“You took my daughter. I want her back tonight. If not, this will start looking mild by comparison.”
The line goes dead.
I snap the phone shut and drop it onto the nearest table.
Keller watches me carefully. “What did he say?”
I don’t answer right away. The damage. The money. The fallout. All of it matters. None of it compares to the decision waiting for me.
“Repay the guests,” I say finally. “Every cent.”
Keller nods. “And cleanup?”
“Handle it.”
He studies me, reading what I am not saying. Then he steps back. “Understood.”
I turn away from the wreckage and head for the door.
Laurent wants his daughter back by sunrise. Vin thinks we need to keep her right where she is so the Duvalls keep believing the lie. Letting her go would cool things down. It would close one front before it turns into something that can’t be contained.
There is no clean choice here. Only different kinds of damage.
FIFTEEN
Coco
Louis Congo:A freed enslaved man, became the city’s executioner, tasked with carrying out brutal punishments. Despite his role, Congo was known for showing mercy, often sparing individuals from the harshest sentences. His story reflects the complex interplay of power, compassion, and redemption in New Orleans’history.
The soundof the bunker’s lock disengaging drags me out of sleep. It’s low and metallic, the kind of noise that doesn’t belong to dreams. My eyes open before I decide to wake, my body already listening.
Footsteps follow, echoing through the concrete corridor. I know them now. The weight. The pace. Ridge doesn’t hurry, and he doesn’t hesitate. He’s moving toward the back of the bunker, toward me, and I’m upright before the thought fully forms.
The room stays dark except for the strip of light spilling in from the hall. When he stops in the doorway, it’s like the space tightens around him. He blocks what littlelight there is, all solid lines and contained force, and I can’t read his face from here. I don’t need to. Something in the way he’s holding himself sets my nerves humming, the quiet kind of alert that comes right before something shifts.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Get dressed,” he says. His voice is clipped. Controlled. “You’re leaving.”
The words knock the air out of me. For a second, I just stare at him, trying to get my bearings.
“What?” I say. “Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He turns and walks out of view like the conversation is already over. He doesn’t give me anything more or allow for questions.
Something’s off.
“Wait,” I call after him. “Am I leaving-leaving? Or are we moving again?”
“You’re going home,” he says without stopping. “Enough with the questions.”
Home.
I wait for relief to hit. It doesn’t. My pulse kicks instead, hard and off-rhythm, and my chest tightens like my body is arguing with my brain.
This is what I wanted. I know that.
