The sun was just starting to slip behind the rooftops of the French Quarter, casting long golden streaks across the cobbled streets. Jazz notes floated in the humid air like ghosts, weaving through open windows and flickering gas lamps. Tourists shuffled past street artists, clutching beads and beignets, but Nate Bell barely noticed them.
He had one foot up on the wrought-iron bench and his saxophone nestled under his chin. The battered case at his feet held seventeen dollars in crumpled bills, a handful of coins, and half a po' boy he'd saved from lunch.
He blew out one last note—low, deep, sorrowful. A love letter to the city that fed him and starved him in equal measure.
A slow, deliberate clap broke the quiet after the final note. Nate opened his eyes. A tall man in a cream-colored linen suit stood in front of him, polished loafers glinting under the streetlight. He had the kind of posture that came from either years in the military or never being told no.
"Nate Bell?" the man asked.
Nate raised an eyebrow. "Depends who's asking."
The man reached into his coat and pulled out a business card. He flipped it between two fingers before dropping it neatly into the sax case.
> Delacroix & Marrow, Attorneys at Legacy
"Preserving the Past. Managing the Future."
"I represent a deceased client," the man said. "You've been named in his will."
Nate laughed, looking around for a hidden camera. "Yeah, right. I don't know any dead rich folks. Hell, I barely know any live ones."
The man didn't smile. "Nevertheless, we request your presence at our office this evening. It's time-sensitive."
"Time-sensitive like I'm about to be handed a check or time-sensitive like I'm being served papers?"
"Only one way to find out."
Nate squinted. "This some scam?"
The man gave the faintest tilt of the head. "You'll want to come, Mr. Bell. Trust me."
---
An hour later, Nate sat in the backseat of a silent black SUV, staring out at the hazy glow of downtown New Orleans. He clutched his saxophone case like a life preserver.
The car pulled up to an old building on Chartres Street, tucked behind an antique shop. Gaslights flickered on either side of the entrance. The plaque read: Delacroix & Marrow, est. 1843.
A receptionist in a black dress led him down a long hallway with red velvet wallpaper and oil portraits of men who looked like they'd personally witnessed the Civil War. She stopped at a large oak door and gave it a soft knock.
"Enter," a voice called.
The room looked like a library married a cathedral. Shelves of old law books stretched up to a domed ceiling. Candles flickered in wall sconces. Two men stood at the far end of a long table, one of them wearing reading glasses and holding a thick leather-bound book.
"Nathaniel Bell," said the older man. "Executor Bell, I should say."
"I think you got the wrong guy," Nate replied, stepping cautiously forward. "Executor of what?"
The younger man closed the door behind him with a soft click. The older one nodded. "The estate of Vincent LaRoux."
"Who?"
The lawyer raised an eyebrow. "Vincent LaRoux. Billionaire industrialist, owner of Southern Trust Holdings, Crescent Steamworks, LaRoux Spirits, and… seventeen other entities."
"I've never even met the guy."
"You were named in his will. Sole executor."
Nate blinked. "That… doesn't make any sense."
The younger man, standing behind him now, placed a thick black folder on the table. "He left a message for you."
The older man pulled a remote from the folder and clicked a button. A projector screen slid down from the ceiling, flickering to life.
A video began to play.
A man in his late seventies sat in an ornate leather chair. He wore a gray three-piece suit and a red tie, with a gold ring on his left hand. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes glittered with mischief.
> "Hello, Mr. Bell," he began, smiling thinly. "If you're seeing this, then I am finally, and permanently, dead. Congratulations to whichever bastard finally got me."
"No doubt you're confused. Don't be. I chose you. Years ago, I saw you play saxophone on that same corner. You played like someone who lost everything but still wanted the world to hear his story."
"That kind of man deserves a city."
"So I'm giving you mine."
The video cut off.
Nate stared at the screen in stunned silence. "That's it?"
The older man cleared his throat. "There's more. Mr. LaRoux's will grants you legal authority over his entire estate. His companies. His properties. His assets and debts."
"Why me?"
"We do not know."
"I'm not a businessman," Nate said. "I don't even have a checking account. You can't just hand me a billion-dollar empire!"
"It's closer to twelve," the younger man added.
"Twelve?!"
"Twelve point four," he clarified, pushing the folder toward Nate. "That is, if you don't blow it all within the month."
"What does that mean?"
The older lawyer adjusted his glasses. "Mr. LaRoux left a… unique clause. You are not merely inheriting wealth. You are executing a plan. A revival, if you will."
"A revival?"
The younger lawyer opened the folder, revealing a typed page with the words:
> THE LAROUX MANDATE: THE CITY SHALL RISE AGAIN.
"You are to use the assets as tools, not toys. Rebuild what's broken. Uplift what's been drowned. Tear down what's rotten."
Nate stared. "So I'm some kind of… city superhero now?"
The older man allowed a rare smile. "Think of yourself as an architect. Or a storm. The estate includes media outlets, real estate, offshore holdings, warehouses, and a list of contacts. Many of them... unsavory."
Nate frowned. "Why me?"
The younger man leaned in. "He said you were the only one he trusted. Because you didn't want it."
---
Two hours later, Nate stood alone on the rooftop of the LaRoux Building, one of the tallest structures in the city. He held a tumbler of hundred-year-old scotch in one hand and the black folder in the other.
The wind whipped his shirt open as he stared out at the city. Neon signs blinked over Bourbon Street. Ferries crept along the Mississippi like floating ghosts.
He flipped open the folder again. Inside were keys, passcodes, burner phones, and sealed envelopes marked with names he didn't recognize.
One envelope was labeled: "Start Here."
Inside: a business card.
> Delacroix Opera House – Auction Tomorrow – 10:00 AM.
Reclaim it. Or destroy it.
Nate rubbed his forehead. "What the hell did you get me into, old man?"
Behind him, a quiet beep sounded. He turned to see one of the burner phones blinking.
INFLUENCE INDEX: 0.00%
CITY CONTROL: 0/100 ZONES
ASSET STATUS: 1/33 ACTIVE
A message blinked onto the screen:
> Welcome, Executor Bell.
Objective One: Reclaim the Delacroix Opera House.
Bonus Objective: Expose the buyer. He is laundering money for the LeClerc Syndicate.
Nate blinked. "You've gotta be kidding me."
Another message followed:
> Reward: Activation of Offshore Account. $25M USD.
He stood there a long while, watching the screen fade to black. Below him, the city pulsed like a living thing.
He raised his glass.
"To the dead man," he muttered. "And to the poor bastard who has to clean up his mess."
---