Our sister rounds on him. "Why? So he can explain how he's put us all in danger. How he's brought his war to our doorstep because it's convenient?"
"Because he's family," Luc says, and the word carries weight of things unsaid. "And Maman would have wanted us to help."
The fight drains from Margot like blood from a wound. She sags slightly, grief winning over rage, and for a moment she looks young and lost and so much like our mother it hurts.
"She asked for you," Margot says, voice breaking. "At the end. Maman said your name. You didn't come."
The guilt hits like it always does, sharp and relentless. "I know."
"Do you?" Tears streak her face now, mascara running black. "Do you have any idea what it was like watching her die? Holding her hand while she called for a son who was too busy to answer?"
Isabella moves then, crosses to Margot with quiet grace. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
Margot stares at her like she's forgotten anyone else was in the room. "Who are you again?"
"Isabella. I'm a scientist. Your brother extracted me from a dangerous situation in Prague." She speaks in French, fluid and natural. "I know we're imposing. I know this is difficult. But Remy's trying to keep me alive, and he thought coming home was the safest option."
The switch to French does something to Margot's defenses. She blinks, reassesses, some of the fury bleeding into curiosity.
"You speak beautifully," Margot says, also in French now.
"I grew up in Geneva. My mother insisted on proper French, not the Swiss version." Isabella's smile is genuine, warm. "Though I have to say, Louisiana French has a lovely music to it."
Margot almost smiles. "We're not proper Parisians here."
"Thank God for that."
The tension breaks slightly. Not gone but fractured enough that we can all breathe again.
Luc clears his throat. "You'll want Papa's study. It's secure, and the weapons cache is still there."
I turn to him. "You kept it?"
"Margot wanted to donate the guns to a museum. I convinced her that wasn't smart." He moves toward the hallway. "Come on. I'll show you what we're working with."
Papa's study still smells like cigars and old leather. The offshore rig photos continue in here, mixed with family portraits and Maman's watercolors. His desk dominates one corner, mahogany and brass, covered in paperwork that Luc must have been sorting through. But it's the gun safe hidden behind a false panel that interests me now.
"Combination's the same," Luc says. "Papa never changed it."
I work the dial from memory. The safe swings open to reveal an arsenal that would make most private security firms jealous. Handguns, rifles, ammunition, tactical gear. Papa was paranoid about competitors sabotaging his rigs, convinced someone would come after the family eventually. After he died,the lawyers showed me his security files—three attempts on his life in the years before the stroke, all quietly handled, none of us knowing until then.
"This works," I say, already planning defensive positions. "We'll need to set up cameras, reinforce entry points, establish fields of fire."
"I can help with that." Luc leans against the desk, arms crossed. "I'm not military anymore, but I know the house. And I've got contacts in the city that might be useful."
"What kind of contacts?"
"The kind that move product through the port without customs asking questions." He meets my gaze steadily. "I handle security at Dominion, but I also take private contracts. Intelligence, black ops work, security jobs that need someone who knows how to operate off the books. The import-export business gives me legitimate cover when I need it." His smile is dark. "Papa wasn't the only one who knew how to work the shadows."
I nod, then turn to Isabella. She's examining one of Maman's watercolors—a garden scene, magnolias in bloom, painted from the back gallery.
6
REMY
"You should rest," I tell Isabella. "It's been a long day."
"So should you."
