The call came just after midnight, a vibration that rattled the glass on Lorraine’s bedside table. She woke to the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall and the low thud of a door slamming somewhere downstairs. For a beat she lay still, caught in that delicate space between sleep and alarm, until Roman’s voice—clipped, quiet, dangerous—carried up from the foyer.
She was on her feet before she realized she’d moved.
The house was half-dark, sconces throwing amber pools along the corridor as she padded barefoot toward the stairs. From the landing she saw him: Roman, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a small constellation of bayou mud and road dust spattered up his trousers. Two of his men stood with him—one pale, one with a blood-stained bandage knotted around his thigh. Another
