Angel’s Promise by Aleatha Romig
Emma
The SUV emerged from the tunnel into the evening traffic. Above us, colors filled the sky as the setting sun sent its last rays of the daylight up toward the low-lying clouds, turning the normally cobalt blue to a spectrum of crimsons. My stomach twisted as knots formed on knots, a gaggle of nerves.
I’d imagined that it would be freeing to leave the mansion. Ever since Rett’s promise last night of a tour, thoughts of New Orleans swirled throughout my mind. I’d truly only seen a very small bit of the city the day I arrived with Ross. As we were driven north on St. Charles Avenue, I couldn’t ward off the uncertainty.
After so long within the protective walls, I had the sensation of a butterfly emerging from the safety of the cocoon. My wings wanted to stretch, yet I was unsure.
What if they wouldn’t carry me?
What if I fell?
Rett reached across the seat and gently covered my hand. “You’re shaking.”
I quickly shook my head. And then for a moment, thoughts of the city streets beyond the vehicle’s windows disappeared as I stared into the dark orbs I’d come to know. “I’m...sorry.”
“I believe we’ve had multiple discussions on apologies.”
“This isn’t life or death. I wish I wasn’t apprehensive. This isn’t me, Rett. I came down to New Orleans to have a business meeting with someone I didn’t know. Now, leaving the house with someone I do has me uneasy.”
“No, Emma. After what happened to you, I should have insisted we get out sooner. I’m guilty of wanting to keep you safe.”
Tucking my lip behind my teeth, I looked through the windows. “What about now? Is this safe?”
Rett lifted his chin. “We have Leon and Ian here with us and at least ten others stationed around the city and the restaurant.”
My legs trembled as the high heels of my shoes burrowed into the carpet. Looking down at my lap, I saw the black skirt of the dress I’d chosen as well as the small clutch with a few important items for a date, such as lipstick and the like.
I turned to Rett. “I’m being silly. I know I’m safe with you and Ian,” I nodded toward the driver. He was the same man who told us about Judge McBride. “...and Leon.” I turned my hand over so our palms were touching. Rett’s fingers encased mine. “I’m anxious, but I’m also excited. When does my tour begin?”
“Now...”
I listened to Rett as the SUV slowed in traffic and he pointed out landmarks. Our home was in the Garden District, the Eleventh Ward. Leon drove us into the business district. The Central Business District wasn’t what I thought of when I thought of New Orleans. It was filled with high-rise buildings, boutique hotels, bars overflowing with people, and office space.
In the French Quarter, he took us down to the Mississippi riverfront. The walkway was bustling with people, and artwork, and on the water, large riverboats with paddle wheels were all lit up.
For a moment, I was concerned that we were going to get out of the SUV and walk. And then when we didn’t, I wrestled with disappointment. I’d never been an anxious person, and whatever had happened to me, I didn’t like it.
Rett kept my hand in his.
“My father,” Rett said as we again drove, “was an advocate of history. New Orleans is filled with history, factual as well as fabled. He believed it was important to understand where the city came from and the people who built it, in order to understand where it is today.”
“That makes sense.”
“You asked about the safety of our underground garage. All New Orleans residents keep flooding in the back of our minds. My grandfather had only recently passed away when Katrina hit in 2005.” He shook his head. “The greatest tragedy wasn’t the hurricane, a category three when it hit landfall. Though the winds and storm surge did produce damage, the real devastation occurred with the aftereffects. Levees that had been constructed a long time ago and left to deteriorate failed.”
I recalled studying Katrina. Suddenly, hearing the information come from a man who was here and who loved this city, what had been only statistics took on new meaning.
“As a point of reference,” Rett said, “New Orleans has flooded six times. Before Katrina the most recent was 1969. The average elevation is about six feet and much of the city is below sea level. The levees along the river were strong. It was the ones built to hold back Lake Ponchartrain, Lake Borgne, and the bayous to the east and west that failed. Before the storm hit, our fathers encouraged the mayor to send an evacuation order. It was the first ever. Not all the residents had the ability to evacuate. It was your father’s idea to utilize the Superdome. Times of mutual peril can bring about common goals.
“The entire greater New Orleans parishes were affected. Some of the most horrific flooding and loss of life occurred in St. Bernard Parish and the Ninth Ward. Even today in these areas you can see the Katrina crosses left by FEMA.”
“What are they?” I asked.
“FEMA went house by house. They painted a big X. In each of the four quadrants they left a code: time FEMA arrived, and then clockwise, what hazards were found, victims, and last, what team entered or didn’t enter.”
“What happened to your house?”
“No one escaped damage. Mother Nature doesn’t care how much money you have. However, for the most part the Garden District and French Quarter are above sea level. It spared us from the aftermath of the flooding.”
Rett tilted his head to the side of the street. “We’re now in the Third Ward. While I appreciate my father’s knowledge as well as knowing the history I just told you or that of that church over there, it doesn’t prepare you to understand the current dangers such as the Byrd Gang.”
“What is that?”
“They are a who. As my grandfather aged and your grandfather passed, my father and yours established their divide of the city, the wards. Generally speaking, it was the mid-1980s. The city was growing in popularity as not only a tourist destination but a location for long-term business. The Central Business District was booming with construction of tall office buildings. There were numerous avenues for revenue. The two of them were smart and took on all businesses, not only the ones building the skyscrapers.”
“What do you mean?”
“While there’s much to be gained in construction and establishing fees, the biggest business endeavors that I oversee are the dangerous ones that don’t hang a shingle. The Byrd Gang is one of the larger organizations in New Orleans. The New Orleans police gang unit has labeled them one of the most murderous gangs in town.”
“And you work with them?” I asked.
“They serve a purpose. We have an understanding. My father began the partnership when the gang originated in a housing development north of the Business District called Magnolia Projects. I’ve maintained most of my father’s contracts. The issues came when your father passed without a successor. For example, in the Ninth Ward, the prominent power is the 39ers Gang. They’re a hybrid of sorts. The Upper Ninth Ward’s G-Strip and the 3-N-G, a drug clan, joined forces. Your father worked hard to keep their turf from turning into a site of continual mass casualties. He was a significant force in orchestrating their current amalgamation. However, since their allegiance was to Isaiah Boudreau, there was resistance when I took over. We’ve since come to an agreement, but Kyle has been working to undermine that.”
I sat back against the seat. “Why are you telling me all of this?”
“Because your presence with me reinforces my hold. I want you to rule with me. I’m not asking you to barter deals in the Lower Ninth or even be in the presence of dangerous people. Simply an address or a ward number doesn’t label the entire population. New Orleans is also comprised of hardworking people who simply want to survive.” He gently squeezed my hand. “You, my dear, are not ready for the danger that coexists. However, it’s important that you know that organizations such as the 39ers and Byrd gangs are here.”
From the architecture, I believed that we’d made a circle and were now back in the French Quarter.
“For you to fully understand how important your presence is, you need to realize the razor’s edge that we walk daily to keep this tourism” —he pointed to the filled sidewalks— “as a revenue for our city, as well as the offices full of workers who call the greater New Orleans parishes home. It’s a balancing act that I’ve managed to maintain. In the last year, your brother has been working behind the scenes to undo what I’ve done.”
“And I can help? How?”
“By being you, claiming your lineage and standing with me. You can do more than help; you can solidify our hold on New Orleans.”
It was a lot to process. The imagery my husband described was as he’d said, dangerous, gritty, and unnerving.
Gangs and deaths.
Drugs and racketeering.
Legitimate businesses and homeowners.
And yet what I also heard was Rett’s desire was to keep all the different worlds balanced. The world that tourists and some residents didn’t see as well as the world they did.
Peering out the window, the street looked familiar. “I recognize this place.” I pointed to an open gate to a courtyard. “That’s where Ross and I went. We’re near where you and I met.”
Rett nodded. “We are. Tonight, we’re dining in the Central Business District across Canal Street at Restaurant August. Along with Broussard’s, where we dined” —his dark stare shimmered with lust, twisting my core— “or I dined on an exceptional delicacy, Restaurant August is one of my favorites. I know the owner and was granted a special treat as this is my honeymoon.”
I supposed it was mine too.
How long did that last?
Rett and I had spent the last three nights of our marriage apart. I’d accepted his gift of the key and he mine of the blindfold, yet neither had been put to use. It seemed that we had two speeds when it came to intimacy—slow and full-throttle.
They both had their benefits. During the slower times, we talked and shared more. During full-throttle, our attention was focused on the physical.
I appreciated Rett’s patience, which I believed exceeded my own when it came to slow. However, this was our honeymoon and I was ready to speed things up again. Before leaving the house, I informed Ian that upon our return, I’d be back in my suite on the second floor. He assured me that when we got back to the house, all my personal items would be back where they belonged.
The SUV came to a stop at the corner of Gravier and Tchoupitoulas Streets.
Rett spoke as I stared out the window. “This is one of the older buildings in the Business District. It’s a nineteenth-century French-Creole building. There has been a recent turnover in chefs; nevertheless, they create some of the most unique dishes in New Orleans all focused on Louisiana ingredients.”
Ian exited the front seat and opened Rett’s door. A warm evening breeze fluttered my dress as I stepped out onto the sidewalk with my hand in Rett’s. Flags flew above the entrance as lights angled up to illuminate the building and streetlights came to life.
My high heels clicked on the sidewalk as we approached the opening doors. The hostess either knew we were coming or recognized Rett. Either way, as she introduced herself to me, Yvonne was lavish with her welcome.
The large dining room we passed was absolutely stunning with large chandeliers, gleaming hardwood floors, stately columns, and mahogany paneling.
My peek was quick as we were whisked upstairs, away from the other diners.
“The chef’s private tasting room,” Yvonne said as she led us into an equally opulent yet smaller room. “As you asked, Mr. Ramses, we have replaced the normal table with one more intimate.” She smiled my direction. “Congratulations on your nuptials, Mrs. Ramses.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, Yvonne,” Rett said as we entered the private dining area.
The table they had waiting was not unlike Rett’s standard fare, white linen tablecloth, red linen napkins, a silver vase with a single rose, and two glowing candles. Once we were seated, Yvonne relocated an ice bucket on a stand, from the wall to us, revealing a chilled bottle of champagne.
“Compliments of Restaurant August.” She smiled. “It isn’t every day we learn that New Orleans’s most eligible bachelor has married.
Rett reached for my hand across the table as he nodded. “Thank you again. And please convey our thank-you for the privacy.”
