Marcel walked in with his cane and that same heavy presence that made people straighten without thinking. His body looked weaker, his suit hanging looser, but power still poured off him.
Behind him came the Laveaus.
Money. Legacy. Predators dressed in elegance.
Then Yuna.
All black.
Long black fur slipping off her shoulders. Pencil dress hugging a body I remembered too well. Curly hair moistened since she was off the streets.
Dark veil covering her face.
For a second, the room blurred. Flashbacks of Vegas hit me.
My fingers tightened around the glass.
Marcel kissed my mother and grandmother. Hugged me quickly.
“Tu as mauvaise mine,” he murmured.You look exhausted.
“Je le suis,” I answered.I am.
Introductions were given in French and English.
Devon Laveau, Yuna’s father. A Louisiana Creole man who taught all his kids to speak Kori-Vini. It was Creole French, but we understood each other enough. Then they introduced Madam Shayla Laveau, her mother. A full-blooded Romanian beauty with ice in her posture. I knew both of them through Zay. All this time, we had been friends and sat at his dinner table, and I didn’t know they were the infamous Laveaus that nobody knew for real.
“And their daughter,” Marcel said. “Yuna Laveau.”
She lifted the veil. A slow smile pulled at my mouth before I could stop it.
“Well,” I said quietly, leaning back. “Look at you, ma belle.”
Her mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile.
Madame Laveau gripped her arm. “My daughter will not be speaking today. She is here to listen.”
I held Yuna’s gaze anyway.
“She knows me,” I said. “And she knows I’ll treat her right. Shall I say more?”
Marcel cleared his throat.
“Bon. Let us begin.”
We moved to the table.
Yuna sat across from me, sunglasses hiding her eyes now. Her mother stayed close, whispering.
She was crying behind those glasses.
I hated seeing it.
The lawyer started reading.
Marriage within eight months.
Public unity.
