Page 3 of Tell Me

I’d tried very hard to erase it from my history.

The truth was, though, that I’d never been able to do it, because the city was in my blood. The bright flowers and gloomy graveyards, the high stone walls and constant smell of the sea. The guns and blood and pagan rituals that had dominated my life there. The dark-suited men who had come and gone from my father’s house at all hours, and the tang of Cajun and Creole names and accents.

My mother had kidnapped me at ten and taken me to New York, where I’d grown up—for the most part—with her family, part of an Irish enclave in a high-class neighborhood in Brooklyn. I’d found Sloane Brennan quickly and started a friendship that made us closer than sisters. I’d met Joseph Rossi and his brother, and then Penny and Alfonso Lane, and I’d made a life for myself in the city that never slept.

And I’d never told them who I actually was or where I’d come from. I kept my true last name secret and pretended my mother simply came from old money. Enjoyed the protection of both Brennan and Rossi families while I used my inborn abilities to hide myself in plain sight.

I’d known I could rule the entire city if I wanted to draw on my roots, but I’d never even tried it. Because I’d been offered that throne once before, and I’d run from it. Every time I was sent to New Orleans to visit my father, I was told that I could stay. Build an empire of my own, learn how to broker true power. Make alliances and deals that would change not only my life, but the lives of everyone around me.

I’d refused to do it in New Orleans, and I hadn’t wanted it in New York.

Now, I wondered how many of my words I’d have to eat to get what I needed. I’d sold one city out and adopted another... and now I had to go back to the family I’d deserted and try to make up with them.

Because they were the only ones who could save the people I loved.

3

BROOKS

Louis Armstrong Airport was just as white as I remembered.

No, not like that. I mean the whole fucking place was painted in white so bright it hurt your eyes. I’d always thought that whoever built the place was trying to make your first taste of New Orleans clean because they knew what you were going to see when you got outside: roads that were half cobblestone and all dirty. Buildings and walls that dripped with moisture even when it hadn’t been raining. Rot and mildew and moss covering everything it could find, and a constant smell of both dampness and something cooking.

Of course that wasn’t all you got to see in the city. The architecture put New York to shame and the city was always blooming, flowers overflowing their pots and gardens and climbing up the closest tree or building. The food was otherworldly and the people...

Well, if New York was full of people who were always busy, New Orleans was full of people who wanted to tell you a story or cast a spell on you. Sometimes both.

The brightness of the airport, though...

I ducked down, narrowing my eyes against the glare, and hustled forward, my mind mapping the place out and finding the quickest way to the rental counters. I wasn’t here on family business—at least not officially—and that meant I hadn’t been able to send for a driver. I was on my own. Which suited me just fine.

I didn’t particularly want the Landry family to know I was heading their way until I was busting through the front doors and confronting the man who ran the place.

* * *

“Hello, gorgeous,” I murmured, running a finger over the lines of the Ducati Streetfighter. It was red, just like I liked, and gorgeous. Wicked.

Definitely dangerous.

And probably not street legal, if I was being honest. I’d never even seen one in New York and hadn’t known they were available for rent until I’d called a friend of a friend and had them do some research for me. Turned out they were available to rent if you knew the right people.

Hey, I said I didn’t want the Landry family to know I was coming. I wasn’t above using my other contacts to get a set of wheels.

Especially when I was going to need to get places quickly.

“You sure you don’t want a car instead?” a voice suddenly asked from behind me.

I turned and found the man from the counter gesturing behind us at a row of cars, and let my eyes turn to them for a moment. Then I snorted. They had some nice ones—even a Porsche—but I’d never seen the allure. Sloane would go insane for a nice car, but me?

I turned back to the bike, a grin growing on my face. I liked bikes. They were faster and easier to maneuver.

Easier to hide.

“I’m good,” I said shortly. “Run along. I’m sure you have other customers waiting.”

I heard him start to answer me—probably to lecture me about how rude that was—but the sound of revving engines and squealing tires interrupted him.

My eyes shot to the road on the other side of the parking lot, panic already rushing through me. I knew those sounds too well to write them off. And I’d been involved with the New York mob long enough to have a quick trigger finger when it came to taking them seriously. People didn’t drive like that unless they were running from something.

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