10. A New Home
A NEW HOME
SAUL (MARCUS MITCHELL)
Two Months after Reveal Day
I’m standing behind the bar at Crescent Hall, pretending I know what I’m doing, when the sound of heavy boots thudding against the concrete floors makes me glance up.
Cecil Boudreaux. The man is massive—easily seven feet tall—with skin dark enough to blend seamlessly into the shadows that cling to the corners of this gritty space. Tiny, intricate scars mark his face, each one deliberate, like the rosary beads he fingers absentmindedly. He’s not the kind of man you mess with, and he knows it.
“New guy?” His voice rumbles low, like a warning bell in the night.
“That’s me,” I say, keeping my tone steady as I wipe my hands on the rag slung over my shoulder. “Marcus Mitchell.”
His eyes narrow, and I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass for a moment. He doesn’t believe me—I can tell from the skeptical tilt of his head and how his gaze lingers on mine just a fraction too long. But he doesn’t call me out. Not yet.
That’s not his way.
I wonder if it would be his way if he knew I was a murderer.
Patrick’s death plays on a loop in my mind, burned into my consciousness. I can still hear the creak of the floorboards beneath my feet, the stench of his cheap booze hanging in the air like a warning.
I was too late. Too late to stop him from forcing his way into my grandmother’s home, too late to protect her and my sister from the monster I’d spent years trying to shield them from. A well-placed neighbor had filled me in when I got to Maine. Patrick had been in the house for a day and a half before I arrived, and no one had left since.
The system didn’t keep the monster at bay. His brothers—an arm of the Irish mob—saw to that. My grandmother, bless her soul, was deep in denial about the danger they posed, but I wasn’t. I made it my business to know the risks, to understand the strings they could pull, and how far their reach extended.
Money and a well-placed alias can buy you anything.
When my contracted security team confirmed what the neighbor reported, there was no doubt about what needed to be done.
I left the show, my new LA restaurant, and Tessa behind to end his life, and I have no remorse.
I waited until midnight, knowing he’d be good and drunk. I snuck in through the patio door and checked on my sleeping sister. She looked unharmed. But my grandmother’s face was black and blue. The monster had beat the breaks off her, and my resolve sharpened.
I walked up to him while he sat in his chair and did something I thought would never happen. I yanked the garrote I had prepared from my back pocket and choked him mercilessly until he took his last breath. The room went silent, and all I could hear was the thumping of my heart echoing in my ears. My mind raced with a million thoughts, but one idea stood out more than any other: My family is finally safe.
They’ll never find his body.
But I had to leave. Of course, I couldn’t stay in Maine. From the messages I intercepted between him and his brothers, he planned to kidnap Sheena, kill my grandmother, and head to Ireland. He must have a judge in his pocket to get that approval while on parole.
For all his brothers know, his plan worked. But I knew they might start looking for him when his communication became nonexistent.
So, I hid my grandmother and Sheena away in Ghana for a while.
It’s been two months, and I haven’t heard a peep from them, and the streets aren’t talking about Patrick’s disappearance.
But That doesn’t mean this is over.
“Marcus Mitchell,” Cecil repeats slowly, his tone making it clear he knows that’s not my name. “Are you any good on the fryer?”
I nod. “I can handle it.”
“We’ll see.” He gestures for me to follow, and I fall in behind him, my boots scuffing the worn floor of Crescent Hall. The place has character—a mix of old-school grit and unpolished charm that feels like a time capsule from the eighties.
According to my security team’s reports, the Warehouse District may have changed—polished, gentrified, scrubbed clean of its soul—but Crescent Hall stands defiant, a relic of what this neighborhood used to be. Cecil has kept it that way, and the rumors about how he’s managed to do that swirl as thick as the ghost stories tied to this place.
Developers have tried to push him out, but their efforts always seem to end in unexplained accidents, mysterious deaths, or just plain bad luck. Some say it’s the ghosts of the twenty-six enslaved people who perished in the refinery fire that engulfed this very building almost 200 years ago. Others whisper that Cecil’s “divine intervention” has more to do with his hired muscle and less with the spirits.
I’m not sure which version I believe, but I can respect a man who defends what’s his either way.
He stops at the kitchen, turning to face me. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes, dark and sharp, take in every inch of me.
“You a praying man, Marcus?”
The question catches me off guard. It reminds me of the date I had with Tessa before I proposed. She asked me about my relationship with God and accepted my answer, even though I knew it wasn’t the one she wanted to hear.
God, I miss her.
I blink and shake the memory before answering Cecil. “Not... recently.”
He nods, his fingers brushing the rosary dangling from his belt. “No time for confession myself,” he says, almost amused. “But prayers of forgiveness? Those you can send up all day.”
I force a smile. “Good to know.”
Cecil’s skepticism doesn’t waver. He studies me like he’s trying to crack open my skull and sift through the contents. But then, without another word, he nods toward the fryer. “Get to work.”’
When Cecil turns his back, I let out a slow breath, the tension in my shoulders easing just enough for me to think clearly. My hands move automatically, dropping baskets into the fryer, but my mind’s somewhere else—on her.
Tessa Baptiste.
I shouldn’t have let myself think of her name. Now, all I want to do is pull out my favorite picture of her, which my security team snapped when she stormed out of the studios on reveal day. My fingers hover over my phone, and I swipe to the photo.
There she is.
She’s angry in the shot, her expression a mix of hurt and fury that tightens something in my chest. Her jaw is set, her full lips pressed into a defiant line. Even in her rage, she’s stunning. Her dark brown skin gleams under the unforgiving sunlight, kissed by a glow that the camera can’t quite capture but radiates anyway.
Her curls are wild, framing her face like a crown. A few tendrils fall over her piercing almond-shaped eyes, which burn with determination, even through the grainy pixels. She’s wearing a fitted black dress, something sleek and sexy, with a slit that teases just enough to remind me how confident she is in her skin. Her curves, sharp and soft in all the right places, move with purpose as she strides away from the building. She holds her head high, her back straight, and her shoulders squared as if daring anyone to stop her or ask her why tears threaten to spill down her cheeks.
I can’t stop staring at it. The image reminds me of everything I admired—and still do—about her. She’s fierce, unapologetic, and beautiful in a way that feels effortless but cuts right through me, leaving me breathless.
And that look? That determined, fiery glare aimed at the world? It’s sexy as hell. I can almost hear her voice in the picture, spitting out some sharp remark to mask how much I hurt her. The thought tightens my grip on the phone.
This picture is proof that I didn’t imagine our connection. She felt it, too. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t look like she wanted to burn the world down with the force of her betrayal. That expression? It’s not indifference. It’s heartbreak.
I know she cared. The question is, does she still? Because I sure as hell do.
That’s why I’m here. I didn’t come to New Orleans to hide. I hid in Accra.
I’m here because she’s here.
The last two months have been hell. Exorcising my family’s demons was a battle. But it’s done. Patrick is no longer a threat; he’s where he belongs. I should feel relieved, but all I feel is the gnawing emptiness from leaving her behind.
I finally got word three days ago that she’s back in New Orleans. Good .
Hopefully, that means she’s given up her search.
I kissed my grandmother and sister goodbye and had my pilot fly me from Accra to New Orleans the next day.
Now that she doesn’t expect me, I can start my re-pursuit of her. In a situation like this, where I may be in the crosshairs of the Irish Mob, I have to control the narrative. I have to control how much information she has about me and my past and when she gets it.
Otherwise, I could lose her forever.
Or, even worse, she could end up hurt.
Tessa Baptiste.
I’ve tried to forget her and told myself a thousand times that walking away was for the best. That she’s better off without me. But it’s a lie. I knew it the moment I stepped off the plane in New Orleans and felt the air, thick with the scent of magnolias and the sweet tang of beignets. This city breathes her name and sings her story; I’m here to write myself back into it.
Getting her back won’t be easy. I left her hanging on the most public stage imaginable. She’ll never trust me again, not after what I did. But I will wear her down. Tessa may hate me now, but I’ll remind her why she once believed in us. I’ll remind her why she said yes.
First, though, I need to get eyes on her. Find out if she’s okay. If she’s moved on. Just the thought makes my jaw clench, but I push it aside.
I couldn’t properly watch over her while she was still in LA; I was too busy, hindering her from finding me. She came close, but I couldn’t let her discover what I was up to without putting her in the eye of a storm.
Phase one of my plan is simple: find her, watch her, and improve her life—without her ever knowing it’s me. I’ll weave my wealth and influence into her world like a silent guardian, ensuring she thrives, even if she still hates me.
For now, I exist in New Orleans as Marcus Mitchell —just another fry cook, a nobody moving through the city unnoticed. It’s the perfect cover and way to stay close without disrupting her life. She doesn’t need to know I’m here. Not yet.
I must ensure her safety before confronting Tessa and asking her to forgive me.
Even if that means she can’t be with me.