Everyone Feared the Mafia Boss—Until a Blind Woman Touched His Face and Saw the Pain No One Else Could

Two weeks passed, during which the city of New Orleans sweltered under an unbearable August heatwave. The asphalt melted along Canal Street, and the river ran thick and muddy like molten bronze.

Marin’s life had fundamentally altered, though Josie had yet to figure out why.

"You’ve got a private client who sends a town car twice a week?" Josie asked, leaning against the kitchen counter, biting into an apple while Marin packed her satchel. "Marin, people are talking. They say the car belongs to the Rail shipping empire. You aren't mixing up with those river butchers, are you?"

"He has a collection of historical keyboard instruments," Marin lied smoothly, sliding her velvet mutes into the side pocket. "An 1840 Pleyel, an early Broadwood, and the Bösendorfer. They require delicate humidity regulation."

"Just be careful," Josie warned, her voice suddenly losing its playful edge. "You remember what happened three years ago. Dela got mixed up with people who lived in shadows, and look what it brought to our doorstep."

The mention of her twin sister struck Marin like an open palm across the mouth. The room seemed to lose all air.

"Dela made her own choices," Marin whispered, gripping the strap of her bag until her knuckles turned ivory.

"She did," Josie said softly, placing a hand on Marin’s shoulder. "And the warehouse fire burned down everything she touched. Just... don't let anyone set fire to your world again, Marin. You can't see the flames coming until they're already on your skin."

When Marin stepped down to the street, Noah was waiting. He opened the car door with his customary silence, but this time, August was not in the rear seat.

Instead, Noah handed her a stiff piece of embossed cardstock. Marin’s fingers traced the raised lettering: an invitation to the Saint Charles Maritime Gala at the Orpheum Theater. Tucked beneath the card was a note written in heavy, sharp-edged fountain pen strokes that indented the thick paper deeply enough for her to read by touch:

*You said harmony requires listening. Tonight, someone intends to play out of tune. Be my ears.*

*— A.*

When the car arrived at Prytania Street, two women with soft hands and French accents were waiting for her in the dressing room. They stripped away her simple cotton dress and replaced it with a gown of heavy, midnight-blue silk that felt like liquid midnight against her skin. They pinned her dark hair up with diamond-headed tortoiseshell pins, leaving the slender curve of her neck entirely exposed.

When August entered the hallway, his heartbeat preceded him.

It was steady tonight—slower than before, anchored by the strange, disciplined breathing exercises she had forced him to practice between tuning sessions.

"You look..." August began, then stopped.

Marin turned toward his voice, her blind, hazel eyes unblinking. "Like someone who doesn't belong in a room full of murderers with bank accounts?"

"Like someone who makes the rest of the room look like an imitation," he answered quietly.

He offered his arm. This time, Marin slipped her gloved hand through the crook of his elbow. Beneath the fine wool of his tuxedo jacket, she felt the rock-hard tension of his bicep—and tucked just inside his breast pocket, the cold, flat outline of an automatic pistol.

"Who are we hunting tonight, August?" she asked as they descended the front steps.

"Lucian," he replied coldly. "My second-in-command. He held a private meeting last night with Dominic Vance—the man who controls the northern railheads. Lucian thinks I am too frail to lead. Vance thinks he can buy the docks."

At the mention of the name, Marin’s entire body went rigid. Her heel caught on the edge of the step; August caught her waist instantly, pulling her against his ribcage with swift, protective instinct.

"What is it?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

"Dominic Vance," Marin breathed, her heart suddenly racing with a ferocity that rivaled his worst arrhythmias. "Say that name again."

"Dominic Vance. He runs the industrial yards north of the river. Why?"

Marin’s throat felt as dry as ashes. "Three years ago, the fire that killed Dela... the warehouse belonged to an industrial holding company called Southern Line Freight."

August went completely motionless. The air around them turned glacial.