Chapter 3
THREE
Reeves
The Dirge: The first music played in a jazz funeral — not meant to comfort, but to carry the weight of what cannot yet be said.
I wake to sunlight cutting through a narrow gap in the curtains and the low hum of voices drifting up from below. I remember staring at the ceiling at four this morning, wide awake and restless. At some point, I must have drifted off again.
Today is the memorial.
The thought materializes before I fully sit up. I roll my shoulders and shift my neck, working out the stiffness from a night that never felt like real sleep.
The house sounds different. Doors open and close with purpose. Footsteps move steadily along the hallway. Conversations stay low, professional, and contained.
I stand under the shower longer than necessary, letting the hot water beat against the back of my neck. The heat loosens my muscles, but not the pressure sitting beneath them.
After toweling off, I pull on fresh boxer briefs and pause at the suit hanging on the closet door. Black. Clean lines. Already pressed.
I shrug into the starched shirt and smooth it down over my shoulders. The fabric is lighter than the fatigues I wear in the desert, lighter than the rucksack I carry on deployment. But when I catch my reflection in the mirror, the image adds weight all its own.
I button the shirt with steady hands. The tie takes no thought. I’ve tied enough of them at fundraisers and Krewe balls to do it without looking.
I slide my arms into the jacket, the material straining slightly across my back. The suit was tailored three years ago when I went to a gala with Ridge, before my last deployment added another ten pounds of muscle. Black tie, three hundred people, most of them watching him.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
"Mr. Stone? The first cars are arriving at the gate." Ms. Landry's voice is muffled through the wood.
"I'll be down in a minute." My voice is flat even to my own ears.
I turn to the mirror. The man staring back looks exactly like what everyone expects. Dark suit, crisp collar, clean-shaven. I got a regulation-short haircut in the barracks the night before I left.
I realize I'm standing at parade rest without even thinking about it.
My father would approve of the presentation.
I adjust my sleeves under my jacket. The cufflinks are cold between my fingers. They're sterling silver with R.S. engraved in block script. His. Mine now, I suppose.
My neck tightens as I slip them through the buttonholes. The pressure that transfers from my neck to my shoulders isn't grief exactly. It's heavier. It tastes like duty and looks like performance.
I check my watch.
The staircase creaks under my weight as I descend. Below, the foyer buzzes with controlled activity. Staff adjust lilies in crystal vases as caterers align silver trays. No one asks what needs to be done. They already know.
Someone opens the French doors to let morning air circulate through the rooms.
Cain appears at the bottom of the stairs, dressed identically except for the green tie. He's always got to do some flair to take attention away from his bald head.
"Ready?" he asks, knowing the answer doesn't matter.
I nod once and follow him toward the doors where guests will enter. My father's world is coming to pay respects.
I straighten my spine, lock my shoulders, and prepare for the performance.
Ridge stands to my left with his back straight and his shoulders squared, the posture so familiar it could have been drilled into him at birth. Give him twenty more years, and he’ll be indistinguishable from our father.
He's stepped into the role without hesitation, absorbing attention and authority as if he’s been preparing for this moment all along.
Cain anchors the other side, offering that easy, practiced smile as he clasps hands and accepts condolences. He leans in when people speak, nods at the right moments, and says exactly what they need to hear.
Keller moves between the crowd and us with quiet confidence, reading each approach before they even speak.
He knows when to step in, when to deflect, when to disarm.
Charm is his weapon, and he uses it cleanly.
He runs private tables the same way by controlling the temperature without anyone realizing it.
Wells lingers near the edge of the tent, cigarette nowhere in sight, but the faint scent of smoke clinging to him anyway. His gaze doesn’t rest on faces so much as patterns. He watches and catalogs who stands with whom, who leaves early, and who watches instead of speaks.
He misses nothing, even when he pretends to.
Rhodes shifts at the end of the line, the only one of us who still looks young enough to resent the suit. He’s here from Loyola for the weekend, jaw tight, shoulders restless. Even though he's only fifteen minutes away, he isn't around much.
He hasn’t decided yet whether he wants to be part of this machine or burn it down.
The Mississippi moves beyond the treeline at the edge of the lawn. It doesn’t pause for memorials or power shifts. It keeps going. So does the line of black cars stretching down the drive and along the street, engines idling in quiet procession.
The woman in pearls is married to the man who owns half the port authority.
The gray suit beside her sits on three boards my father chaired.
I know this because I grew up learning faces the way other kids learned state capitals.
I didn’t memorize these details out of interest, but because Robert Stone treated ignorance about money as a character flaw.
A woman with more plastic in her face than the Atlantic grips my hand with both of hers. “Your father was a visionary. What he’s done for this city is incredible.”
“Thank you for coming.” The response comes without effort.
A man in a tailored khaki suit steps forward next. “Robert was the most disciplined businessman I ever worked with.”
“We appreciate your support.”
Another handshake. Another voice. “He could be ruthless when necessary.”
“Yes, he could.” I temper it too late. My father is the only man I've ever known who could charm the pants off everyone in the room and instill fear. It's usually one or the other trait, but he had them both in spades.
Heat gathers beneath my collar. Sweat traces a slow line down my spine beneath the jacket. The white tent traps the humidity and the scent of cologne and perfume until the air turns dense.
Bodies press closer as the line tightens. My gaze shifts without thought, measuring distance to the end of the row, calculating how long this formation will hold.
Noise and movement, I can manage. Standing still while strangers dissect my father tests a different kind of endurance.
Ridge leans slightly in my direction without breaking his handshake. “Ten minutes until the eulogy,” he says quietly.
I nod once. Ten minutes is measurable.
The priest calls for attention, his voice carrying across the lawn. The crowd shifts toward their seats in an orderly sweep, dark suits and dresses folding into neat rows beneath the tent.
The line dissolves, and my shoulders lower a fraction as I take my place in the front row beside my brothers.
My father’s portrait dominates the front of the tent, larger than life in its gilded frame.
The artist captured him mid-expression, chin lifted, gaze direct, as if he’s already evaluating the turnout.
It’s the same look he wore at board meetings and Mardi Gras galas, the same look he gave us when we lined up after our mother’s funeral.
We stood in formation then, too. We were all smaller, more uncertain. He told us that day that Stones do not bend under pressure. We hold. We lead. We outlast.
The priest speaks of legacy and commitment, of men who build things that stretch beyond their own lifetimes. The words skim across the surface of the crowd and settle over us like a mantle being passed down.
Ridge steps to the podium next. He doesn’t hesitate. “My father believed in loyalty above all else,” he says, his voice carrying cleanly to the back of the tent. “Family wasn’t just blood to Robert Stone. It was responsibility.”
Responsibility.
The word sucks the air out of my lungs. I've been gone for six years by choice. I deployed because I needed distance, because motion makes sense to me in a way boardrooms never have.
Two rows back, a senator leans toward the mayor, his voice pitched low but not low enough that I can't hear him. That could be on purpose, I'm not sure.
“Now that Robert’s gone, what happens to the river project?”
I don't turn around, but I know exactly which river project. The one worth four hundred million dollars in federal contracts. The one my father spent six years quietly engineering.
I know because I was twenty-two the night he explained it to me over dinner, expecting me to be impressed.
I enlisted two months later.
“The oldest has it under control,” the mayor replies. "It's been a seamless transition.”
Seamless.
As if there were never six sons standing here. As if continuity were automatic.
I stare at the back of the tent. This is what the name carries. Expectation. Continuation. The assumption that we will step into place without hesitation.
The formal service concludes with a prayer. Chairs shuffle softly against the grass as people stand. The gathering breaks into smaller clusters, sympathy dissolving into quiet business conversations. Hands shake, cards exchange, and deals begin to reform in the shadow of grief.
Nine months is apparently the right amount of time. That's long enough that condolences don’t sound rehearsed and that no one has to lower their voice when they say his name.
That's long enough for murder to be replaced with words like loss and tragedy. Although the official word is that it was a random mugging.