Chapter 24
JULIAN
Lyra once told me New Orleans smelled like jasmine. If I close my eyes, I can almost sense it.
We land at Louis Armstrong just after midnight. I arranged a car to pick us up from the airport through a private service. The driver’s name is Remy. I pay him in cash. He doesn’t ask questions.
Lyra is quiet beside me in the back seat, her duffel bag tucked between her feet. She’s quiet. She didn’t sleep on the plane, neither did I.
“The SUV was found ditched in a parking lot off Atlantic Avenue.”
I have Ethan on speaker. He spent the time we were in the air getting to the bottom of who had tried to run Lyra off the road.
“Anything useful?”
“Yes and no. It was wiped clean—no prints, no registration match. But we pulled traffic footage and got a partial on the driver.”
“And?”
“Chinese national. Or at least Chinese-presenting. The facial recognition hit came back linked to a visa registered through a Flushing-based import company that we’ve already flagged as a triad front.”
The highway ahead seems dark, flat, and endless. I shift in my seat, processing the information.
I don’t like what I’m hearing one bit.
“That’s not possible,” I say.
“Julian—”
“I spent almost three years with the Triads. Three years bouncing back and forth between Beijing and Shanghai, sitting across from Mr. Yang’s people, building the trade agreement that’s going to take our Bratva to the next level.
This doesn’t make a goddamn bit of sense.
Why the hell would Yang make a move against me? The deal benefits both of us.”
I glance at Lyra out of the corner of my eye. She’s turned away from me, looking out the window. If she’s listening in, she’s not showing it.
“There’s not enough info to know for sure whether or not Yang is actually behind it,” Ethan says. “All I can say for sure is that one of the people in the SUV was connected to the Triads. Could’ve been a rogue operation, for all we know.”
Lyra shifts beside me.
“Who’s Mr. Yang?” she asks.
I glance over at her. She’s looking at me directly, not flinching or pulling away. Whatever fear still lingers from the attack, whatever apprehension she feels about being in my world seems to have faded, like she’s decided that knowing is better than not knowing.
I look away, trying to figure out what to tell her and how to say it.
“Chen Yang. He’s the head of the Triad’s eastern operations.”
“Triad… that’s the Chinese mafia, right?”
“More or less. When I was gone, I spent a considerable amount of time working with the Triad, trying to hammer out an international deal, a shipping alliance, a Pacific trade route that would give us access to product channels in Southeast Asia.”
She mouths the word product but doesn’t press.
“And this means more money, I assume?”
“Much, much more money,” I say. “If I can get these routes up and running, cement long-term contracts with Yang and the others, it would represent a substantial addition to our Bratva income, enough so that I could step back from more local operations.
“But more than that, this deal would be exactly what I need to show the Bratva that I ought to remain at the head. There are dangerous men in our organization. But most want two things—money and stability. If I can offer them both, they’ll keep me at the top.”
“And then there’s Mrs. Lee,” Ethan adds. “Yang’s U.S. representative operates out of Chinatown, managing his American interests. But not officially.”
“What does that mean?” Lyra asks.
“It means that Mrs. Lee is given authority Stateside, but the final word is still with Yang,” I explain. “Yang’s in Shanghai; Lee’s in Manhattan. There’s a twelve-hour time difference, leaving a lot of room between what Yang authorizes and what Lee decides on her own.”
Lyra seems a bit confused at first. But then the implication settles over her, and she sits back.
“So, Lee could be acting independently,” she concludes.
“It’s possible,” I say. “The deal was brokered between Yang and me. Lee was present for some of the talks, but not all of them. If she has her own agenda, then using hitters connected to the Triad but not directly to her would be the play.”
“Or someone is using Triad assets to frame Yang,” Ethan says. “To destabilize your relationship to Yang before the council vote.”
“Dobrov,” Lyra says.
Impressive. She’s got a mind for this. I tuck the detail away.
“Possibly. Or Alexander working through Dobrov. Or Lee working with Dobrov. Or a combination I haven’t mapped yet.
” I lean back. “There are suspects. And, most importantly, when there’s as much money and power at stake as there is now, saboteurs have a way of popping out of the woodwork—even ones you haven’t thought of. ”
“All we can do now,” Ethan says, “is keep watching and pulling threads until one of them leads to somewhere.”
Lyra is quiet for a moment. I watch as she processes everything. She narrows her eyes in thought as she chews the inside of her cheek. I recognize the expression—it’s the same one she wore when she was discussing the seating placement at the upcoming foundation event.
She’s not overwhelmed… she’s thinking. The fact that she’s asking questions and treating all of this like a problem that can be solved does something to me.
Maybe she’s not as ill-suited to this world as I thought.
All the same, I don’t want her to be a part of it. She deserves safety, peace of mind.
“The council is in twelve days,” Ethan says. “Whatever we find, we need it before then.”
“Understood. Keep me updated. And Ethan—tonight was an exception. No fieldwork. Get some rest.”
“I’m fine. More important things going on than my shoulder.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion. You want to help, you can. But from home.”
He chuckles. “Got it. Enjoy NOLA.”
I hang up. The highway rolls out ahead of us, straight and dark, the headlights of the sedan cutting a narrow corridor through the Louisiana night. The suburbs thicken around us as we draw closer to the city.
Lyra’s parents live in Gentilly. I’m not all that familiar with New Orleans, but I’ve heard of Gentilly—it’s a humble, working-class neighborhood.
“Julian,” she says after several moments of silence.
“Yes.”
“Thanks for coming with me.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“I know I don’t need to. But I’m doing it anyway.” She looks at me with a blended expression of exhaustion, worry, and perhaps… trust.
I don’t deserve it.
Remy turns into the neighborhood. Oak trees, shotgun houses, and porch lights open up around us.
Twelve days until the council. Three suspects and no proof.
I watch Lyra’s face and make a silent vow to myself.
Whatever it costs, whatever it takes—no one gets near her again.