My hand comes away slick with blood. I can’t tell if it’s his or mine. I don’t hesitate. I wipe it on my pants and stand.
There’s no time to drown in it. He wouldn’t have allowed that. This isn’t how it ends. Not for him. Not for us.
TWO
Coco
Above-Ground Cemeteries:Known as the“Cities of the Dead,” New Orleans’cemeteries feature above-ground tombs because of the high water table. The tombs reflect Spanish and French influences, adding to the city’s mystique.
“Doyou even realize the mess you’ve left? How fucking careless you were?”
My father stands behind his desk when he says it, hands braced against the polished wood. It’s a posture I’ve known my entire life. Controlled. Deliberate. The kind he uses when he wants me to understand he’s in charge and I’m expected to toe the line.
His gaze locks onto mine, his black eyes boring into me.
Émile Girard sits to his right, arms crossed, watching in silence. He’s my father’s Chief Operations Officer, his constant shadow. He’s the man who handles labor issues atthe docks before they become complaints, audits, or investigations.
I fold my arms and lift my chin. The defiance comes easily. The tight knot under my ribs does not.
It’s only been a month since I agreed to try to learn the family business, to see if I can help my father and be a part of Portside Labor Management, my father’s longshore staffing firm.
“I know,” I say. “And I didn’t leave because I was careless.”
“You were told exactly what to do,” my father says, slamming his hand onto the desk. “One job, Corinne. One. Do you want to run this company one day, or not?”
I crack my knuckles under the desk, letting that outlet release some of the rage bubbling up inside of me. I don’t interrupt because interrupting only makes it worse.
Failure. It’s a word that makes my entire body tense because I don’t like to fail, even if I’m not sure I want this business that my father cherishes.
Since I agreed to this, everything has been a test. Small jobs, controlled exposure, proof that I can be trusted with more. Of course it’s a responsibility I never asked for, one that keeps getting handed to me anyway.
“This wasn’t rocket science,” he continues. “You meet Iggy, you give him the expense envelope, and you leave. Why do you make everything so fucking complicated?”
“It didn’t feel right,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “That is not your concern, Corinne. You do what I tell you. You don’t feel.”
Iggy and I grew up around the same people, even if we ended up on different sides of the port. His world stayed dock-level. Mine didn’t.
He works the docks as a foreman now, someone whoknows how things actually move through the port. And men like that don’t get shaky over routine payments.
“I left because something was off. I was making a judgment call based on risk,” I say, and mean it.
He throws a pen across the room.
I flinch before I can stop myself, then lower my gaze to the polished surface. The gold-leaf edge catches the light, fleur-de-lis pressed into every corner. I trace it with my eyes like I’ve done since I was a kid, grounding myself.
“That’s not what I want you to do,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You said you want to learn this, Corinne. Learn. Stop trying to be in control.”
Émile shifts slightly beside him. That faint look of disapproval sharpens. Of course it does.
I swallow and say nothing. Let him burn it out. That’s always been the fastest way out of this room.
“Sometimes I wonder if you even have any clue what’s at stake right now. This business runs on precision and control. On people executing instructions cleanly and without improvisation.”
He gestures toward me like I’m a misstep. A flaw.
Heat crawls up my neck. The Boudreaux name carries weight in this city because our company does. Ports, contracts, shipping lanes. All the things people rely on and don’t like disrupted if the workers don’t show up. I’ve noticed the way conversations stop when my father enters a room, not out of fear, but calculation.
