Chapter 3: Shadows in New Orleans

But that night, Julian told me to pack up—we were leaving together the next day.

He appeared in my doorway, suitcase in hand. “We leave at dawn,” he said. No explanation, no argument.

I had no idea what use a soft, nut-cracking girl like me could be to him. Even if he needed someone to warm his bed, no local official would dare neglect him.

I packed quickly, stuffing my few belongings into a duffel bag. April helped, slipping a lucky penny into my pocket. “For good luck,” she whispered.

He only brought a few dozen security guards, all men. I dressed as a valet, my chest bound tight. Besides warming his bed, I had to serve his daily needs—massaging his shoulders, fetching coffee, drawing baths—everything.

The disguise was uncomfortable, but it worked. The guards called me “Danny” and barely looked my way. I learned to blend in, to move quietly and keep my head down.

It was even more tiring than the estate.

Some nights, I fell asleep standing up, only to be jolted awake by Julian’s sharp voice. I learned to keep a thermos of coffee on hand at all times.

When we got to New Orleans, I thought I could finally relax, but I had to stick to him like a shadow, ready to serve at any moment.

The city was loud and hot, the air thick with humidity. We stayed in a luxury hotel overlooking the river, but I barely saw the sights. My world shrank to the space around Julian—his meetings, his meals, his moods.

Julian had a sharp mind. He’d read through the case files once and remembered every detail—no one could fool him. He was also an expert at interrogations.

I watched him work, amazed at how quickly he cut through lies and half-truths. The local officials were terrified of him, and for good reason.

We stayed in New Orleans for ten days and arrested fifteen officials. When Julian went to the county jail to question prisoners, I didn’t have to go in, but waiting outside, I could hear the screams. Sometimes, I could even smell blood on him.

The first time he came out, his shirt was spattered with something dark. He didn’t say a word, just handed me his jacket and walked away. I threw it in the laundry and tried not to think about what I’d heard.

Strangely, the scent of blood on him didn’t feel out of place.

It was just another part of him—like the coldness in his eyes or the scar on his jaw. I told myself it didn’t matter, that I was safe as long as I stayed close.