Page 4 of Phantom
It’s the last night of this particular opera for the theater majors at the Bordeaux Conservatory of Music. They’ve been performing it at their home theater in the New French Opera House for weeks, but this is the first time my angel has been the lead. It’s been a hard year for her, and she’s practiced constantly in the privacy of her own room to be promoted from her understudy position.
Tonight, with the spotlight shining on her, Scarlett is proving to her sleaze of a director—and the rest of this auditorium—that she should’ve been the lead all along.
“Sol,” my twin brother, Ben, urges quietly beside me, pulling me away from the show below and back to our meeting at hand.
His bone-white skull mask covers the right half of his face, just like mine. I can’t see his black hair or warm-blue eyes in the darkness of our theater box, so I don’t bother turning to him. Looking at Ben is like looking into the mirror of a future that never was. That reality has never been so flaunted in my face as it is right now, with the brother of the man who burned that future away sitting right in front of us.
Ten years ago, I had to murder Rand’s brother to escape his clutches. I was only fifteen. Rand knows what his brother did was unforgivable. I’mshocked he has the balls to ask for this meeting after all these years, as if our families’ histories haven’t been irreparably stained by blood.
Isure as fuck can’t get over it. Rage has been simmering in my veins ever since this meeting began, but the pathetic blond fool across from us is completely oblivious.
In his defense, he shouldn’t expect unprovoked violence tonight. Not here. Although it will be fun fantasizing about hanging him from a curtain rope during intermission, it’s not like I’ll be able to act on it. The opera house is our side’s neutral ground, so he has nothing to be worried about. Besides, my fucked-up fate isn’t Rand Chatelain’s fault, exactly. It’s his family’s.
Despite the fact that Rand is the last Chatelain and the heir to their fortune, he fled New Orleans after everything happened between our families. He’s been going to school in New York and gallivanting across the world for the better part of a decade, running away from his responsibilities and leaving the care of his side of New Orleans with his dead father’s second-in-command, Jacques Baron.
Or at least Baronwasin charge. Definitely not anymore.
At the pleasing thought, I smirk behind my drink until I notice Rand smiling hopefully at me. His brilliant-white teeth glint in the New French Opera House’s dim lighting and his blond hair gleams gold, like the innocent cherubs painted above the grand crystal chandelier in the center of the House’s ceiling. It’s annoying as fuck.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Rand’s stupid grin winks back at me while he acts like he’s in on some inside joke. “The singer? Amazing voice.”
“Pretty?” I ask as I swirl my Sazerac. Madam G’s bartenders always keep me supplied during my meetings, but not even the heady cocktail can help me endure this idiot. “Pretty is an insult.” The last word spits from my mouth before I can stop myself and I tip the rest of my drink back.
“Sol,” Ben’s gentle admonishment is barely enough to remind me of my position. But Rand’s calculating look seals the deal. Especially when he leans forward like he’s finally got something to bargain with.
“I have a proposition, but it’ll be in exchange for building a Chatelain hotel in the French Quarter and unhindered access to Port NOLA, of course.”
Before I can snap at him, Ben whispers back harshly. “We’ve told you, Rand. The ports and the French Quarter are ours. Port NOLA, aside, anything on the other side of the expressway is Chatelain land, like Central City, the Garden District—”
“You get all the pretty little flowers,” I offer with a smug look that Rand frowns at.
Ben shakes his head and continues, “It’s been that way for the past decade, thanks to your brother. Your family agreed to the truce—”
“No, my brother Laurent agreed to the truce,” Rand corrects. “And thenhekilled him right after.” He thrusts his thumb in my direction and I cheers my empty rocks glass.
“It was a pleasure, Chatelain.”
That happiness Iknowis a facade slips as his eyes narrow at me. “You mother—”
“All within the bounds of the truce, I’ll add,” Ben interjects, obviously trying to silence us before I fuck up the meeting I don’t give a shit about. “Do you want to dishonor your brother’s name by violating his own truce? He was the one who wrote the clause that any attack on a family member may be repaid in equal blood.”
“I’d say your brother got off easy,” I grunt.
As if my body blames me for my fate, a phantom itch flares on the scarred skin of my right arm. But all my attention is focused on challenging Rand. I’ve struck a nerve, but he knows I’m untouchable right now. It’s neither of our fault that his brother signed the truce while actively breaking it, earning his punishment. If Rand were to retaliate, he’d be dishonoring his dead brother’s word. Not to mention that if Rand attacks me first then I can respond with equal blood. As per his brother’s truce, of course.
My brother’s disapproval is tangible. It’s not that he trusts Rand. Ben just wants this meeting over and done with, no drama. But, it’s the first time our families have spoken in a decade. It was bound to get uncomfortable.
Ben’s never been one for the more unsavory details about what it takes to keep a city safe, thriving, and loyal. I’m used to this part. He shakes hands. I use fists. The wheeling and dealing is his forte, protecting our people by financial and legal means. I run security and rule with physicality and knowledge. My shadows work in tandem with Madam Gastoneaux from the speakeasy below. Together, we’re unmatched at gathering secrets from all over the French Quarter and beyond. Blackmail works just as well as fists. Sometimes better.
“The Bordeauxs don’t go west of the expressway,” Ben reminds him. “Chatelains don’t go east or to Port NOLA. The hotel in the French Quarter won’t work because our people don’t conduct business on opposite sides. Not without invitation and not unless there’s harm by one side to the other.”
I smirk. “And to think, I didn’t even have to wait for an inviteorleave the Garden District to get my justice since your fucking brotherkidnappedme—”
“The pointis,” Ben jumps back in. “the truce was made to protect our own. Our mothers tried to smooth over our families’ centuries-long feud by sending the three of us to the same boarding school, and that failed miserably. Laurent may be dead, but we all know that Sol is living proof that our families areevennow.”
The right side of my face burns underneath my mask and Rand winces, although for his loss or mine, I’m not sure. Just because we were friends as kids—before I was used as a bargaining chip—doesn’t mean those loyalties survived the death of his own brother, no matter how much of a monster the elder Chatelain was.
Rand sighs contritely and I go back to trying to tune him out to listen to the aria. But his voice has a nasally quality that’s hard for me to ignore.
