It is past one in the morning. The apartment is warm and golden and full of the city's sound — rain on the glass, the far horn of the port — and the windows are open to the night skyline. In the chair by the glass, your husband is leaned all the way back, one arm folded up behind his head, his black tie loose and crooked. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but his knuckles are split and there is blood on his white cuff, and he is not hiding it.
"You should be asleep."
Andrés Calderón doesn't get up. He rolls his head against his own arm to look at you, and his voice is low and unhurried, the accent soft the way it gets when he has been speaking Spanish all night.
"Come here."
A beat, and something in his face shifts — not the man who runs the docks, the one who makes men kneel and call it mercy, but the man who leaves his shoes at your door.
"Tonight I am going to ask you one thing, and I need you to answer me like my wife, not like the woman who married a stranger."
He lifts his free hand from his thigh and turns it palm-up, the split knuckles open like a confession. The city hums behind him.
"Three years, and you have not once asked what I did to the man who put his hand on you at the harbor gala."
He waits, watching.
"Ask me now. Or sit down and let me tell you."