I look at him. “What kind of question is that?”
“The kind I’m allowed to ask because I’m your brother,” Keller says. “And because you spend your life deciding what everyone else needs.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
He gives me a look that says it is.
I set my glass down slowly. “I want the company stable, I want the city predictable, and I want boring. That's it.”
“That’s what you do,” Keller says. “Not what you want.”
I hold his gaze.
Keller’s expression shifts again, less teasing now, more careful. “You know I’m not trying to pry. I just—” He exhales. “You’ve been running at full speed since the murder. Since before that. And you finally look like you’re breathing.”
“I am breathing,” I say.
“Good,” he replies, and it’s simple. No joke. No edge.
The quiet stretches between us, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels earned.
Keller sits back and lifts his glass again, lighter now. “Alright. Enough therapy. Tell me what you’re going to do when the board tries to push back on the new inspection thresholds.”
“I’m going to remind them Stone Intermodal doesn’t answer to their discomfort,” I say.
Keller smiles. “There he is.”
I take the bait, because it’s easier. “And if they still want to fight, they can find a different port.”
“Cold,” Keller says, pleased.
“Correct,” I reply.
TWENTY-NINE
Coco
Bienville’s Redemption:In 1718, Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville, overcame criticism and early failures to establish New Orleans at a strategic bend in the Mississippi River. Battling flooding, disease, and opposition, Bienville’s vision transformed the struggling outpost into a thriving colonial hub. His perseverance not only redeemed his reputation but also laid the foundation for one of the world’s most iconic cities.
The lineat Café du Monde moves the way it always does, slow and stubborn and somehow still charming. Powdered sugar hangs in the air like the place is permanently mid-celebration, even when the morning feels ordinary.
I step inside and let the noise wash over me. Tourists, locals, trays clinking, the espresso machine hissing like it has opinions.
I spot my father before I even register that I am looking for him.
He sits at a small table near the edge of the room, where he can see the door without looking like he is trying.Dark suit. No tie. His hands rest on the table beside two coffees, one black, one already stirred with cream. A paper bag sits between them, folded at the top, the grease spot darkening through.
He stands when he sees me. It's not performative. It's just what he does.
“Corinne,” he says.
“Morning, Papa.”
He pulls out the chair. I sit, and I note the small, familiar click of eyes on us. People notice him. That part never changes, no matter how much distance I build in my own life.
He nods toward the coffee with cream. “I remembered.”
I wrap my fingers around the cup. The warmth hits my palms first, then travels into my wrists. “Thank you.”
