The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind Nell Brisco, sealing her off from the murmur of the Orsini dining room, but the echo of Carmine Orsini’s voice lingered in her ears.

The rain drummed a frantic tattoo against the glass roof of the yacht’s salon. Julian Meridian was slumped against the teak bar, his expensive charcoal suit stained with spilled scotch and rain, looking every bit like a man whose world had finally collapsed.

Benny Romano stood by the doorway, holding a digital recorder out like a microphone.

"Read it," Carmine said, tossing a printed statement onto the bar in front of Julian.

Julian’s hands shook so badly he could barely pick up the paper. "If I sign this... if I give you the confession... what happens to me?"

"You take a very long boat ride," Carmine said smoothly. "Not to Zurich. To a federal penitentiary in Atlanta where you can spend the next twenty years thinking about zoning laws and insurance fraud. If you don't sign it," Carmine added, stepping a fraction closer, "Benny and I take a very long walk off this boat, and you drift out into the Gulf of Mexico with no fuel and no radio."

Julian didn't hesitate a second longer. He grabbed a gold-plated pen from the counter and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the page.

Benny stepped forward, lifted the paper, and checked the signature before sliding it into his breast pocket.

"Done," Benny muttered.

Carmine looked down at Julian with absolute contempt. "Get off my river, Julian. If I ever see your face in Louisiana again, the fish won't even wait for you to reach the Gulf."

Ten minutes later, they were back on the dock, watching The Sovereign cast off its moorings and drift aimlessly out into the dark, churning current of the river, its captain frantic and anchorless.

Nell stood beside Carmine, the cold wind whipping her hair across her face. The confession was tucked safely inside her coat pocket. The ghost of Magazine Street had finally been laid to rest.