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“And it’s handled.”
Just like that.
I studied him, this man who had secrets like shadows and skills that could reroute entire systems without blinking. “So you’re telling me you took down a threat before takeoff and now you’re drinking your coffee like it’s Sunday brunch?”
“Would you rather I be pacing in the galley?”
“No,” I said. “But I wouldn’t mind details.”
He leaned back, fingers toying with the edge of his cup. “Let’s just say an enemy underestimated what I’m willing to do to protect what’s mine.”
I swallowed, heat crawling up my neck. “And I’m what’s yours?”
His voice dropped a note. “You were the second you walked into Teresa’s office like you were on fire.”
I didn’t have a comeback.
Because there were truths that didn’t need to be debated. They just needed to be lived.
The jet lifted, engines roaring to life. I watched the city shrink beneath us, spires and streets fading into geometry. Elias reached for my hand. And I let him hold me steady while the ground disappeared beneath my feet.
The flight was smooth, silent, and swift. There was no turbulence, no flight attendant rattling off seatbelt instructions, no fussy baby in row seventeen. Just the low hum of luxury and the steady hand of Elias resting against mine like he was tethering me to the sky.
By the time we descended into New Orleans, the sun had risen higher, painting the sky in smears of coral and pale gold. A sleek black town car waited on the tarmac, its windows just as dark as the SUV in Charleston. The moment the wheels touched ground, the jet’s stairs were lowered, the car doors opened, and a uniformed driver stood with one hand on the door and the other pressed to his earpiece.
“Mr. Dane,” the driver said. “Welcome back.”
Elias simply nodded.
We were ushered into the back seat like visiting royalty. Emmaline and I sat side by side, but it was Elias’s presence that filled the car, that made the plush leather seats and gleaming console feel like part of something much bigger. He didn’t need to announce his status. It followed him—quiet, certain, absolute.
The memory care facility sat just off a sleepy boulevard lined with ancient oaks and crumbling brick. Saint Cecilia’s looked more like a Southern estate than a medical building—high columns, wrought-iron balconies, ivy crawling up whitewashed walls. But beneath the beauty was the sharp scent of antiseptic, and a too-calm quiet that always made me uneasy.
The director was already waiting at the door, clipboard in hand and a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Elias stepped forward to greet her, shaking her hand with the kind of practiced calm that could broker international treaties or, apparently, buy your mother out of a memory care contract.
“I’ve brought the full transfer packet,” the woman said briskly, flipping pages as we stepped inside. “The discharge papers, her medical records, and a full accounting of the final bill.”
Elias took it, skimmed the top page, then passed it to an assistant—who I hadn’t even noticed was trailing behind us until she stepped forward in perfect silence, tablet in hand.
Was she from Charleston? How did she even get to New Orleans? I had so many questions.
“I’ll wire the balance,” Elias said. “Now.”
The director blinked. “You—now?”
He looked up. “Is that a problem?”
She faltered, then shook her head. “No, of course, not. It’s just that most families?—”
“We’re not most families,” he said, his voice all steel and silk.
We found her in the solarium, where they said she liked to sit when the sunlight was softest. Maureen Laveau was wearing a pale blue housecoat and white slippers. Her hair was neatly combed, her hands folded in her lap.
She didn’t look up when we entered. Just stared through the glass at a tree heavy with blossoms.
“Mama?” I said gently, heart in my throat.
She turned slowly. Her eyes were glassy but clear. She squinted, as if we were far away. “Are you one of the nurses?”