Chapter 2 - The House on Esplanade
The black Lincoln Navigator swallowed the humid New Orleans night whole, eating up the wet asphalt of Esplanade Avenue as it glided toward the historic district.
Del sat in the back seat, wedged awkwardly between a custom-built car seat and a mountainous pile of diaper bags, feeling entirely out of place against the plush leather and polished mahogany interior. Across from her sat Antoine Moreau, his massive frame taking up half the bench seat, staring out the tinted window with a look of stony detachment. Up front, the two silent bodyguards—whom Antoine had introduced offhandedly as Paul and Rico—navigated the labyrinthine French Quarter streets with terrifying precision.
In the center console between the front and back seats, the triplets were finally asleep. Exhaustion had claimed them shortly after they left the diner; now, their tiny chests rose and fell in unison, their soft breathing the only sound in the cavernous vehicle.
Del kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, pressing her fingernails into her palms to keep from fidgeting.
She had tried to refuse. She really had. She told Frank she had a shift to finish, told Antoine she had an apartment to get back to, told anyone who would listen that she was just a waitress who knew an old tune. But Antoine had simply looked at her with those dark, unreadable eyes, told Frank she was taking a week of paid leave starting immediately, and ushered her into the back of his car before she could formulate a single logical argument.
Money talked, but power didn't even have to whisper.
"You live alone?" Antoine asked suddenly, his voice breaking the heavy silence without turning his head from the window.
"Yes," Del said, her voice sounding tighter than she intended.
"Where?"
"Near Bayou St. John. Second-floor walk-up. The landlord paints the porch yellow every spring, but the wood rots through anyway."
Antoine finally turned his head, his gaze sweeping over her faded denim jacket and sensible work shoes before rising to meet her eyes. "You don't talk like a diner waitress."
"People say a lot of things when they look at me, Mr. Moreau," Del retorted, her defensive instincts flaring up like a struck match. "Usually, they don't look past the uniform long enough to figure out I graduated from Tulane with a degree in library science that I’ve been using to wipe tables for eight years because the job market for archivists in this city pays less than dishwashing."
A flicker of something resembling amusement—or perhaps surprise—crossed Antoine’s carved face, vanishing as quickly as it came.
"Tulane," he repeated, tasting the word on his tongue. "History?"
"History and preservation. I like things that are old, broken, and forgotten. Turns out, New Orleans has an endless supply of all three."
"And people," Antoine added softly, his eyes dropping briefly to the triplets before returning to her. "You like broken people too?"
"I don't like anybody, Mr. Moreau. I just don't like listening to babies scream when a simple tune will shut them up."
Antoine didn't answer. He reached out, his long fingers trailing lightly over the edge of the baby boy's blanket, straightening it with a protective, almost reverent care. The gesture exposed a jagged, pale scar running across the back of his wrist—the kind left by a knife blade or a shattered windshield.
The car slowed down, turning through a pair of wrought-iron gates that looked heavy enough to withstand a tank.
They pulled up in front of a sprawling, iron-lacercated mansion on Esplanade Avenue—a magnificent, ghost-white Creole villa surrounded by towering live oaks draped in Spanish moss. It was the kind of house tourists took pictures of during the day, whispering about old money, yellow fever ghosts, and Louisiana politics. At night, bathed in the amber glow of gas lanterns, it looked like a fortress.
Paul parked the Navigator in the wide gravel courtyard. Before Del could even reach for the door handle, the heavy door clicked open from the outside.
Antoine stepped out first, circling the vehicle to open her door. He offered a large, calloused hand.
Del stared at it for three seconds. She was a big woman; she had spent her entire adult life navigating stairs, doors, and crowded rooms on her own, refusing help because help usually came with pity or an expectation. But looking up into Antoine’s dark, shadowed face, she saw no pity. She saw only an overwhelming, desperate exhaustion.
She placed her hand in his.
May you like
His grip was warm, dry, and terrifyingly strong, lifting her out of the low-slung vehicle with effortless ease.
"Welcome to the nursery," Antoine said quietly, keeping his hand wrapped around hers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before releasing her. "Let's see if the magic holds."
