Chapter 2 - The Dowry in the Deep-Water BerthsThe foyer of the Garden District mansion went colder than a winter squall off the Gulf.
The crystal flute in Chief Inspector Thomas Bennett’s hand tilted, spilling amber bourbon down the satin lapel of his charcoal three-piece suit. The fifty-year-old state official—a man who had spent three years positioning himself as the incorruptible savior of New Orleans—stared at me as if I were a ghost clawing its way up from the river silt.
Beside him, two parish judges and an assistant federal prosecutor quietly set their glasses on a passing silver tray and took three synchronized steps toward the terrace exit.
“Julian,” Bennett said, forcing a genial, authoritative chuckle that died like a dry leaf against the marble. “You aren't genuinely entertaining the hysteria of an hourly maid? This girl clearly has an axe to grind with Camilla over domestic duties.”
Julian Cross did not shout.
He stood on the mahogany landing above us, six feet three inches of tailored shadow, the crumpled Brussels lace crushed in his left fist while his dark obsidian eyes pinned Bennett to the hearth.
“The fifty-dollar bill, Thomas,” Julian said softly.
The low baritone vibrated through the balustrade beneath his hand.
“What about it?” Bennett asked, pulling his coat closed over his right pocket.
“My father had a saying about men who use the phrase secrets keep families alive,” Julian murmured, walking down the sweeping staircase one step at a time, his leather soles striking the polished wood with the steady cadence of a firing squad. “He said those were the men who sold their brothers out the moment the federal subpoenas arrived.”
Camilla rushed down three steps, her satin train bunching like dead skin around her heels, her diamond tennis bracelets rattling violently.
“Julian! Don't look at him! Look at me!” she wailed, tears carving black tracks through her mascara. “Thomas helped my father when our family's shipping lines were seized in Savannah! The wedding was an asset transfer—it was paper only! We never consummated it! We dissolved the filing before the parish registrar!”
“Asset transfer?” Julian asked, stopping at the bottom of the landing, two feet from where I stood in my black uniform apron.
He reached out his right hand, caught me by the elbow with surprising, immovable firmness, and drew me behind his broad shoulder. The scent of dark tobacco, bay rum, and rain-soaked cedar enveloped me like an iron vault.
“Clara,” Julian said, his eyes never leaving Bennett. “How did they behave in that bridal suite ten months ago?”
The foyer had gone so quiet that the dripping of the champagne fountain sounded like falling coins.
I kept my spine locked, meeting Bennett’s venomous, desperate glare.
“They toasted with vintage champagne, Mr. Cross,” I said, my voice cutting through the hall. “He kissed her on the mouth before they went down the stairs, and he slipped a platinum band engraved with the initials T.B. to C.D. onto her left hand. He told her that within a year, the Cross fleet would belong to the state task force’s private receivership.”
A collective, shuddering gasp rippled through the forty guests.
Bennett’s mask shattered completely. His hand plunged inside his jacket toward his shoulder holster.
He never cleared the leather.
Before the inspector’s fingers could wrap around his weapon, Dante, Julian’s chief of tactical security, stepped out from behind the velvet portiere. A suppressed pistol struck the side of Bennett’s jaw with the concussive force of an iron pipe.
CRACK.
Bennett’s knees buckled. He hit the parquet floor with a wet thud, spitting blood and broken enamel onto his silk necktie, his service weapon sliding across the floorboards until it bumped against Julian’s oxford shoe.
Julian didn't look down at the gun.
He kicked it lightly beneath the sideboard, his gaze fixed on Camilla, who had collapsed onto the fourth step of the staircase, weeping hysterically into her lace train.
“The deep-water terminals at the mouth of the Mississippi,” Julian murmured, each syllable falling like a lead sinker into muddy water. “Bennett spent eighteen months investigating my container lines for federal contraband. He told me the indictments would vanish if I married into an 'uncompromised' family and assigned forty percent of my terminal revenue to Camilla’s bridal trust.”
He turned his head toward the double mahogany doors.
“Dante.”
May you like
“Command, Don Julian,” the enforcer answered, pressing his boot heel into Bennett’s lower back to keep the inspector pinned to the floor.
“Seal the iron gates at the perimeter,” Julian ordered, his voice cold as river stone. “Kill the cellular repeaters. If a single municipal vehicle attempts to breach the avenue before dawn, put two rounds through the engine block. Nobody leaves this house until the registrar arrives.”
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