Chapter 8 - THE LEVEE HOLD
By Monday afternoon, the city of New Orleans felt different.
The arrest of Victor Moretti, his brother Marco, and fourteen high-ranking municipal officials dominated every news channel in the state. The Department of Justice had seized all assets tied to the Moretti enterprise, and a team of federal engineers had already taken control of the Pier 14 construction site to begin reinforcing the compromised levees under Cersa's direct technical guidance.
The Red Anchor Club was quiet.
On the second floor, the rain was falling again, tapping softly against the tall arched windows of Declan's office.
The blood stain on the oak floor near the door was gone—sanded down, re-stained, and polished until the wood looked seamless and whole again.
Cersa stood by the window, wearing a soft cream cashmere sweater and dark tailored trousers. Her limp was almost gone, reduced to a slight, barely noticeable stiffness in her stride when she walked too fast.
Behind her, the oak door opened, and Declan stepped inside.
He was carrying a thick manila folder stamped with the seal of the United States District Court.
"Is it done?" she asked, turning to face him.
"It's done," Declan said, walking over and placing the folder on his mahogany desk. "Your sister Petra's record has been completely expunged. The debt to the Moretti estate was declared null and void by federal asset forfeiture officers. She has been granted a full university scholarship to Tulane starting in the fall."
Cersa closed her eyes, letting out a long, quiet breath that seemed to lift a five-year weight off her shoulders. "And the city officials?"
" Mayor's office issued an official apology to Arthur Vance's family this morning," Declan said. "And you have been formally invited to head the newly established Independent Levee Oversight Commission."
Cersa laughed—a soft, light sound that made Declan's heart feel surprisingly light.
"An oversight commissioner," she said, shaking her head. "I don't think I'm built for government meetings anymore, Declan."
Declan walked over to her, stopping inches away. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, heavy velvet box.
Cersa froze, her pulse leaping into her throat. "Declan..."
"Don't worry, Miss Van," Declan said, a dark, dangerous sparkle in his eyes. "It's not a ring. I know you're an engineer—you don't take binding agreements without reviewing the blueprints first."
He opened the box.
Inside lay a heavy gold compass—identical to the one on his desk, but smaller, exquisitely crafted, with her initials, C.V., engraved onto the polished brass casing.
"A reminder," Declan murmured, lifting the compass and placing it in her palm. "That no matter how dark the city gets, or how many walls come down around us... you always know where your foundation is."
Cersa looked down at the gold compass, then up at the man standing before her—the mob boss who had bled for her, protected her sister, and helped her tear down an empire of corruption.
"I don't need a compass to find my foundation, Declan," she whispered, stepping close and pressing her body against his, her arms going around his neck. "I'm looking right at it."
May you like
Declan smiled, his arms closing around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest as he brought his lips down to hers.
Outside, the rain fell over the French Quarter, washing the old streets clean, but inside the office above the Red Anchor, the foundation was solid, permanent, and built to stand against any storm.
