He's not wrong. And having family at my back, having someone trustworthy in a city where everyone's playing angles, might be the tactical advantage we need.
"You follow my lead. This isn't business, Luc. This is combat."
"Understood." He nods to Isabella. "You should rest. We've got planning to do."
He disappears back inside. Isabella touches my arm, grounds me before operational planning can spiral.
"He's trying," she says softly. "Your brother. He's angry, but he's trying to bridge the gap."
"I know."
"Are you going to let him?"
The question cuts deeper than it should. I look at her, this woman who sees too much, who understands family wounds because she carries her own, who's asking me to do the hard thing instead of the easy one.
"Yeah. I'm going to let him."
She smiles, genuine and warm. "Good. Now let's go plan how to catch whoever's buying my research before they turn it into a weapon."
"You're not going to New York."
The smile fades. "What?"
"You stay here where it's secure. This isn't up for discussion."
"I wasn't asking to go." She doesn't back down, meets my stare without flinching. "But I need to be part of the planning. You'll need to know how the research would be packaged, how it would be presented to buyers, what questions they'd ask. You can't build an effective approach without understanding what you're actually dealing with."
"Fitz has analysts?—"
"In London. Looking at reports." She cuts me off. "I built this, Remy. I know every compound, every delivery system, every modification that makes it weapons-grade versus medical application. If you're going to intercept a sale or pose as a buyer or whatever tactical approach you're planning, you need someone who can identify what's real versus what's a decoy. Otherwise you're going in blind."
I want to argue, but she's right. The technical details, the specific formulations, the ways she'd modified standard protocols—none of that would be in my wheelhouse or Luc's.
"Fine. You're part of planning. That's it."
"That's all I'm asking."
"And when we go to New York, you stay here."
Something flickers in her expression, but she doesn't argue. "We'll discuss that after we have an actual plan."
"There's nothing to discuss."
"Then you won't mind having the conversation later." She turns toward the study. "Come on. Your brother's waiting."
I follow, knowing damn well this argument isn't over. But she's already moving inside, and Luc's voice carries from Papa's study along with the sound of files being pulled from drawers.
We move through the French doors, leaving the magnolias and moonlight behind. Luc's already pulling up schematics at Papa's desk. Isabella's settling into one of the leather chairs, asking questions sharp and focused. Magnolia scent drifts through the open doors, mixing with the smell of Papa's old cigars embedded in the furniture.
It's been years since this house felt like anything but a graveyard. Strange how danger brings everything back to life.
.
7
ISABELLA
Iwake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs.
