The mansion always smelled of smoke when Rosa was angry.

Not fire — something older. The scent of cigars and grief.

By the time Cassian and Luca stepped through the doors, the Queen of the Vernetti syndicate was already waiting — legs crossed, eyes cold as obsidian. Two guards stood behind her, silent as statues.

Rosa’s cigarette burned slow between red-painted nails.

“I told you to bring me answers,” she said softly. “Not ghosts.”

Cassian didn’t flinch. He looked pale, a vein beating at his temple. Luca could feel the tension bleeding off him like heat.

“We found the mark,” Luca said. “A woman tied to Vernetti. She called herself nothing — but she’s the one resurrecting your husband’s name.”

Rosa’s eyes flickered at the word husband, but her voice stayed steady. “And you saw this woman?”

Cassian hesitated. “No. I felt her.”

Rosa exhaled smoke. “How poetic. How useless.”

Luca took a step forward. “With respect, Rosa—”

“Don’t start with me, Butcher,” she snapped. “Your protection detail was supposed to keep him standing, not bleeding on my rug.”

Luca’s jaw tightened. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”

Rosa’s gaze cut to Cassian again. “Barely. You’re shaking, Prophet. What did you really see?”

Cassian met her eyes — the Sight still humming faintly in his pupils. “Vernetti. Rising from the bayou. He’s alive.”

For the first time, Rosa’s composure cracked. Just a flicker — a tightening of her throat, a tremor behind her fingers.

“That’s impossible,” she whispered.

“Impossible’s never stopped this city,” Cassian said quietly.

The room fell into heavy silence. Outside, thunder rolled over the river.

Rosa stood, smoothing the silk of her robe like a queen putting on armor. “If my husband walks again, he does not do it alone. Find the witch who brought him back. End her.”

Cassian nodded once. “What if she finds us first?”

“Then pray you die fast,” Rosa replied. “Because the dead don’t forget betrayal.”

She turned away, dismissing them with a flick of her hand. “You have two nights. After that, I send the Saints.”

Luca frowned. “You mean—”

“Yes,” she said. “The old guard. The ones even Vernetti feared.”

Cassian’s pulse quickened. “They’ll kill anyone in their path.”

Rosa’s smile was thin. “Good. Maybe that includes the right people.”

They left in silence, the storm thickening over the French Quarter.

By the time they reached Luca’s apartment, Cassian’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. He leaned against the wall, breathing shallowly.

Luca grabbed his wrist. “Hey. Talk to me.”

“It’s the Sight,” Cassian murmured. “It’s… wrong. The ring—it’s still in my head.”

“Then let me help.”

“You can’t.”

Luca’s voice roughened. “You keep saying that. And yet you keep coming back from whatever hell your eyes drag you into.”

Cassian tried to smile, but it came out broken. “Maybe I like your voice.”

That stopped Luca cold.

Rain hit the window hard. Lightning flashed — the tattoos on Luca’s arms catching the light like symbols carved in stormlight.

He sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re trouble, Prophet.”

Cassian looked up, eyes too bright. “And you’re addicted to it.”

They stood there, the air between them heavy — two men cut from the same wound, neither able to walk away.

Then Cassian swayed.

Luca caught him before he hit the floor. “Hey, hey. Breathe.”

Cassian’s voice came in fragments. “She’s… calling. The woman. I can hear her.”

“Cassian.”

“She wants blood. Vernetti’s blood. Mine. Yours. Rosa’s.”

Luca tightened his grip. “Not tonight.”

When Cassian woke hours later, dawn was trying to claw its way through the blinds. His head throbbed. A blanket was thrown over him — Luca’s jacket.

The scent of bourbon and gunpowder clung to it.

Luca sat nearby, boots up on the table, half-asleep, gun on his thigh. The protector who didn’t know how to stop protecting.

Cassian watched him for a long moment. The line of his throat, the scar across his collarbone. He looked like sin carved in daylight.

“You watching me sleep, Prophet?” Luca said without opening his eyes.

Cassian smiled faintly. “Just making sure you’re real.”

“Unfortunately.”

They sat in silence for a beat. Then Cassian said, “Rosa’s losing control.”

“Yeah. So’s the city.”

“She’s summoning the Saints.”

Luca opened one eye. “Which means bodies in the streets by sunrise.”

Cassian rubbed his temples. “We can’t let that happen.”

Luca’s jaw flexed. “Then we get to her before they do.”

“Who?”

“The witch. The woman with the serpent ring.”

Cassian hesitated. “She’ll come to us.”

“I’d rather be the one knocking.”

Cassian met his gaze. “You like hunting ghosts?”

Luca smirked. “Only the beautiful ones.”

Cassian’s pulse jumped — small, dangerous, involuntary.

Outside, the storm had passed, but the air still smelled like electricity. Somewhere in the Quarter, a church bell began to toll — slow, solemn, and off-beat.

Cassian frowned. “That sound…”

“What?”

“It’s wrong. The church it’s coming from — St. Augustine’s. It hasn’t rung in years.”

Luca grabbed his keys. “Then that’s where we’re going.”

By the time they reached the edge of the Treme, the sky was bruised with dawn. The church stood silent — except for the bell, swaying by no visible hand.

Cassian’s breath fogged the air. His Sight rippled like heat.

“She’s here,” he murmured.

Luca’s hand went to his gun. “Then let’s end this.”

But before they could step through the gates, the church doors creaked open.

Rosa’s men spilled out — three of them, faces pale, eyes empty.

Cassian’s heart dropped.

“Saints,” he whispered.

Luca’s voice hardened. “Guess she sent them early.”

The first Saint smiled — a grotesque, too-wide grin. “The Queen sends her blessings.”

And then the gunfire began.

The street erupted in chaos. Luca moved first, firing clean and fast. Cassian ducked behind the church wall, clutching his head as his Sight flared — flashes of the woman, of Vernetti, of Rosa’s empire burning.

He felt the world tilt. Blood on marble. Fire in the nave. Vernetti’s voice again: “You can’t kill a saint, my Prophet.”

Cassian screamed — the sound raw, human, alive.

Luca turned, saw him collapsing again, and without thinking threw himself across the line of fire — tackling the nearest Saint, gun jamming under the man’s ribs.

One shot. Then another.

Silence.

Only the bell kept ringing, softer now.

Luca knelt beside Cassian, gripping his shoulder hard. “Stay with me. Come on.”

Cassian’s eyes fluttered open. “We’re running out of time.”

Luca nodded grimly. “Then we hunt faster.”

As the sun rose over New Orleans, the bell finally stopped.

In its place came the faintest whisper — a woman’s voice drifting through the cracked stained glass.

“Come find me, Prophet. Before I find him.”

Cassian stared at the church, the serpent sigil now faintly glowing on its doors.

The war had begun.