The Blind Woman Touched the Most Feared Man in New Orleans and Said He Was in Pain... Then His Enemies Came Looking for Her

The men who burst into the auction hall were not common thieves. They moved with a military-like coordination, their heavy boots thudding against the hardwood floor.

"Victor Vance," August muttered under his breath.

Victor was the head of a rival syndicate that had been trying to seize control of the Mississippi shipping routes for years. He had obviously caught wind of August's unusual interest in the blind piano tuner and assumed she was a lever he could use.

"Rail!" one of the gunmen shouted into the darkness of the hall. "We know you're in here! Vance sends his regards. Give us the girl, and maybe we’ll let you die in your bed instead of the river!"

August didn't answer with words. He answered with fire.

Two rapid, suppressed shots echoed through the hall. The lead gunman collapsed without a sound. August grabbed Marin’s wrist—his grip was iron, yet surprisingly careful not to hurt her—and pulled her down behind the massive mahogany framework of the Bösendorfer.

"Can you run?" he whispered in her ear.

"If you guide me," she whispered back, her heart pounding, though she forced her body to remain loose. "I know the layout of the lobby. There’s a service exit behind the stage."

"Lead," August said.

With Marin guiding him through the dark, familiar pathways of the auction house and August covering their rear, they navigated the maze of velvet chairs and display cases. Another burst of gunfire tore through the air, shattering a nearby display of antique porcelain. The debris rained down like sharp ice, but August shielded her body with his own, absorbing the impact of the flying shards.

They burst through the heavy metal service door into the damp, muggy night air of the alleyway. A sleek black sedan was waiting, its engine idling silently.

"Get in," August said, opening the door and pushing her gently inside before sliding in beside her.

"Where are we going?" Marin gasped, her hands shaking now that the immediate adrenaline was fading.

"To the docks," August replied as the car tore away from the curb, its tires squealing against the wet asphalt. "The only place in this city where I have absolute control. But we have to be fast. If Vance is moving this openly, it means he thinks he has already won."

As the car sped through the fog-shrouded streets of the French Quarter, Marin reached out in the darkness. She found August’s hand. It was cold, and his pulse was dangerously irregular, skipping every third beat.