“Sorry I’m Late,” She Whispered—The Mafia Boss Froze When He Saw the Blood Trail Behind Her

By noon, the rain had cleared, leaving the air thick, humid, and heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and blooming magnolia trees.

The Red Anchor Club on the ground floor was closed to the public, its velvet curtains drawn shut and the heavy cypress doors double-bolstered from the inside. In the upper alleyway behind the building, six of Declan's most trusted soldiers stood in the shadows, their hands resting near the grips of concealed firearms.

Inside the office, the air smelled of antiseptic, fresh coffee, and ozone.

Cersa was seated on the sofa, her back propped up against a pile of leather cushions, her bandaged leg elevated on a stool. She was wearing one of Declan's oversized white linen shirts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a pair of dark cotton sweatpants Remy had purchased from a local market.

Across the room, Declan sat with his lieutenant, Remy, and two laptop screens illuminated before them.

"Marco Moretti has three squads pulling security at the docks," Remy reported, his deep voice barely above a rumble. "They know Cersa escaped, but they don't know how badly she was hurt. Word on the street is that Marco is furious. He spent the morning tearing apart her apartment in the Garden District."

"Did he find anything?" Cersa asked from the sofa, her voice stronger now that she had eaten a warm meal.

"No," Declan answered, looking over his shoulder at her. "Because you were smart enough to keep your primary servers backed up to an off-site cloud network that requires three-factor biometric encryption. Isn't that right, Miss Van?"

Cersa gave a small, noncommittal tilt of her chin. "An engineer always keeps a redundant backup."

"Where is Victor?" Declan asked Remy.

"Victor is at his estate in Metairie, blissfully unaware that his idiot brother just set a fire in our backyard," Remy said. "Victor thinks Marco was just handling a routine municipal extortion issue. He doesn't know about Project Aegis yet."

"Good," Declan said, standing up and buttoning his charcoal suit jacket. "We keep it that way. If Victor finds out Cersa has five years of federal wiretaps and bribery logs sitting on that drive, he will mobilize his entire force and turn the French Quarter into a war zone."

"Where are you going?" Cersa asked, her eyes following him as he walked toward the door.

Declan paused, reaching into his desk drawer to retrieve a sleek, black 9mm pistol. He checked the magazine with a sharp, practiced movement, racked the slide, and holstered it beneath his armpit.

"I am going to have a conversation with Marco Moretti," Declan said calmly.

Cersa sat up straight, a flash of alarm crossing her face. "Declan, no. Marco is a butcher. He doesn't listen to reason, and he travels with at least four armed men."

"I am not going to reason with him," Declan said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, cold register that made even Remy sit up straighter. "He put a blade in a woman who was under my protection. In my city, that is a breach of protocol that requires an immediate, public settlement."

"I am not your asset!" Cersa snapped, her temper flaring. "You don't need to avenge me!"

Declan walked across the room until he was standing right beside the sofa. He leaned down, placing one hand on the back of the sofa near her head, bringing his face inches from hers.

"You're right," he whispered, his dark eyes locked on hers. "You are not my asset. If you were an asset, I would have handed you over to a hospital and billed you for the floor cleaning. But you walked three miles through the rain bleeding out of your thigh to keep my location clean."

He touched the edge of her jaw with the back of his fingers, his skin warm and unexpectedly gentle against her pale cheek.

"That doesn't make you an asset, Cersa. That makes you my responsibility. Stay here. Remy has orders to shoot anyone who passes that door without my voice."

Before she could answer, Declan turned on his heel and walked out of the room, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him.

Twenty minutes later, Declan's dark armored sedan pulled up to the rear of The Golden Lotus, a high-end strip club in the Warehouse District owned by Marco Moretti.

Declan stepped out into the humid afternoon air, accompanied by four men dressed in immaculate dark suits. He didn't carry a weapon in his hand. He didn't hurry. He walked through the back service entrance like an owner inspecting a property he was planning to buy.

Inside, the club was empty of patrons, the ambient neon lights reflecting off sticky black flooring.

Marco Moretti was sitting at a VIP booth near the stage, a glass of scotch in his hand and two thick-necked enforcers standing behind him. He had a white bandage wrapped around his throat—courtesy of Cersa's clipboard.

When Marco saw Declan walk in, his eyes narrowed into mean, ugly slits.

"Maher," Marco croaked, his voice raspy and damaged from the blow to his windpipe. "What the hell are you doing in my club?"

"You have something that belongs to me, Marco," Declan said, stopping ten feet from the table.

Marco laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound. "I don't have shit that's yours. Unless you're talking about that little municipal bitch who ran off yesterday. Is that it? Did she crawl to you?"

"She brought me her report," Declan said quietly. "And while she was delivering it, I noticed she had a hole in her leg. The kind of hole made by a four-inch hunting blade."

Marco leaned back, a smug, arrogant grin spreading across his face. "She got what she deserved. She was getting nosey about the Pier 14 permits. I gave her a little reminder of her place in this city. If you're smart, Declan, you'll hand her back to me so I can finish the job."

Declan didn't answer with words.

In one fluid, blindingly fast motion, Declan drew his pistol, stepped forward, and shot the enforcer standing to Marco's left through the knee.

The man screamed, collapsing to the floor with a heavy thud. The second enforcer reached for his shoulder holster, but Declan's men were already moving, stepping forward and pinning the man against the leather booth with two pistols pressed against his skull.

Marco scrambled back against the cushions, his face instantly turning the color of curdled milk. "Are you insane?! You're starting a war with my brother!"

Declan stepped over the groaning enforcer on the floor, grabbed Marco by his silk tie, and dragged him across the table, slamming his head down onto the polished wood.

Declan drew his switchblade with his left hand, flicked it open with a sharp clack, and drove the steel blade through Marco's right hand, pinning it directly to the mahogany tabletop.

Marco let out a ear-splitting shriek of agony, his feet kicking uselessly against the floor.

"Listen to me very carefully, Marco," Declan whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from Marco's bleeding ear. "Cersa Van is under the protection of the Maher family. If you look at her, if you say her name, if you dream about her, I will not cut your hand. I will cut your throat."