Phantom (Tattered Curtain Series)

Sol

When she laughs, I imagine shoving my cock down her throat, sparkling tears glistening down her gorgeous face until I come.

But when she sings… fuck, when she sings… now that is true ecstasy.

From my perch in the theater’s box five, I can hear the gorgeous soprano perfectly as she flawlessly executes “Je veux vivre” from Charles Gounod’s Roméo et Juliette. My eyes drift closed in pure relaxation as my pretty little muse hits every note.

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’m shocked 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.

I sure 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 Baron was in 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 then he killed him right after.” He thrusts his thumb in my direction and I cheers my empty rocks glass.

“It was a pleasure, Chatelain.”

That happiness I know is 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 invite or leave the Garden District to get my justice since your fucking brother kidnapped me—”

“The point is,” 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 are even now.”

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.

“I know. I’ve been out of the loop for ten years, but we weren’t always rivals. 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 about my Lettie, 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 the Garden District,” I answer, my left brow raised. But Rand doesn’t seem to notice my accusatory tone. “Your district.”

“It’s awful. My father and brother took a liking to him when they saw him play, you know, before they 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 the New French 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—any Chatelain—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 finally seen me 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. Her childhood 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.

The way Scarlett smiles at Rand leadens my stomach. No doubt he’s soaking in the way she’s looking at him and understands the way it affects me because he glances back at me with a satisfied smile. The opera house is meant to be a safe zone, free of violence. Today though, jealousy has me fantasizing about throwing the smug piece of shit over the railing.

“I think she recognizes me!” he calls triumphantly.

I’m silent, but Ben replies quietly as the crowd dies down and the stage lights go out. “Seems like it.”

“Yeah?” Rand nods with excitement. “I should go to her, right? Say hi?”

“No,” I growl. My right hand clenches into a fist and my tungsten skull ring warms as I imagine bloodying Rand’s pretty face.

“What I think Sol is trying to say is that there is still the rest of the performance. Not to mention, we’re not finished here.” Ben points out, desperately trying to keep us on task.

“And the truce,” I add. “She’s mine.”

I feel Ben stiffen beside me and I don’t blame him. Even I can hear the obsession in my voice. It’s dangerous.

“He’s right, she’s off-limits,” Ben cuts in with a lie. “She lives in the Quarter under our protection.”

Rand shakes his head and hushes his voice as the opera continues. “I may have been gone a while but I remember the parameters of the truce well. Living in the French Quarter alone doesn’t make her yours explicitly. I see no branding or amulets to signify her allegiance. The truce is only to make sure no crimes occur by one of ours on the wrong side of the line, or against someone you specifically protect. I’m not going to hurt her. I’ve always cared for Scarlett and I haven’t seen her in over a decade. I just want to say hi, maybe take her out for a drink. You can’t keep her from me, Bordeaux. I’m not one of your shadows.” He spits out the word like a curse.

“At least my shadows know who leads them,” I counter.

“That’s a fucking low blow,” Rand steps forward as I slowly stand from my seat, my six-foot-four frame towering over him. To his credit, Rand tries his best to meet my eyes before Ben steps between us.

“You’re making a scene,” Ben hisses. “And there’s already one that people have paid to see. Let’s not ruin the show.” He turns to the open doorway. “Sabine?”

Our second-in-command, a tall brunette with light-brown skin and a curvy athletic build, appears from the shadows. Her mask is one of my favorites, a horned demon’s face wreathed in flames covers the top half of her face, revealing only her charcoal eyes. Her hand is ready at the dagger that never leaves her side.

Sabine is good. Fucking great even. No one else in the box can see how ready she is to end Rand before his next breath. In a bright room, even I’d struggle with that knife-wielding vixen. But when the lights are out, no one is my equal.

“Need me to take out the Chatelain trash?” Sabine asks casually.

“Trash?” Rand hisses. “You didn’t think my brother was trash.”

A barely perceptible sneer curves her lips as she carefully avoids my gaze. It’s the most emotion she ever shows. “That was before Laurent showed his true colors. As far as I’m concerned, Chatelains should get dumped in the Mississippi River with cement shoes, like the good ol’ days.”

Rand’s face pinches in disgust. “I don’t know what he ever saw in you.”

“An easy target. But now, I’m a threat. So what do you need?” she defers to Ben, the Bordeaux moral compass. If she asked me, we’d end up gleefully throwing Rand over the railing together.

“Escort him back to his seat in the audience. We’re done here.”

“With pleasure. Come with me, Randy Boy.”

“Shut up,” Rand grumbles, but follows her out as he straightens his lapels and cuts a haughty glance toward me. “I’ve got a soprano to see anyway. Oh, and, since she is technically unaffiliated, I’m declaring her. Consider her a Chatelain. Who knows, maybe she will be one day.”

I’m halfway out of my seat when Sabine closes the door behind her. Ben’s insistent grip on my forearm is the only thing that stops me from stalking after them. My body vibrates, anxious to strangle another Chatelain and remove his pompous ass from this world.

It’s not a new feeling by any means, but I haven’t been face to face with a Chatelain since I was fifteen, and this time there’s a different drive pulsing in my veins. Instead of the steady drumbeat of revenge, something else clashes like a cymbal with the percussive beat I’m used to.

Fear.

My skin crawls. A Chatelain getting inside my head is unacceptable.

“Not worth it, brother. You’ve already given him one message down in the cellars with that bastard Jacques.” I glance to my twin, a dim glow lights his face from his phone. “I’m texting Maggie. Chatelain might want to get backstage. I want her to be prepared.”

I nod once. Our operation thrives on hiding in plain sight, but we never involve innocents. Many of the stagehands are on our payroll since the New French Opera House and speakeasy below are neutral ground. We’ve made a vow to never start anything on the grounds, but we’ll sure as fuck finish it.

Every muscle in my body rebels as I calmly take my seat, deciding to listen to my brother. Ben settles in beside me, and I try to watch the rest of Scarlett’s performance, despite the anxiety welling inside me.

“Do you really think he’ll go backstage?” I ask when the feeling makes it hard to breathe.

“You can’t have her, Sol.”

I flick my eyes in Ben’s direction before dismissing him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Scarlett Day. A woman like Scarlett loves the light. The spotlight to be exact. You’ll have to stop capitalizing on all the rumors and emerge from those shadows you cling to.”

“Relax, brother. I just don’t want an innocent in the firing line. I’ll stick with the eager-to-please tourists you bring me.” The lie burns on its way up, turning my tongue to ash and forcing me to swallow. “She’s nothing.”

“I’ve never seen you so agitated over nothing before,” Ben scoffs. “And I can’t remember the last time you even looked at another woman, let alone spent time with one of the tourists that’s begged for your attention. But the fact of the matter is, if Scarlett Day is affiliated with the Chatelains, she’s off-limits. It’s safer that way.”

In her white-as-snow gown, Scarlett is luminescent as she sings alongside her costar and best friend, Jaime Dominguez. Knowing she has someone I can trust to protect her when I’m not around gives me peace that’s never come easily. But I’ll be there if Chatelain visits her. And if he doesn’t, then I’ll have her all to myself. My cock twitches behind my zipper at the prospect.

“She’s off. Limits,” my twin mutters more insistently.

The left side of my lips lifts up with my arrogance. “We’ll see about that.”

I feel Ben’s eyes on me, studying me, like he doesn’t already know everything I’m thinking. Finally, he answers with a sigh. “I’m sure she’ll be at the after-party at Masque. Chatelain will likely attend just to fuck with you. I guess you’ll have to come out of the shadows, after all.”

A scowl pinches my face, drawing the skin on the right side tight. I fucking hate crowds. Scarlett doesn’t go out like I know she used to, instead staying in to study or practice in her free time. But I’ll be damned if she goes and I’m not there. “I have something urgent that needs my immediate attention once the show ends. Perhaps I’ll meet you down there after.”

I’m not surprised by the knowing, raised eyebrow on what used to be my mirror image.

“Something… or someone?”

I don’t bother with a response. As usual, my brother already knows the answer.