“Sure thing,” Vin says, his voice too smooth, almost amused. “But think about it. This means they’re more resourceful than we thought. That means their information pipeline is better than we assumed.”
“Vin, I don’t need your analysis. I need you to handle it.” I can hear him clear his throat, but I don't offer any softness.
I don't have time for his questions. That's his job, to find answers.
“Handle the cleanup. And find out who talked. I’m going to figure out how I want to proceed from here.”
A brief pause, and then Vin answers, his voice steady but with an edge that feels off. “Understood. I’ll let you know what I find out. I’ll bring Wells in on it, too.”
The line goes dead, and I throw my phone across the room.
Two men dead before lunch, a compromised safehouse, and someone close enough to know where I keep my secrets.
That changes the rules.
I turn toward the hallway, toward the room where Coco is locked behind a reinforced door.
Whatever Laurent thinks he’s doing, whatever game he believes he’s playing, he just escalated it.
EIGHT
Coco
Pirate Tunnels and Prohibition Secrets: Hidden beneath New Orleans’streets, legends tell of secret tunnels and underground spaces used by pirates like Jean Lafitte to smuggle goods and by bootleggers during Prohibition to transport illegal alcohol. These mysterious passageways add to the city’s lore of intrigue and hidden history.
I pace the small room,each step landing on a slightly different creak in the floor. I’ve tried sitting. I’ve tried lying down. None of it helps.
He offered me coffee, then the house went dead quiet. No footsteps. No clink of a mug. Nothing from the front of the house.
A short, sharp sound broke the silence earlier, distant and muffled. For a split second, my heart jumped straight into my throat. It wasn’t loud enough to be a gunshot. Not in a place like this. But it had that same abrupt crack that makes my body react before my brain catches up.
Nothing followed. No raised voices. No footsteps. Just silence again.
I tell myself it was something falling outside. A branch. A door. Anything but what my gut keeps whispering.
I shake it off and face the door. Wood and a lock. That’s all that stands between me and whatever he’s doing out there. Between me and answers.
“Where’s my coffee?” I call out. “I know you can hear me.”
Silence.
I press my ear to the wood and listen until my neck aches. Nothing. No movement. No breath on the other side.
That won’t work.
I knock again, harder this time. “Did you forget about me, or is ignoring me intentional?”
A pause. Then his voice carries through the door, calm and infuriatingly even. “I got caught up. I’m working on it.”
I bite back a sharp reply. Snapping at him won’t help. If anything, it will push him deeper into that controlled distance he hides behind.
I rest my forehead against the door and force my breathing to slow.
Last night, he hesitated. Just for a second. Long enough for me to see it before he buried it again.
I straighten, already adjusting my posture, smoothing my expression into something safer. Cooperative. Easy.
When he opens this door, I need him to believe he’s in control, that whatever he gives me is generosity, not weakness. Men like him get reckless when they don’t feel secure.
