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Chapter Twenty-Four

Enzo

I got out of the limousine, the bright daylight momentarily blinding after the tinted comfort of the vehicle.

My eyes fixed on the back door of Crescent Manor.

A black sedan was parked nearby, its polished surface reflecting the harsh sunlight with mirror-like intensity.

I kept waiting for Flanagan to emerge from the vehicle, but something told me he was already inside, patient as a spider waiting to spring its trap on unsuspecting prey. On us.

The thought of Flanagan made my jaw clench involuntarily, muscles tightening until pain was radiating up to my temples.

He’d been hunting for Joy too—another player in this dangerous game, methodical and relentless in his pursuit.

As Louis DuPont’s former partner, Flanagan was likely still operating under the assumption that Louis was alive somewhere, perhaps in hiding, perhaps in danger.

The fact that he was also searching for Joy made everything more dangerous—a race against a ruthless opponent who might use her either as bait to draw out Louis or worse, discover the truth about what happened to him.

He couldn’t know that Angelo had been forced to kill Louis—Joy didn’t even know her father was dead.

DuPont’s death was a grim necessity we’d concealed from the authorities with meticulous care. What remained of Louis by the end had been barely recognizable—the possession had hollowed him out, leaving nothing of the good man he’d once been, just a vessel for something ancient and hungry and evil.

Every policeman in New Orleans was now looking for Joy, their search extending into every corner of the city, but there was something particularly unsettling about Flanagan—something in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t merely following protocol.

The last time we’d encountered him, standing amid the carnage of another crime scene, he’d leveled those cold, knowing eyes at Angelo and accused him of murdering several women—the casino staff from Crimson Stakes as well as a young woman from Ravenwood Estate.

His voice carried an edge of certainty that went beyond professional suspicion.

Now, watching the sedan gleaming in the sunlight, I could only assume Flanagan believed we were guilty of Simon’s death as well—another bloodbath to add to our growing ledger of supposed crimes.

The injustice of it burned in my chest. Simon had been alive when we left, wounded but breathing.

I remembered the rise and fall of his chest as we’d backed away, the mission complete.

There had been casualties, unavoidable in the chaos that had erupted, but we hadn’t slaughtered everyone like the wolves discovered them.

We’d gone in with a precise objective and limited force—a rescue mission, not a revenge mission.

We’d taken only the lives we had to take, made only the sacrifices necessary to extract Joy.

Simon and his men had died afterward, and it wasn’t by us.

But trying to explain that to Flanagan, a detective who saw only murderers when he looked at us, would be an exercise in futility.

In his world, we were simply violent criminals, dangerous men who solved problems with bloodshed.

What he didn’t know—what we couldn’t tell him—was the true nature of what we were fighting.

As far as Flanagan was concerned, this was just human violence, brutal but comprehensible.

If he ever discovered what we really were, what truly lurked in the shadows of his city, his hunt would only intensify.

The silence of the place was unnerving despite the bright day. No birds chirped in the nearby trees. No distant voices carried on the still air. Just the soft rustle of expensive fabric as Angelo adjusted his jacket beside me, carefully positioning himself to remain in the shade of the building.

“Come on.” Angelo glanced at me, his ancient eyes missing nothing. “Remain calm.”

I stiffened as a flicker of irritation stirred into me. My fingers flexed at my sides, betraying the tension I was trying to mask. “I’m always calm.”

Angelo grumbled, a sound deep in his throat that carried centuries of weariness. “Not when it comes to Joy.” His words cut through my pretense with surgical precision. “She’s your Achilles’ heel and could be used against you.”

The truth of his statement stung more than I cared to admit. Joy’s face flashed in my mind—her quiet strength, her unpredictable power. What would Flanagan do if he discovered what she meant to me? Or worse, what if he found her first?

Dimitri came alongside Angelo. “You mean like Serenity was yours.” He moved with calculated precision as he scanned the grounds, his body positioned slightly ahead of Angelo’s—the protective stance of family rather than a subordinate.

His eyes, cold and assessing, missed nothing as he cataloged every shadow, every potential hiding place with the methodical thoroughness of someone who had survived countless such encounters.

A heavy silence fell between us, laden with old wounds and unspoken history.

Dimitri opened the door with measured caution, the hinges giving a soft protest that seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence.

Angelo stepped inside first, his movements fluid and controlled, shoulders squared beneath his tailored jacket.

I followed close behind him, instinctively scanning the dimly lit hallway for threats.

Two men dressed in identical dark suits stood at the end of the corridor like sentinels, their stances rigid with the practiced vigilance of law enforcement.

The taller one, with a scar running along his jawline, pulled a radio from his belt and held it to his mouth, eyes never leaving us as he spoke.

“They’ve arrived, sir,” he reported, voice clipped and professional.

The second man—younger, with close-cropped hair and an eager tension around his eyes—gestured toward an opening to our right. His hand hovered near his holster in a way that seemed both casual and deliberate.

“Flanagan wants you to wait for him in the living room while we search the premises,” he announced, the slight tremor in his voice betraying his nervousness despite the authoritative tone.

I stepped forward, placing myself slightly ahead of Angelo—a subtle shift in dynamics that didn’t go unnoticed by either of the suited men. Their eyes widened fractionally, their postures stiffening.

“You have a search warrant?” I asked, keeping my voice level and my gaze steady, refusing to wince from the younger officer’s increasingly intense stare. The question hung in the air between us, a challenge wrapped in the veneer of civility.

The younger officer shifted his weight, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Of course we have a warrant.” He reached into his jacket and produced a folded document, which he held out but didn’t release when I reached for it.

The older officer with the scar spoke up. “We’re investigating Simon Cartier’s murder. Medical examiner found something... unusual in his system. Some kind of toxin they haven’t been able to identify yet. That, combined with the lacerations?—”

“Claw marks,” the younger one interrupted, watching our faces carefully for a reaction. “Deep enough to kill on their own, but it was the poison that finished him.”

I kept my expression neutral despite the cold realization washing over me. The poison was a deliberate choice, calculated and precise—nothing like our methods. We’d left Simon wounded but alive, which meant someone was trying to create a false narrative.

But why poison? It suggested a killer who needed chemical assistance to overpower their victims, someone physically weaker. Was that detail meant to divert attention from stronger suspects like us, or was there another purpose to this elaborate setup?

Angelo’s posture remained relaxed, but I could sense the tension radiating from him. “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. But by all means, search away. We have nothing to hide.”

The younger officer’s eyes narrowed at Angelo. “We’ll be the judges of that.” He gestured again, more firmly this time. “Flanagan wants to speak with you personally. He should be here shortly.”

Dimitri moved beside me, his expression unreadable. “What exactly are you looking for?” he asked, his accent slightly more pronounced than usual. “Perhaps we can help you find it faster.”

The scarred officer almost smiled. “Custom weapons. Anything with unusual edge patterns or claw-like properties. And any chemicals, herbs, or substances that might be used in... unorthodox ways.”

I understood then. They weren’t just looking for conventional weapons or poisons. Flanagan suspected something beyond the ordinary—not supernatural perhaps, but definitely ritualistic. He was searching for evidence of the occult, of something organized and deliberate.

Which meant we weren’t the only ones keeping secrets.

Angelo, Dimitri, and I headed into the living room where Serenity, Gianna, and Elena sat.

Two uniformed police officers were at both exits, their watchful eyes scanning our every move, the scent of their human blood causing my fangs to ache beneath my gums. The officers’ hands hovered near their holstered weapons, eyes tracking our every movement with predatory focus.

“You’re home.” Serenity immediately got up off the chair and rushed over to Angelo, her movements fluid and graceful. The air around her seemed to shimmer with celestial energy, a subtle glow that only our kind could detect.

He put his arm around her waist, pulling her against him with possessive strength. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, her blue eyes flashing with hidden meaning. Her heart thrashed against its cage like something feral and desperate, a dark contrast to her calm features.

“Yes. I’m not sure what they are looking for.”

Dimitri headed over to Gianna and sat down next to her, the ancient floorboards groaning under his deliberate steps. She put her head on his shoulder, her pulse quickening as their bodies connected. I caught the faint scent of her fear—sharp and briny, like the aftermath of tears.

Elena exhaled as if relieved that we were here, the sound cutting through the tension-thick air.

Her fingers drummed nervously against the leatherbound tome in her lap, nails clicking in an erratic rhythm.

I wanted to follow the cops around, to watch their investigation unfold in real time.

If someone was planting evidence against us, I needed to know what and where—we might even catch them in the act.

But shadowing police officers would only arouse more suspicion, potentially confirming Flanagan’s theory that we had something to hide.

My muscles tensed with the restraint, an uncomfortable electricity racing through my limbs.

Detective Chester Flanagan entered the living room, bringing with him the stench of cigarettes, coffee, and human arrogance.

He looked down his glasses at us as if he were a principal, his weathered face creased with disgust. The overhead lights glinted off his badge as he shifted his weight, the metal clanking against the buttons of his ill-fitting suit jacket.

“We’re looking for evidence that the Santi family is responsible for Simon and his men’s death.” His voice grated like sandpaper on stone, each word deliberate and accusing.

“We did not have anything to do with Simon’s death. We didn’t even know he was dead until your men told us,” Angelo said. I could sense the rage building within him. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around Serenity’s waist.

“So you say,” Flanagan said, his lips curling into a smirk that revealed yellowed teeth.

A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, the salt-tang of it reaching my sensitive nostrils.

“But we have a report that a mafia family was muscling in on Simon’s enterprise—of selling young girls.

We just have to figure out which family or if all three were involved. ”

The mention of human trafficking stirred an anger inside me. Joy had been part of that, something I would seek vengeance for. If anyone touched her, they were already dead but didn’t know it. Was this Maximo’s elaborate game to harness Joy’s power?