“I’m thinkin’ they’re a closer target to them in the North.”
He was right to worry. But Max glossed it over. “Guedrys have been dealing with their kind for a long, profitable time.”
“But times are changing, and them up there in Chicago are too smart not to know allegiances have, too.”
And Giles was too smart to be easily placated. He’d been a top-notch college student from humble bayou roots when a bad decision brought him under Jimmy’s thumb. After the Mobster’s murder, he’d supported Max’s advancement rather than the weaselly little bastard who’d killed his employer, rising with the encouragement of his new boss and new bride from thug to second-in-command while finally finishing that law degree. He was more than employee and driver. He was a friend and irreplaceable confidante.
“Your people are my people,” Max quickly reassured. “If you think they’d be safer under our roof, invite all of them here.”
Giles’ laugh rolled out quick and full-bodied. “Like my mama would step foot through Jimmy Legere’s front door. She barely lets me cross hers. Us being former criminals and all.”
Max shared his amused chuckle then promised, “I’ll send some fellas to keep watch over ′em. She won’t know they’re there.”
A long pause followed by a quiet, “’Preciate it.”
“Don’t be an ass, Giles.”
Giles turned in to the lot of Legere Enterprises, Inc. to the all-too-familiar and unwelcomed sight of NOLA police units, this time angled next to an ambulance with its doors open. Max was out of the car before it completed its stop.
When braced by an officer determined to bar his entrance to the building, an authoritative voice intruded.
“He’s with me.”
Finding Byron Atcliff on the scene upped the worry factor. “What’s happened? Is my assistant all right?”
Atcliff’s hand pressed center mass on his business suit. “They’re just bringing her out.”
Panic knife-edged his question. “Is she alive?”
A calming tap of his hand. “And furious that someone made a mess of your workday.”
Both stepped aside as the gurney wheeled toward them. A shaky hand ripped off the oxygen mask the second his loyal assistant saw him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Savoie. They were waiting for me when I keyed in.”
“Are you all right?”
“They pushed me around when I wouldn’t give them any passwords or information. Just bumps and a few bruises. And mad as hell, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”
Max grinned, shoulders relaxing. “Don’t give these nice fellas any trouble, Marissa. I’ll be there to visit as soon as I take stock of things here.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get everything put back together.” She squint-eyed Atcliff, warning, “Don’t let them make my work any harder.”
Max squeezed her hand. “They wouldn’t dare.” In a lowered voice, he asked, “Did you recognize them?”
“The cowards wore masks.”
“Behave.” After that gentle admonishment, he nodded to the attendants. Watching them load his loyal friend into the ambulance got his pilot light flaming as he turned to Atcliff. “What happened here?”
“Silent alarm. My men responded as soon as they could. Found your assistant on the floor of your office. She took a pretty hard knock to the head. Tough lady.”
“I’d like to go in.”
“I’ll go with you for a walk-through. You know the drill. Don’t touch anything until it’s photographed and printed. I’ll want you to make note of anything missing.”
The neatly arranged trays at Marissa’s command center had been hurriedly tossed, papers and files scattered across the desktop and strewn on the floor along with her extensive family photos. Max’s teeth ground at the violation of her sacred space. He continued to his office with Atcliff in tow, bracing for what he might find.
At first glance, it had the disorganized chaos of an amateur ransacking, goons out to make a mess to make a point. He took a moment to calm his temper. What had they been after? Drawers, their locks broken, had been wrenched from his desk, contents dumped and carelessly trampled seemingly without rhyme or logical reason. Max looked beyond the obvious they wanted him to see–random vandalism–to find a clue to motivation. Most of what he kept in the riverfront office was related to Legere Enterprises International’s shipping interests, all strictly legitimate and of no importance to the eagle eyes of Byron Atcliff. Absolutely nothing touching upon clan business came through the etched, now breached doors.
It took him a while to visually sort through the insignificant to the precious few areas where professional and deeply personal crossed paths. The vandals had targeted that narrow intersection. They’d taken the time to pull his