Once we land, we're ghosts until we reach the Garden District unless Luc shoots me on sight, then I'll be a ghost for real... little brother hits what he aims at.
My brother answered when I called from Vienna, voice flat and cold as January rain. Had I not been using a burner phone he might not have bothered. I told him I was coming home, that I needed to use the house, that I had someone with me who needed protection.
There was a long silence on the other end before he said, "Fine. Margot will want to see you."
That was it. No questions about why now, no demands for explanation. Just acknowledgment that I'd be sleeping under our parents' roof for the first time in a very long time.
I put the phone away and close my eyes. Not sleeping, just resting them while my mind maps variables and calculates risks. Bringing Isabella into my family's orbit exposes them to danger they don't deserve. Luc did his time in Delta Force, then made his fortune in offshore oil like Papa before coming back to New Orleans to begin an import/export business which covers for some less than legal, but highly lucrative work, including a contract to provide security for Dominion, a high-end private club in the Warehouse District. Margot ran intelligence and surveillance for several private black ops groups before the family restaurant became her full focus. They can handle themselves.
But they chose different lives, built something legitimate, and now I'm dragging them back into the kind of fight they walked away from. Still, staying in Europe means staying in Lazarev's kill box.
At least in New Orleans, I know the territory. Margot and Luc will know which cops can be trusted, which politicians are on the take, which streets belong to which crews. The city's in my blood the way saltwater and gunpowder never quite wash out.
And maybe, if I'm honest with myself, part of me needs to face what I left behind.
The flight drags on. We land at JFK in early morning gray, move through the terminal like the honeymooning Fontaines we're supposed to be. Isabella handles it with the same composed intelligence she applies to everything else, playing her role without needing direction.
Houston comes next. Longer layover, enough time to eat something that isn't airplane food and watch the crowds for threats that don't materialize. By the time we board the final leg to Baton Rouge, fatigue has worn through my reserves, but I can't afford to show it.
Isabella watches me across the tray table in the airport restaurant, concern flickering in those dark eyes. "You need to rest when we get there."
"I will."
"Liar."
A smile tugs at my mouth. "Probably."
"Definitely." She takes a sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim. "How bad is it going to be? With your family."
"Bad enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got right now." I lean back, ignoring the pull in my ribs. "Luc's angry. Margot's furious. And they have every right to be."
"Because you weren't there when your parents died."
Not a question. She's already pieced it together from context, from the phone call she overheard, from the tension that's been building in me since we decided on New Orleans.
"Because I chose the mission over family when they needed me most. Because I missed Maman's last days saving strangers in a country most people can't find on a map. Because Papa diedasking for me, and I was twelve time zones away debriefing in a facility that doesn't officially exist."
Her hand covers mine on the table, warm and steady. The contact grounds me, pulls me back before guilt can spiral into something worse.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly.
"Don't be. I made my choices." I turn my palm up, thread my fingers through hers. "Now I get to live with them."
We board the Baton Rouge flight without further discussion. This time I take the window seat, giving Isabella the aisle so she can stretch her legs. The plane is half empty, regional commuters and business travelers who barely glance our way.
Less than an hour later, we're on the ground in Louisiana.
The heat hits like walking into a wall. September in Baton Rouge means ninety degrees and humidity you could swim through. Isabella stumbles slightly coming down the stairs onto the tarmac, and I steady her with a hand at her elbow.
"Mon Dieu," she breathes, switching to French without seeming to realize it. "How do people live in this?"
"You get used to it." I guide her toward the terminal, scan the area out of habit. "Give it a day or two."
The lot is small, regional, exactly the kind of place where nobody pays attention to travelers passing through. I find the SUV right where Fitz said it would be, a dark blue Tahoe that's seen better years but runs smooth when I start it up.
