Bourbon Street still smelled of gun oil and spilled rum when Cassian came back the next night. The neon signs hadn’t dimmed; the tourists were still laughing too loudly; the city hadn’t noticed another body had cooled in one of its alleys.

But the people who mattered had.

The Voss Syndicate didn’t like questions. They liked results.

And tonight, Cassian was supposed to deliver both.

He found their temporary headquarters behind a shuttered jazz club where the walls were lined with bullet holes and half-finished murals. Inside, a half-dozen men in pressed shirts were gathered around a pool table littered with maps and shell casings. The boss, Cormac Voss, lifted his head when Cassian entered.

“You saw it coming,” Cormac said, voice as smooth and cold as the gin in his hand. “And still let a Moreau finish the job?”

Cassian didn’t flinch. “The target was already marked. I stopped it from turning into a war.”

“You call that peace?” Cormac’s eyes narrowed. “That’s blood on our side, prophet. Find out who ordered it. And if you see Luca Moreau again—”

“I’ll handle it,” Cassian said.

He meant it. He just didn’t say how.

The city rained in lazy, humid streaks as he left the club. The Sight hadn’t stirred all evening, but a strange pulse under his skin told him it was only sleeping. He moved through the Quarter’s narrow arteries until the sound of live brass pulled him toward the riverfront.

That’s where he saw Luca again.

Leaning against a rusted lamppost, coat open, grin sharp enough to draw blood. He looked like sin dressed up for Sunday mass.

“Evening, Voss.” Luca pushed off the post, eyes flicking to the weapon at Cassian’s side. “You following me, or are we both cursed with the same bad taste in neighborhoods?”

Cassian’s jaw ticked. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.” Luca’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Word is our bosses want answers. Maybe we compare notes before they start digging graves.”

Cassian hesitated. Working with Luca was a headache wrapped in temptation, but the killings had both syndicates on edge. And the symbol carved into that corpse—an eye inside a serpent—hadn’t come from any local crew.

“Fine,” he said. “Five minutes.”

They ducked under a dripping awning, the air between them thick with steam and tension. Luca unfolded a crumpled note from his pocket—an address scrawled in red.

“Warehouse on Chartres,” he said. “Someone’s been running weapons through both families. Could be our mystery friend.”

Cassian scanned the writing. His pulse flickered—the Sight brushing the edges of his mind like cold fingers.

“Get down,” he said.

Luca barely had time to blink before the first bullet shattered the glass beside them.

They moved as one—Cassian drawing his pistol, Luca kicking over a crate for cover. The air filled with gunfire and the metallic scent of rain. Cassian’s Sight came alive, flashes of motion a half-second before they happened. He used it ruthlessly: pivot, fire, duck—each move perfectly timed, deadly precise.

Luca noticed. “You’re cheating,” he shouted over the noise.

“Call it instinct,” Cassian shot back.

When the last echo died, three bodies lay cooling in the alley. Luca wiped blood from his cheek, breathing hard, eyes bright with adrenaline.

“Whoever they were, they weren’t locals,” he said. “Too clean. Too quiet.”

Cassian crouched beside one of the corpses, tugging back the collar. The same carved symbol glared up at him—an eye within a serpent. His stomach turned.

“Seen it before?” Luca asked.

“Yeah,” Cassian said softly. “In a vision.”

Their gazes met—something electric, uneasy, alive. Luca stepped closer until Cassian could smell smoke and bourbon on his breath.

“Next time you see something useful, prophet,” Luca murmured, “maybe warn me before the bullets fly.”

Cassian’s reply came out rougher than he meant. “Maybe learn to listen.”

For a second, neither moved. The rain hit harder, drumming on metal and skin alike. The world shrank to the space between them—the sound of breathing, the pulse of danger that felt too much like desire.

Then a distant siren broke the spell. Luca slipped his knife back into its sheath and flashed a grin that was half challenge, half promise.

“Looks like we’re partners now.”

Cassian didn’t smile, but his heartbeat betrayed him.

“God help us both,” he said.

LUCAS — The Devil’s Smile

Luca Moreau had never trusted quiet.

In New Orleans, quiet meant someone was loading a gun or saying a prayer.

He preferred the noise—the hum of bars, the low pulse of jazz, the rattle of dice and bad ideas. Noise kept him from hearing himself think.

Tonight, though, the Quarter was almost gentle. The rain had washed the gutters clean, and the moon hung fat over the river. He sat on the hood of his bike outside an abandoned cannery, cigarette balanced between two ink-stained fingers, watching smoke coil into the damp air.

Cassian Voss.

He hadn’t said that name aloud in years, but it still fit in his mouth like a bruise.

They’d been kids when they first crossed fists—two street dogs thrown into the same pit by fathers who believed pain was training. Cassian had been sharper even then, eyes like cut glass, already half-haunted. Luca remembered punching him once and seeing something flicker behind those eyes—something that looked like fear but felt like prophecy.

Now the man moved like a loaded weapon. Every word measured, every glance a warning. And that Sight—the thing the syndicate whispered about—Luca didn’t know if it was a curse or a trick, but he’d seen enough tonight to believe it was real.

He dragged on his cigarette, exhaling slowly. The smoke tasted of gunpowder and old memories.

Working with Cassian again was a bad idea.

Wanting him was worse.

Luca had learned long ago that desire and danger wore the same face. He’d kissed men in alleyways knowing one of them might have a knife. He’d walked out of beds and gunfights with the same heartbeat. But Cassian? Cassian made the air different. Made silence feel heavy instead of safe.

He flicked the cigarette away, sparks vanishing into puddles. Somewhere in the distance, church bells tolled the hour, low and patient.

“Guess it’s just you and the prophet again,” he muttered to the night.

The thought pulled a reluctant smile from him—sharp, crooked, the kind that never reached his eyes.

He swung a leg over the bike, engine growling to life beneath him, the sound loud enough to drown out whatever feeling was trying to climb its way up his throat.

Tomorrow they’d chase ghosts and gunmen.

Tonight he’d settle for the road, the rain, and the taste of smoke that still carried Cassian’s name.