Chapter 4 - The Dead Woman’s Ledger
I knew I couldn't handle this alone.
On my afternoon break while the triplets were taking their two-hour nap, I walked down to the small French Quarter pharmacy three blocks from the estate. I bought a cheap prepaid burner phone with cash, sat on a bench under a magnolia tree near Jackson Square, and called my cousin Renee.
"Della?" Renee’s voice boomed over the line. "Are you okay? You sound like you're hiding in a bunker."
"I need your help, Renee," I whispered, watching the street traffic closely. "And you can't ask questions. I need you to run a set of account numbers through your legal database. Offshore routing codes."
"Della, what did you get yourself into?" her tone shifted instantly from lighthearted to deadly serious. "Is this about the Maro family?"
"Isabella Maro didn't die in an accident," I said, the words heavy and dangerous on my tongue. "I found her notes. Someone forged Antoine’s name on illegal shipping ledgers and wiped out her vehicle's brake lines. I need to know where the money moved."
Silence hung over the line for three long seconds.
"Read me the numbers," Renee grunted.
I pulled out the tiny strip of paper where I had transcribed the code from the micro-SD card. I read off sixteen digits.
"Give me twenty-four hours," Renee said. "And Della? Lock your door."
When I got back to the house, Antoine was standing near the grand piano in the parlor, holding a glass of amber bourbon. The house was quiet, the heavy velvet drapes drawn against the afternoon sun.
"Where were you?" he asked, turning slowly. He wasn't angry, but his presence filled the room like thunder.
"I went for a walk," I said, clutching my shoulder bag tightly. "I needed fresh air."
Antoine set his glass down on the piano lid with a soft click. He walked toward me, his heavy steps measured and deliberate. He stopped two feet away, looking down at me.
"Victor is putting pressure on the shipping syndicate," Antoine said softly. "He wants me declared unfit to manage the family assets. He’s using the children’s trauma—and your presence here—as leverage."
"Why don't you push him out?" I asked.
"Because he controls three key dock commissioners in St. Bernard Parish," Antoine said, his voice dropping an octave. "If I move against him without absolute proof of treason, the entire syndicate splits in two. There will be blood in the streets, Della. Blood that could reach this house."
He reached out, his hand gently settling on my shoulder. The warmth of his broad palm sent a sudden, sweet ache through my chest.
"I brought you here to protect my children," he murmured, his hazel eyes dark with emotion. "But every night I spend looking at you, I realize I want to protect you, too."
"Antoine..." my voice trembled.
"You think you're ordinary, Della," he whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the side of my neck, right over my pounding pulse. "You think because you don't look like the plastic women in the Garden District that you don't command a room. But when you walk into a room, you bring life with you. I haven't felt alive in four years."
I wanted to melt into his touch. I wanted to lean into his chest and tell him everything—about the micro-SD card, the hidden camera in the plasterwork, the warning Isabella had left behind.
But before I could speak, my burner phone vibrated frantically inside my pocket.
May you like
A text from Renee.
Della, don't trust anyone in that house. The Cayman accounts belong to Victor, but the authorizing signatures were processed through the estate's internal server last night. Someone inside the house is uploading data right now.
