"Job offer. Corporate espionage investigation." He turns the screen toward me. "Tech startup in Austin, someone's bleeding prototype designs before patent filing. Client wants wet work if we find the leak."
I scan the details. A clean operation, minimal violence potential unless the target resists. It uses our skills without crossing lines that matter.
"Timeline?"
"Next week. I told them maybe." Luc closes the laptop. "Depends whether you're interested in partnership."
"Partnership in what?"
"Rapier Strategic. Private security, corporate protection, asset recovery." His smile is dark. "Legitimate front for the kind of work we're good at. High-end clients, serious money, complete operational control."
Real collaboration between brothers who both know how to get blood on their hands and walk away clean.
"Full tactical control on ops," I say. "Non-negotiable."
"Wouldn't have it any other way." Luc extends his hand. "You're in. Let's make some money and break some faces."
I shake it.
Isabella appears in the doorway, dressed in borrowed clothes, hair still damp from the shower. Sunlight catches her profile, transforming exhaustion into something that looks like peace.
"Coffee?" she asks.
"Fresh pot in the kitchen," Luc tells her.
She disappears, leaving Luc and me alone with spreadsheets and possibilities.
"You're definitely staying," Luc says. It's not a question.
"Yeah."
"Good." He reopens his laptop and pulls up operational files. "Because we've got work to do."
The conversation shifts to logistics, equipment lists, timeline details. Hours pass. When Isabella touches my shoulder, pointing to the gallery doors, I realize the afternoon's gone.
Outside, magnolia scent drifts through humid air. New Orleans settles into the particular rhythm of late afternoon—heat breaking, shadows lengthening, the city exhaling after holding its breath all day.
Isabella curls against me on the gallery sofa. Her hand settles over my heart, fingers tracing patterns on my chest.
I hold her and watch the city through the trees, feeling the weight of permanence settle into my bones.
Home.
LUC
Dominion’s Command
The photograph slides across Margot's desk like a death sentence.
Simone LaCroix. Bound to a St. Andrew's cross, head thrown back, mouth open in what could be pleasure or pain or both. Professional quality. Taken inside Dominion's privaterooms where cameras aren't allowed and members pay obscene amounts for guaranteed discretion.
Someone got inside. Someone with access, equipment, and a message.
"When did she receive this?" I ask.
"This morning. Delivered to her office at LaCroix Petroleum." Margot's voice is cold, controlled, the way it gets when she's three seconds from violence. "Envelope had one word written on it:Soon."
I study the image. Recognize the room, the equipment, even the Dom who'd been working her that night. But what stops my breath is the angle. Whoever took this was standing in the blind spot I designed. The one position where security cameras don't overlap, the weakness I told Margot to assign someone to cover.
