometimes, maybe we do. In this family, being in each other’s business is our love language. Annoying, yes.” She looked at her family, her smile growing warmer and wider. “But we love her. We want her to be happy. And so far…”

Valeria lifted her hands and shoulders in unison, and the puzzle pieces slid into place in Roman’s head with a snap.

“You think she’s not happy.”

“I think my daughter is content,” Valeria said. “She’s making a living and she has good friends. A family that loves her, even when we get on her nerves. But her job at the middle school? All the others that came before it? No. I don’t think she’s happy with that. And so, yes, I worry. I just want her to replace her way.”

“I want her to be happy, too,” Roman said.

“Then I suppose you are both lucky, after all.”

Roman placed his completed tamale on the tray, finally (sort of) getting the hang of putting them together. “How’s that?”

Valeria’s smile was warm and wide, reminding him of his own mother’s as she looked at Camila, then him. “You found each other, didn’t you?”