Chapter 1 - The Sound of the Lost
The hum began as an involuntary exhale, the kind of quiet, rhythmic vibration that escapes a body when the weight of the day finally collapses the lungs. It was an old tune—a gentle, wandering cadence without words, the kind of lullaby nurses whispered over the fluorescent-lit plastic cages of the neonatal intensive care unit when the monitors beeped too fast and the parents were nowhere to be found.
Del didn’t even realize she was making a sound until the diner’s heavy, oppressive silence seemed to pull the melody out of her throat.
Across the corner booth, the frantic jerking of the stroller stopped.
The nanny froze, her hands hovering uselessly over the handlebar, her tear-rimmed eyes snapping up to look at the large, quiet waitress standing beside the table.
Antoine Moreau did not move immediately.
He remained with his elbows planted on the formica table, his broad shoulders tensed against the relentless wall of his children’s screams. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, his head lifted. His dark eyes, hard as unpolished stone, cut through the dim light of the diner to fix upon Del.
The triplets didn’t stop crying all at once. It was a gradual, halting descent.
First, the little girl in the center—her face mottled and purple from rage—let out a ragged gasp, her tiny mouth staying open in a silent wail as her big, wet eyes blinked up at the ceiling. Then the boy on the right, whose kicks had been shaking the custom chrome frame, let his legs drop limp against the cushion, his small chest rising and falling in jerky, exhausted hitches. Finally, the boy on the left, the loudest of the three, turned his head sharply toward Del.
His fists unclenched.
The screaming didn't die out; it dissolved.
The diner remained frozen. In the back, the line cook held a spatula two inches above the grill, grease popping silently against the iron. Frank, the manager, stood by the register with his mouth half-open, looking like a fish dragged onto dry land. Nobody dared to breathe, let alone clear a throat or clink a glass.
Del kept humming.
It was a strange, bittersweet song she hadn't voiced out loud in five years, not since her sister had spent two grueling months in a charity ward fighting an infection that medicine couldn't quite conquer. Back then, Del had sat in the vinyl chair by the bed, humming that exact tune until the nurses told visiting hours were over.
Antoine stood up.
He was taller than she realized—broad-shouldered and imposing, wearing a tailored black wool coat that smelled faintly of expensive rain and cedar. When he stepped into the aisle, the air in the restaurant seemed to thin out. His two bodyguards, men built like brick pillars and draped in identical dark suits, shifted their weight, their hands sliding subtly closer to their waistbands.
Antoine ignored them. He ignored the staring patrons, the grease-stained walls, and the nervous sweat beading on Frank’s forehead. He walked around the table until he was standing less than two feet away from Del.
Up close, his face looked like it had been carved from granite by someone who had never learned how to smile. Deep lines flanked his mouth, and dark, violet shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes—the physical proof of a man who hadn't slept a full night since the crash on the causeway six months ago.
He looked down at Del.
She did not shrink back. She was used to people looking down at her, but usually, their eyes lingered on her waist, her hips, or her apron strings with a subtle, dismissive judgment. Antoine Moreau’s gaze was different. It was terrifyingly sharp, stripping away every defensive wall she had spent thirty-one years building, searching for something hidden deep inside her ribs.
"Where," Antoine said, his voice a low, gravel-rough baritone that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards, "did you learn that song?"
Del stopped humming. The sudden quiet felt louder than the screams had.
"My mother," she lied smoothly, the fabricated response sliding off her tongue before her brain could catch up. It was a reflex born of living in a city where knowing the wrong people could get you buried in the bayou. "She... she used to sing it to us when we were little."
Antoine stared at her. His eyes narrowed, searching her face with a predatory intensity that made the hair on the back of her arms stand up. He didn't believe her. He was a man who owned half the shipping docks, nightclubs, and political offices in Jefferson Parish; he didn't take answers at face value.
Before he could press further, the baby girl in the center of the stroller let out a soft, wet sneeze, broke into a tiny, high-pitched hiccup, and reached both of her chubby arms straight out of the mesh enclosure.
Directly toward Del.
The entire table went still again. The nanny gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth as if she had just witnessed a miracle or a murder.
Antoine looked down at his daughter, then back up at Del. A muscle ticked sharply in his jaw.
"They haven't let anyone touch them," Antoine said, his voice dropping even lower, laden with a dark, exhausted disbelief. "Not their aunts. Not their nurses. Not even me, half the time, without screaming until they pass out."
He reached out, his large, scarred hand gently catching his daughter's tiny fingers. The baby immediately curled her fist around his index finger, but her big, liquid eyes remained fixed on Del, shining with an expectant, demanding light.
"They like the song," Del said defensively, her chin lifting just a fraction. She smoothed the front of her black apron with damp palms. "Babies like rhythm. It has nothing to do with me."
"Is that right?" Antoine murmured. He stepped closer, invading her personal space with the effortless arrogance of a man who owned the room he stood in. He didn't smell like cheap diner coffee; he smelled like sandalwood, danger, and a cold rainstorm. "Then hum it again."
"I'm on the clock, Mr. Moreau," Del said, using his name deliberately to show she wasn't entirely intimidated by the folklore surrounding his family. "Table six needs a refill on sweet tea, and my manager looks like he's about to have a stroke by the register."
Frank, sensing his name, let out a pathetic squeak from across the room.
May you like
Antoine didn't turn around. He didn't blink. He reached into his heavy wool coat, pulled out a thick leather billfold that looked heavy enough to crack a skull, and withdrew a crisp, hundred-dollar bill. He didn't slide it onto the table; he pressed it directly into the pocket of Del’s apron, his knuckles brushing against her hip with a casual, devastating weight.
"You're off the clock now," Antoine said quietly. "Get your coat."
