Home. We're actually going home.
I look out the window as the Gulfstream descends through darkness. City lights spread below, familiar constellations of streets and landmarks I've known my entire life. The curve of the Mississippi, the grid of the French Quarter, the sprawl of neighborhoods stretching toward Lake Pontchartrain.
New Orleans. The city I left at eighteen, running from family expectations and my own darkness. The place I've avoided for decades because coming back meant confronting everything I walked away from.
And now I'm choosing to return. Not running, not hiding, not on temporary leave between operations. Coming home for real, with Isabella beside me and the future spreading out like that city below: unpredictable, dangerous, and mine to shape.
The landing is smooth. We taxi to the private terminal where Margot's arranged everything: expedited customs processing, vehicles waiting, minimal complications for corporate travel.
When we descend the stairs, humid Louisiana air hits like a wall. It smells like home: river water and night-blooming jasmine, the particular combination of moisture and heat that doesn't exist anywhere else. Isabella breathes it in, and I wonder what she's thinking. If this place can become home for her too, or if she's just following me because the alternative is worse.
A black SUV waits on the tarmac, and Margot steps out of the driver's seat.
My sister looks exactly like she did days ago when I left: poised, controlled, expensive clothes tailored perfectly. But something in her expression has shifted. She's less ice now, more steel. Or maybe I'm just different enough to see what was always there.
"Welcome home," she says simply. "I assume the Rotterdam situation is resolved?"
"Completely." I move toward her, and before I can second-guess the impulse, I pull her into a brief hug. "Thank you. For everything."
She stiffens for half a second, then returns the embrace with surprising strength. "You're my brother. Of course I helped."
When we separate, she's blinking rapidly. Not quite crying but close. Then control slams back into place as she turns to Isabella. "Isabella. I hope the extraction was smooth?"
"Thanks to your logistics." Isabella's smiling, genuine warmth in her expression. "The flight was perfect."
"Good." Margot gestures to the SUV. "I've had your old suite updated a bit and started renovation work to give you more space." A pause. "Contractors have been working on knocking through the wall, but it won't be finished for a few more days. You'll have privacy while you figure out your next steps."
Margot's been preparing for me to come home.
Isabella glances at me, reading the shift in my expression. Margot's offering more than just a place to stay. She's offering permanence. Acceptance. Home.
"Margot—" I start.
"Don't." She cuts me off, voice sharp but not unkind. "It's time we claimed this house as our own instead of preserving it like a museum. Luc has the guest house out back. I'm planning to renovate the master suite for myself eventually." Her mouth quirks slightly. "But I wanted you settled first. Wanted you to have a reason to stay."
The weight of what she's offering settles over me. This isn't just courtesy. It's her choosing to move forward, choosing to rebuild family instead of staying frozen in grief and resentment.
We load into the SUV: me in front with Margot, Isabella and Luc in back. The drive through New Orleans at night isquiet, each of us processing the shift from operational to civilian. Margot navigates familiar streets with easy competence, heading toward the Garden District and home.
When we pull through the gates, something settles inside me. The mansion looks like home again: the antebellum architecture preserved meticulously, gardens maintained to perfection, the whole place radiating old money and older expectations.
But this time I'm not here as the black sheep of the family. Not here temporarily before running back to Cerberus and another op in another country. I'm here because I chose to come home. Because this is where I'm building my life now.
Margot parks in the circular drive. "Come on. I'll show you what's been done so far."
We follow her inside, through the familiar foyer where Maman's portrait still hangs above the staircase. When Margot opens the door, my old suite already looks a little different. The furniture's been updated—new bed, new nightstands, fresh linens. But through an opening in the far wall, I can see construction is clearly underway—exposed studs where the wall's been partially removed, drop cloths protecting the floors, tools stacked neatly in the corner.
"I had them start after you left," Margot says quietly. "Figured if you were actually coming home, you'd need a real space. Not something temporary." She meets my eyes. "Somewhere that could be yours. It'll take another week or so to finish—full bathroom renovation, new flooring throughout, and proper closet space. For both of you."
Isabella's hand finds mine, squeezes gently.
"Thank you," I manage. The words feel inadequate for what she's giving us.
"We're family." Margot's voice carries the same hard certainty from earlier. "Whatever you need, Remy. Whatever either of you need. You're home now. Start acting like it."
She leaves us standing in the doorway, her footsteps fading down the hall.
Isabella steps into the room, crossing to the windows that overlook magnolia trees and garden paths lit by soft landscape lighting. "She did this for us."
