I wanted more.
When it came to ruling New Orleans, I continually redefined my goals to maintain my supremacy. That was what was happening, albeit unexpectedly, with Emma.
Now that I had her, what did I want?
Obedience, submission, loyalty?
Would one be enough or did I need them all?
Was my list complete?
The answer wasn’t clear.
Maybe it was Emma’s lineage that gave her the unique qualities I wanted to explore. Not only was she sexy and smart, but she was so fucking responsive. Damn, she came, her thighs squeezing my head, even before I’d taken my first sip of her juices.
There were stories...no legends, of Jezebel North’s talents when it came to entertaining men.
Was it possible that Jezebel had passed those affinities onto the daughter she bore and gave away?
It was a nature versus nurture argument for another day.
I stilled for a moment at the top of the front staircase to the main level. As sunlight streamed through the stained-glass window behind me, I reminded myself that I was about to meet with one of my staunchest allies, and even so, I trusted very few. Nevertheless, entering the front office with my dick as hard as a rock wasn’t the entrance I wanted to make.
“Thank you, Rett.” I recalled Emma’s sweet voice as the scene around me disappeared.
I didn’t notice the sun casting colorful hues through the stained-glass window or the way those colors danced upon the red carpet centered on the dark wood stairs.
My head shook at the simple discovery. I could lay the heads of enemies at Emma’s feet, overflow her jewelry box with the finest jewels, and fill her closets with the top designers, and she was grateful for sunshine.
How different would she have been if she’d been raised by Boudreau? If she’d been raised as the princess of a king? Would she be more like me, so familiar with the finer things in life that the wealth and opulence no longer registered and too consumed with victory to notice the warmth in a beam of sunlight?
Even though Boudreau and my father shared their reign, it didn’t much lessen their power or spoils of war. My home where I’d lived my entire life was an example of that grandeur. Nestled into the landscape of the Garden District, one of the most affluent boroughs, amongst the homes of lawyers, bankers, CEOs, and doctors, was the mansion owned by the kingpin of New Orleans. It had been that way for generations. I was the first Ramses to rule alone without a Boudreau.
Isaiah Boudreau’s home had also been spectacular; however, it no longer existed.
Also located in the Garden District, the three-story mansion burned to the ground the night of his demise. Many said he started the fire himself, aware that his control had been taken away. Others said he ordered his butler to do it, unable to light the match to take his own life. Neither of those scenarios were what actually happened, but then again, this was New Orleans, the world where folklore was more often believed than the cold, hard truth.
My destination, my front office, wasn’t where real work occurred; it was for show only. It was where people who requested an audience with me received it. In many ways, it was similar to the throne rooms of the British monarchy of old. Comparable to how peasants brought their petitions before the royals, that was the use of my front office.
Reaching the bottom of the grand staircase, I turned toward the double doors filling the arch that led to my throne room. I nodded at another of my men, Henri. His duties included vetting anyone who wished entry as well as monitoring their presence.
“Mr. Ramses, Mr. Michelson said you had an appointment.”
“We don’t, but I appreciate his perseverance.”
Rett
Standing outside my front office, I reiterated to Henri that there had never been an appointment scheduled with Richard Michelson.
“Yes, sir,” Henri said. “I contacted Mr. Knolls when Michelson first arrived.”
I owed neither Henri nor Richard Michelson an explanation of my delay. The simple singular thought of the beauty who’d been the cause would reroute my blood supply in a way I’d worked to quell.
When I nodded, Henri opened one of the tall double doors. With one exception, the room within had been decorated by my grandmother, my father’s mother, nearly sixty years ago. The wood floor, twenty-foot ceiling complete with commissioned murals, intricate trim and crown molding, fifteen-foot windows, and shimmering chandelier never went out of style. If anything, in the world of modern minimalism, the ostentatious opulence spoke volumes.
“Everett,” Richard Michelson said as he stood, vacating an antique velvet chair.
The use of my first name gave me the feel of fingernails upon a chalkboard. There were few individuals who had been granted that luxury of familiarity—this man wasn’t one of them. It was a privilege he assumed had come with time, an assumption that due to history and his position wasn’t necessary to correct.