Chapter 3
The Pursuit
Gabriel
I stand outside Brisson Café, leaning against the hood of Franz's truck, checking my watch for the third time in two minutes.
I feel like a complete idiot waiting on my bride like this, but unfortunately, this woman has always had some bizarre hold over me that makes me make the stupidest decisions when it comes to her.
I've always made stupid decisions when it comes to Josephine Fabre.
I'm giving her ten fucking minutes. Not a second more.
But even as I think it, I know it's bullshit.
I've been giving Josephine whatever she needs for years, and apparently that pattern isn't changing just because we're supposed to get married today.
Josephine—or Naomi, as she insists on being called—has been running from her life for years.
That's her thing. She bolts when things get complicated, when the pressure becomes too much, when she's forced to face parts of herself she doesn't want to acknowledge.
She's good at it, too; I'll give her that.
But at some point, you have to stand up and face your demons instead of letting them chase you across the country.
In this life we've been born into, you can't run forever. I figured that out early, but it's just taking her a little longer to accept reality.
"Boss," Franz says from the driver's seat, rolling down the window to let some of the humid air circulate. "Do you really think she's gonna come out of there?"
I clench my jaw, running a hand through my already-mussed hair. I hate that he's right, but I don't say it out loud. Franz has been with my family long enough to recognize the signs when someone is about to bolt.
Josephine is cunning as hell and stubborn to match. I know just as well as Franz that she's not coming back through that door voluntarily. Wishing for shit to happen doesn't make it so, and I've been wishing for Josephine to stop running for five long years.
"Stay here," I mutter, pushing off the truck and heading toward the café. "I'll handle it."
Franz snorts softly but doesn't argue. He knows better than to push me when I'm already on edge, and he's seen enough of my family's drama to know when to keep his opinions to himself.
The second I step into the café, my instincts flare like a warning signal. The room is packed with the usual Sunday afternoon crowd—tourists comparing guidebooks over café au lait, locals reading the Times-Picayune, college students typing on laptops—but there's no sign of Josephine anywhere.
I would know if she was here. I could feel her presence like electricity in the air.
I've always been able to feel her, even when I was trying not to.
I stride past the tables toward the counter, scanning the room methodically. A young barista with purple hair and multiple piercings eyes me nervously, her hands stilling mid-wipe on the espresso machine as she takes in my formal attire and obvious agitation.
"Have you seen a woman in a wedding dress?"
"A what?"
"Never mind. Bathroom this way?" I ask sharply, jerking my thumb toward the back of the café.
She points down a narrow hall lined with vintage New Orleans photographs. "Last door on the left."
I don't bother thanking her. I'm already moving, my dress shoes clicking against the worn wooden floors.
The door to the women's bathroom is cracked open, and I can see immediately that it's empty. Of course, it is. Josephine is too smart to get trapped in a dead-end bathroom when she's planning an escape.
"Dammit, Jo," I mutter under my breath, pushing through the kitchen doors at the end of the hall without asking permission.
The smell of coffee beans and butter hits me as I navigate through the cramped kitchen space, ignoring the protests of the cook who's manning the grill. The back door is standing wide open, letting in humid air and the sound of traffic from the alley beyond.
She's gone. Again.
My chest tightens with frustration, but I force it down. This is just Josephine being Josephine, doing what she's always done when the walls start closing in. But I'm tired of this game, tired of watching her run from everything that matters.
I pull my phone from my pocket and call Franz. "She's out the back," I say, keeping my voice low and controlled. "Circle around. She couldn't have gotten far. She's hard to miss—pretty ass girl in a wedding dress and high tops."
"Yes, boss."
I hang up and start moving, my eyes scanning every shadow, every flicker of movement in the narrow streets and alleyways that make up this part of the Quarter.
The architecture here is old and layered, with hidden courtyards and secret passages that have been sheltering runaway lovers and escaping criminals for centuries.
She's predictable in her unpredictability, if that makes sense. She'll try to blend into the crowd, maybe duck into a shop or catch a cab. But she's wearing that dress—layers of white silk and lace that make her look like a runaway bride straight out of a romantic comedy.
I spot her before she spots me, which gives me the advantage I need.
She's darting across Royal Street, her dress dragging behind her like a ghost, her head whipping around as she checks for pursuers. She clutches her small satin purse in one hand like it contains everything she owns, her elaborate braids flying behind her as she moves.
I step into her path before she has a chance to notice me, cutting off her escape route with practiced ease.
"Josephine."
She skids to a halt, her breath hitching in surprise and what might be fear.
"Jesus, LaRoche!" she hisses, clutching her chest like I just gave her a heart attack. "Do you enjoy stalking me, or is this just part of your job description now?"
I take a step closer, blocking her only remaining escape route. The tourists flowing around us give us curious looks but keep moving—New Orleans has seen stranger things than a bride and groom having a public argument.
"Do you enjoy making my life harder, or is that just part of your new persona as Naomi?"
Her eyes narrow, but I don't miss the way her chest rises and falls rapidly, her breath coming fast from exertion and adrenaline.
"You don't get it, do you?" she snaps, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and desperation. "This isn't a life. It's a cage. And I can't—" She cuts herself off, shaking her head like she's trying to clear it. "I won't do it. Especially with you."
The last part stings more than I want to admit. "You think running is freedom? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're just running in circles."
Her jaw clenches, but I press on before she can interrupt.
"You've been running for years, Josephine. From your family, from me, from yourself. And where has it gotten you?"
She doesn't answer, but I can see the conflict in her eyes—the war between her desire for freedom and her growing recognition that escape isn't the same thing as liberation.
I step closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear me. "You want freedom? Fine. But you're not getting it by hiding in alleys and slipping out back doors. If you want out, you're going to have to fight for it. And you can't do that alone."
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, something flickers there—doubt, maybe, or the first glimmer of hope that there might be another way.
"I thought we were fighting together," she whispers.
The vulnerability in her voice hits me like a physical blow. "Me keeping your secret about where you were hiding is not fighting, Jo." I gently brush the side of her face with three of my fingers, feeling the softness of her skin and the slight dampness from perspiration.
"Who are you fooling?" She jumps back as if burned by my touch. "You're no fighter. You've resolved yourself to this crap future of ours because you're as trapped in it as I am."
"Maybe," I admit, because there's no point in lying to her anymore. "But I've learned one thing about survival—you don't get far without someone watching your back. And whether you like it or not, I'm that someone for you now."
Her laugh is bitter, but her shoulders sag as the fight seeps out of her. I hate to see her like this, defeated and deflated. Josephine's spirit is one of her best qualities, the thing that's always made her stand out among all the other girls we grew up with.
"So what?" she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I marry into the family who killed my brother to absolve you all of your crimes? I just give up and follow you back to that church like a good little bride because my father said so?"
"No," I say firmly, my body tense from the accusation she's been throwing at me for years. "You don't give up. You never give up. But you stop running, Josephine. You stop running, and you start fighting."
"What does that mean?" She's yelling now, drawing stares from passersby. "Fight my father? Fight him, how exactly, when you're giving him what he wants?"
"I don't know the how yet, but I'm asking you to give us a chance to figure it out. When we stand in that church today, that's the vow we'll really be taking. To fight together."
She stares at me for a long moment, her expressive brown eyes searching mine for any sign of deception or false hope.
"I'm going to need a minute to think about it."
"I know just the place," I tell her as Franz pulls up in the truck next to us, right on cue.
"You good, boss?" he asks from the car, taking in the scene with practiced discretion.
"Take us to City Park, Franz."
"Come on," I reach for Josephine's hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath her soft skin. "Let's go think about shit."