Chapter Text
The others had already left the veranda.
Burke’s truck kicked up dust down the long dirt drive. Cassandra’s people melted into the trees like shadows dissolving into the evening. The cicadas filled the silence they left behind, a relentless, droning chorus that pressed against the old plantation house like a reminder of time itself.
Lincoln stood at the railing, his hands loose on the wood, feeling the grain through his fingers. The paint was flaking in places, exposing the bare wood beneath, cracked and weathered. He didn’t turn as Vito’s footsteps echoed on the stairs, slow, deliberate, measured.
“Vito,” Lincoln said, his voice even, but carrying a weight that made Vito pause mid-step. “Stay a minute.”
Vito had been halfway down when the call stopped him, annoyed but curious. He adjusted the strap of his jacket over his shoulder and leaned back, his hands brushing the railing.
“What is it?”
Lincoln didn’t flinch, didn’t turn, just watched the shadows stretch across the yard. “About Leo.”
The name alone made Vito stop breathing for a second. It was impossible to not feel the pull it carried. Vito’s body tensed as though someone had touched a nerve buried deep in his spine.
He walked back slowly, the heat sticky on his skin, the sweat at the nape of his neck uncomfortable but welcome in its distraction. He leaned against one of the pillars instead of sitting.
“What about him?”
Lincoln’s gaze was steady, unyielding. “He wants twenty percent. Off the top.”
Vito didn’t react immediately. But his eyes sharpened, taking in Lincoln’s posture, the way the man held himself as if nothing could shake him.
“That’s steep,” Lincoln continued. “And I don’t pay anyone I don’t understand.”
A breeze stirred the hanging moss overhead, brushing the beams, creaking softly. It moved through the veranda, lifting strands of Lincoln’s hair.
“You got history with him,” Lincoln said. “I need to know what kind.”
Vito looked down, tracing the cracks in the porch with his eyes. His boots scuffed the wood. After a moment, he lifted his gaze and met Lincoln’s. “Empire Bay,” he said quietly. “He was high up. Commission level. If you were smart, you stayed on his good side.”
“And were you?” Lincoln’s tone was neutral, inviting, but sharp enough to cut through the distance between them.
Vito hesitated. “For a while.”
Lincoln crossed his arms, studying him. “He someone I can trust?”
Vito exhaled, a humorless sound that seemed to absorb the humidity. “Leo doesn’t scare easy. Doesn’t make rash moves. If he says he’s backing you, he will.”
“That ain’t what I asked.” Lincoln’s eyes were steady.
“No,” Vito said evenly. “He’s not someone you trust. He’s someone you respect. And you pay.”
Lincoln nodded slowly, taking the measure of the man in front of him. “And you?” he asked. “You vouching for him?”
Vito’s jaw tightened. Leo’s face surfaced unbidden, calm, measured, the man who had made the call. The man who had let the car drive away. Joe’s voice. The last joke. The last look.
Joe was dead.
“He’s consistent,” Vito said, carefully, deliberately. “That’s the best thing I can say.”
Lincoln nodded. That was all he needed for now. He let a beat pass before adding, casual as ever:
“I’m meeting him in a few days.”
That got Vito’s attention. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Where?”
“Up north,” Lincoln said. “Empire Bay.”
The words weren’t spoken, but they hung in the air like smoke, sticky and unavoidable.
Lincoln stepped closer. “I want you there.”
Vito stiffened immediately. “No.”
It was too fast, too firm. Lincoln didn’t flinch.
“Why not?”
“I don’t do Empire Bay anymore.”
“Seems like Empire Bay still does you.”
Vito’s eyes flashed, but he kept his voice level. “That life’s done.”
Lincoln studied him. He had seen this before, men who walked away from something but never buried it, who carried it like a shadow behind their steps.
“You’re asking me to cut Leo in for twenty percent,” Lincoln said. “You’ve known him longer than I have. If I’m putting that kind of money on the table, I want someone there who understands how he thinks.”
“You understand him fine,” Vito replied. “He wants his piece. He’ll take it. End of story.”
Lincoln shook his head slightly. “No. That ain’t it.” He lowered his voice, just a notch above the whisper of the cicadas. “Men like Leo? They don’t just want money. They want leverage. History. Insurance.”
The word history landed heavy.
“I need to know what I’m walking into,” Lincoln continued. “And if there’s something between you and him that could affect this… I need to see it.”
Vito looked away. He hadn’t been back in seventeen years. Seventeen years of telling himself Joe died that day, that it was necessary, that it was done.
If he went back. If he saw Leo. he didn’t know what he’d find in the man’s eyes.
Pity?
Regret?
Nothing?
“I’m not interested in revisiting old ghosts,” Vito said.
Lincoln stepped closer. Calm. Firm. “This ain’t about ghosts.”
A pause.
“It’s about making sure what we’re building doesn’t get pulled out from under us because of something that happened before I ever met you.”
Silence stretched. The cicadas buzzed louder. The air was thick and still, heavy with the scent of damp earth and dying leaves.
“You trust me to run part of this city,” Vito said quietly.
“I do.”
“Then trust my judgment.”
“I do,” Lincoln repeated. That hit. Lincoln wasn’t challenging him. He was relying on him.
“You’re part of this,” Lincoln said. “If Leo’s stepping into our business, he’s stepping into yours too. You want to keep New Bordeaux yours? Then stand beside me when we shake his hand.”
Vito’s shoulders went rigid. Empire Bay. Leo. The past. Joe. Joe was dead. There was nothing waiting for him there but confirmation of it, which meant there was nothing to fear. Right?
He finally looked back at Lincoln. “When?”
“Two days, we drive tomorrow”
Another long silence. Then, tight and controlled: “Fine.”
Lincoln nodded once. “Good.”
Vito started down the steps again. “Don’t mistake this,” he said without looking back. “I’m doing this for the city.”
Lincoln allowed himself the faintest smile. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
Vito didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The Louisiana heat pressed down on him, oppressive and insistent. But something cold had settled in his chest.
He didn’t go home right away.
He sat in his car at the end of the long dirt drive, engine idling, staring through the windshield at nothing. The plantation house loomed behind him in the rearview mirror, its white paint dulling in the falling light. The moss hung from the eaves like drapes, swaying in the soft evening breeze.
For a moment he considered driving anywhere. Just to keep moving, to escape the memory that was clawing its way back into his mind. He lit a cigarette, rolling the window down, letting the humid air crawl inside and mingle with smoke and old regrets.
Leo wants twenty percent.
That was the problem.
That was all this was. Business. Nothing else.
He flicked ash out the window.
Joe was dead.
The thought came automatically, like breathing. Not dramatic. Not painful. Just fact. He’d made peace with it a long time ago.
His apartment was quiet when he got back. Too quiet.
He loosened his tie, poured himself a drink without turning the lights on. The city outside hummed through the open window, distant traffic, a dog barking somewhere down the block. The faint smell of rain lingering in the asphalt.
He sat at the small kitchen table, staring at the amber liquid, swirling it as if it could answer the questions swirling in his head. Empire Bay. The snow from that day. The way it stuck to the curb, crystalline and cruel. Joe talking too loud, pretending not to notice the men following. Pretending not to notice the weight of the world closing in.
Vito shut his eyes. No.
He took a long drink instead.
History.
It came unbidden.
Vito leaned back, eyes staring at the ceiling, seeing the plaster crack in the shape of long-forgotten scars. Seventeen years. Seventeen years of trying to forget what it meant to lose someone you loved without warning, without reason.
Joe sprawled across the couch in their old apartment, shoes on the table, laughing at something stupid on the radio. Joe leaning out a car window, yelling at some guy who had cut them off. Joe at the docks, wind cutting through his coat, shouting over the waves, saying something that made Vito grin, even now.
Vito stood abruptly. The chair scraped the floor.
He crossed to the sink, splashed water on his face, staring at the man reflected in the mirror. He looked older than he felt. Or maybe he felt exactly as old as he looked.
Seventeen years.
If Joe had lived, he’d look different. Thicker maybe. Slower. Less reckless.
Vito’s jaw tightened. It didn’t matter. Joe was dead. Leo had made the decision. And Leo didn’t make half-measures.
If Joe had been alive, he would’ve known. Wouldn’t he?
He dried his face, turned off the kitchen light, and lay back on the bed, fully dressed. Sleep didn’t come. The fan spun lazily overhead, dragging the hot, humid air across his skin. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Joe. Not just the boy he’d grown up with, but the man who had made nights feel alive, who made the city’s noise bearable, who made fear feel like a thing you could push against.
He remembered the last time he’d held him. Joe’s shoulder pressing into his side, warmth grounding him. His hand memorizing the weight, the steady pulse beneath the jacket.
He could almost feel it now. Almost smell it.
He swallowed hard, forcing the memory back.
Vito turned onto his side, curling slightly, imagining the heat that had once pressed against him on those long nights in cheap Empire Bay apartments. He remembered the quiet way Joe would nuzzle closer when the city grew too loud, the faint scent of tobacco, cologne, sweat. The snore that would wake him in the middle of the night. He hated it then, and he hated how much he missed it now.
A single tear slid down his temple. He cursed under his breath, turning his face to the side, but the tears kept coming, relentless, hot.
He didn’t cry like a boy. He didn’t wail. He cried like a man who had held the world inside his chest for too long, and now it was leaking out in quiet, shuddering waves.
Vito covered his face with one hand, as if hiding could contain the ache. It didn’t. He wept quietly into the pillow, other hand clutching the sheets like a lifeline. Every sob was a confession he had never allowed himself to say aloud: I miss you.
Eventually exhaustion claimed him. The tears slowed. His body relaxed, finally, letting the heat and memories cradle him. He curled tighter, clutching the empty space beside him, and slept for the first time in a while without pretending.