Page 5 of Phantom
“I know. I’ve been out of the loop for ten years, but we weren’talwaysrivals. I thought I’d at least offer to introduce her to you, if you’re interested.”
“How the fuck do you know Scarlett Day?” The question growls out of me before I know I’m speaking.
Rand’s lips curve into a proud smile. “Didn’t you know? Lettie and I go way back. I guess you could say we’re childhood sweethearts.”
Every word he utters makes my grip tighten around the empty drink in my hand. As I think about how to respond, I relax my fingers, one by one. If I break another piece of antique glassware, Madam G will skin me alive and cook me, and I won’t even have a dead Chatelain to show for it this time.
“How?” I finally reply, my mind still unable to work around the news. “The three of us are all a few years older and studied in France while Scarlett’s family is originally from Appalachia.”
Rand’s brow rises and I can feel Ben stiffening beside me. I’ve overplayed my hand.
“Know a lot aboutmyLettie, do you?” The urge to smash my glass in his satisfied face is strong, but I wait impatiently for his explanation. “Scarlett’s dad was a traveling musician. She went with him everywhere, including when he played his summer tours in the French Quarter. I’m surprised she even has money to pay for this school. You Bordeauxs aren’t cheap.”
“We host many scholarships here at Bordeaux,” Ben offers to my disapproval. “Miss Day won a scholarship after her father passed away.”
“That’s right, he was murdered. Poor Scarlett.” Concern crumples his face as he glances briefly to her again, but I won’t let him get off that easy.
“He was murdered in theGarden District,” I answer, my left brow raised. But Rand doesn’t seem to notice my accusatory tone. “Yourdistrict.”
“It’s awful. My father and brother took a liking to him when they saw him play, you know,beforethey would’ve been relegated to west of the expressway. I met her at one of his shows one summer, and then we were inseparable until I had to leave for school. It’s too bad they aren’t around to see her.” He gives me a pointed look before wistfully watching Scarlett on stage. “They would’ve loved to see Little Lettie thrive. She deserves it, too.”
When Rand twists in his velvet armchair to see us both again, Ben’s eyes flicker to me through his mask. He steeples his fingers and moves on.
“This feud has taken many from both of our families. It’s why our truce is so imperative. And why we have to say no to the Chatelain hotel in the French Quarter. Aside from the steep history your buildings would destroy, our families are better off doing business on separate sides of the city. As we agreed.”
Rand’s thin lips press into a straight line and he returns his gaze toward the stage. A look akin to the hunger I feel inside shows in the tension around his eyes. I stare daggers at the side of his head. If he knew what was hanging in the vaults below the stage, it’d wipe that dazzled look right off of his face. Scarlett Day is mine. One of his own men had to learn that the hard way.
Rand shifts back to us and studies the inside of box five. “I’ve always thought it curious that your family holds meetings here. But I must say, with a show like Miss Day, I can see why you’d want to set the opera house as your neutral ground.”
And because I never leave it.
My family has called the New French Opera House their home since we bought the charred land of its prior namesake in 1920. The original burned down to nearly ashes, and when the original owners couldn’t recover with insurance, the lot went vacant. My great-grandmother was distraught over the demise of the original French Opera House and Bordeaux men can never say no to their wives. Ben is the perfect example with his wife, Maggie, Madam G’s daughter.
But, not only did my great-grandfather want to please his wife, he saw a golden opportunity with Prohibition going into effect. He bought the old French Opera House’s plot of land and rebuilt a near replica with better safety measures. They sold the old Bordeaux mansion in the Garden District, and Jeremiah Bordeaux made theNewFrench Opera House a conservatory for art students so my great-grandmother could teach and live out her passion full time. He even designed dorms for the students and a family wing that Ben and Maggie live in now.
But beneath, he utilized the French Quarter’s slightly higher elevation to his advantage and engineered a flood-proof maze of cellars and tunnels to use during Prohibition. He ran his illegal distillery through the speakeasy, Masque, built below. Madam G’s ancestors struck a deal with him and they’ve owned and run it ever since. The masquerade theme set in place then protected patrons from potential prosecution if they were ever caught—which, they never were. Now, it protects me.
As soon as I was released from the burn unit in the hospital as a teenager, I left the family wing upstairs and repurposed the cellars and tunnels for my own home. My only haunts now are the cellars, the tunnels, the opera house, and Masque. I never go anywhere without a mask, so this is my home. It’s where I’m most comfortable and where my shame isn’t on display for the world.
It’s why I’ve been able to hear Scarlett’s sweet voice day and night. My angel of music works hard at her craft. She’s inspired me, a veritable demon in my own right, more these last few weeks than any other voice or composer I’ve studied over the years. Gounod, himself, would kill to hear her sing his songs right now. I know I have.
The last few notes of the aria reverberate throughout the auditorium and my fingers itch to join the roaring applause. Thanks to the spotlight, my poor eyesight can still make out the golden-red sheen in each wild black curl. Her ivory skin glistens under the hot beams, and the look of wonder on her face is fucking breathtaking.
After countless rehearsals and vocal drills, I knew she’d bring down the house. I want to cheer for her, but showing any sign of weakness in front of a Chatelain will only paint a target on her back. I’ve done that too much already.
Giving a Chatelain—anyChatelain—the upper hand can mean a death sentence. I won’t allow Scarlett to be caught in the middle of our minefield.
That doesn’t stop Rand though.
“Bravo! Bravo!” He leaps to his feet and leans over the golden railing, clapping and calling for her with the same fervor I wish I could. Her gaze lifts toward my theater box, and her silver eyes sparkle in the spotlight. The cavernous hole in my chest begins to beat with life as she gazes up and her smile widens.
Does she see it’s me? Does she know I’m here for her?
I’ve always hidden within the shadows, but the thought that my muse has finallyseenme has me moving to stand. But Rand begins to wave like a fucking maniac and realization sinks in.
It’s him. She only sees him. Herchildhood sweetheart. I’ve remained in the darkness, behind my mask for far too long.
Ben and I require that those we do business with show their faces, while our men—my shadows—wear masks, ensuring anonymity for those who work for the Bordeauxs. Not only does it protect our men and their families, it also prevents insurrection. And while it’s always been a policy I’ve benefited from, I’m regretting it now.
