I blink. "Your father sabotaged competitors?"
"Only the ones trying to run him out of business first." Nothing in Remy's voice shifts. No apology. No justification. Just fact. "Gulf oil industry is cutthroat. Papa did what he had to do to protect his assets and provide for his family. Sometimes that meant playing dirty." His eyes meet mine. "Sometimes that meant making people disappear from the industry entirely."
The casual way he says it chills my spine. But Margot just nods like this is normal Pascal family dinner conversation.
Margot turns back to me. "You're getting a glimpse of what you're signing up for. The Pascal family doesn't do anything halfway. Love, business, vendetta—we commit completely or not at all. There's no middle ground with us." Her smile is sharp. Dangerous. "We protect what's ours. And we destroy what threatens it. No exceptions."
The warning underneath is clear. Choose Remy, choose all of it. The violence, the moral ambiguity, the man who destroys things for a living and doesn't lose sleep over it.
"I understand," I say.
"Do you?" Margot's gaze is direct as she draws me aside and lowers her voice. "Because I've watched my brother punish himself for years. For leaving, for not being here when Maman died, for every choice that put distance between him and the people who loved him. He carries that guilt like a weapon he uses against himself." She pauses. "If you're with him, you need to be all in. No half measures. No running when things get hard. Because if you leave, it will confirm everything he already believes about himself—that he doesn't deserve to be chosen."
The weight of what she's saying lands hard. About the damage underneath the control, the guilt he carries, the belief that he doesn't deserve permanence.
"I'm not running," I say. "Not from him, not from Rotterdam, not from whatever comes after."
Margot's features shift. She stands, refills her coffee. "Good. Then we understand each other."
The planning continues through the morning. Luc and Remy coordinate final logistics with their European contacts. Equipment confirmations, transport arrangements, emergency extraction protocols. Each detail cross-checked and verified.
Remy paces while we work, restless energy contained but visible. He's most dangerous like this—when the control is there but tight, coiled like a weapon ready to deploy. When he's calculating every variable and planning for scenarios that might kill us all. The cold focus of someone who's done this before. Who's made the hard calls. Who carries the weight of those decisions without flinching.
Around noon, Luc closes his laptop. "Travel arrangements confirmed. Isabella, you're on an early afternoon flight out of Louis Armstrong tomorrow. Connection through Paris, then Amsterdam. Remy, you're on a late afternoon through Atlanta to London, then Amsterdam. You meet at Schiphol, ground transport to Rotterdam."
"Separate flights reduce exposure," Remy says. "Anyone tracking direct routes to Rotterdam won't see us coming."
Luc slides a card across the table to me. Sharp. Deliberate. Like dealing from a stacked deck. "French Quarter address. Tomorrow morning, early. Your new passport will be waiting. French documentation, clean background, travel history that supports the cover."
I pocket the card. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." Luc's face is serious. Cold assessment behind his eyes. "If this operation goes wrong, those documents won't protect you from the Iron Choir. They'll just make it harder for them to track you after the fact. Assuming there is an after." He leans back, arms crossed. "And if you compromise either of us in Rotterdam, those documents won't protect you from me."
The threat hangs between us. Quiet. Absolute.
"There will be an after." Remy's voice carries absolute certainty. "We plan this right, execute clean, and extract before anyone realizes what happened. By the time the Iron Choir figures out Rotterdam was hit, we're already gone."
I want to believe him. Want to trust in his operational expertise and combat experience. But I've seen enough of this world to know that plans fail, operations go sideways, and sometimes people don't make it out.
Margot stands. "I need to get to Beaumont's to help them prep. Try not to burn the house down while I'm gone." She pauses at the doorway, looks back at me. "Isabella. A word?"
I follow her to the front gallery. Afternoon light streams through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes suspended in humid air. The house is quiet around us, just the sound of our footsteps on gleaming hardwood.
Margot stops near the door, turns to face me. "My brother cares about you. More than he's cared about anyone sinceMaman died. When you're in the room, his whole body orients toward you."
There's a plea beneath the warning. Be careful, because my brother can't afford to lose you.
"I know," I say. "I'll do my best to make sure that doesn't happen.”
Margot's mouth softens slightly. "Your best might not be enough. Rotterdam is dangerous. The Iron Choir doesn't leave loose ends. If they realize you're there, if they connect you to the compounds..." She stops.
"How do you know about the Iron Choir?" I ask.
Margot's smile is sharp. "Very little goes on in New Orleans I don't know about. And nothing happens in the Pascal mansion without me hearing it." She pauses. "I may run a restaurant, but I'm still a Pascal. We pay attention." Her expression shifts, softens slightly. "I can see you're committed. I can see you understand what you're walking into. So all I can ask is that you be smart, follow Remy's lead when things go hot, and come back alive. Both of you."
"We will," I say.
Margot pulls me into a brief, intense hug. "Welcome to the family, Isabella. Try not to get yourself killed in the first week."
