Chapter 8 - Discord
By November, the damp cold had settled deep into New Orleans. August returned to the city, but he did not go back to his old ways entirely. The iron grip he maintained over the docks remained, but his methods began to shift. The senseless violence was curbed; the quiet arrangements became legitimate business ventures.
Marin did not move into the Garden District apartment alone. She moved back into the river estate with August.
The estate changed. The cavernous, silent hall where the Bösendorfer sat was no longer cold and dead. Large rugs were brought in to warm the acoustics; heavy velvet curtains were hung along the tall windows to soften the harsh echoes; and every evening, the house was filled with music.
Marin taught August how to play simple pieces—basic classical chords, soft French melodies that echoed through the grand house. Watching his large, scarred hands move across the ivory keys with unexpected tenderness became the joy of her days.
However, the shadow of August's past was not easily erased.
One afternoon, while August was away at a meeting with the dockworkers' union, a visitor arrived at the estate.
Marin was in the music room, polishing the piano keys, when she heard the front doors open. The footsteps were light, sharp, and confident—a woman's heels clicking against the marble floor.
"So this is the little miracle worker," a cool, smooth voice spoke from the doorway.
Marin stood up, setting her cloth down. "Who are you?"
The woman walked into the room, her perfume heavy with the scent of expensive roses and metallic musk. "My name is Catherine Moretti."
Marin felt a chill run down her spine. The Moretti family were August’s oldest, bloodiest rivals.
"August isn't here," Marin said calmly, her hand slipping behind her to rest on the edge of the piano.
"I know he isn't," Catherine said, walking closer until she was standing just on the other side of the Bösendorfer. "I came to see the woman who managed to soft-hearted the most dangerous man on the Mississippi."
"August isn't soft," Marin said sharply.
Catherine let out a melodious, cruel laugh. "Isn't he? Three months ago, August Rail would have wiped my family off the map for the ambush on the docks. Instead, he sent emissaries. He offered peace treaties. He negotiated trade routes. He's growing soft, Miss Callaway. And in our business, a soft boss is a dead boss."
"He is building something that lasts," Marin countered. "Violence only builds graves."
"Graves are stable," Catherine said coldly. She leaned over the piano, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Do you really think you belong in his world? Look at you. You are a fragile, blind girl who plays with wooden boxes. You don't know what he's done. You don't know how many men are sitting at the bottom of that river because August Rail signed a piece of paper."
Marin's heart hammered in her ribs, but she kept her posture rigid, her chin lifted high. "I know what he carries. That's more than you will ever understand."
"Carry this then," Catherine sneered, dropping a thick manila envelope onto the polished wood of the piano. "Ask him about the fire in the Marigny three years ago. Ask him who owned the warehouse next door to your family's summer cottage."
May you like
Marin froze. The room seemed to plunge into ice. "What did you say?"
"Your sister didn't die in an accident, Miss Callaway," Catherine said, her footsteps already retreating toward the door. "It was an arson job meant for a Moretti supply depot. August set the fire. He just didn't check to see who was sleeping upstairs next door."
