Chapter 1: Vapor
The night in New Orleans drapes itself around me like a velvet shroud, thick with humidity and secrets. The air’s a blend of the heady scent of magnolias and the briny tang of the Mississippi River, weaving a tapestry that’s both intoxicating and oppressive. Cobblestone streets glisten under the dim glow of gas lanterns, their flickering flames casting long, dancing shadows that seem to whisper warnings.
I’m not afraid, but I should be.
As I move through the French Quarter, my boots scrape across the stone. Iron balconies adorned with creeping vines loom overheard, vestiges of a bygone era, where elegance once masked the ever-present decay.
Jazz melodies, haunting and melancholic, float through the alleyways, drawing in both the living and the spirits of the dead. Each note carries the weight of sorrow, echoing the city’s tumultuous history.
Fog rolls in from the river, cloaking the city in an eerie mist, blurring the lines between reality and the supernatural. Here, in this city of shadows and light, where the past and present intertwine, darkness lingers at the edges, waiting to seep into the unwary soul.
I shiver, stopping just outside the Bourbon Street Blues Club. The old brick structure, painted a deep, sultry blue, stands out against the neighboring pastel-colored buildings. A wrought-iron balcony adorned with lush hanging ferns and twinkling fairy lights wraps around the second floor. The railings, detailed with fleur-de-lis patterns, add a touch of style to the rustic facade.
Flanking the heavy wooden doors, vintage gas lanterns cast a warm, inviting light onto the cobblestones below. Above the entrance, a neon sign in bold red and yellow letters spell out“Bourbon Street Blues Club” with a musical note flourish, its soft buzz a constant reminder of the vibrant life within. Large, arched windows on either side of the door offer glimpses of the interior, where the silhouettes of musicians and patrons move to the rhythm of the blues.
The soft glow from inside spills out, mingling with the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and the unmistakable wail of a saxophone, making the exclusive club a destination for music lovers in the lively French Quarter. It’s also a beacon for the kingpins of the New Orleans underworld who use the club’s owner, Justin Broussard, to launder their money. He’s the man I’m here to meet.
Just inside the door, a towering bouncer blocks admission to anyone who doesn’t carry a membership card to the club. He looks like he eats an entire cow for breakfast every day before washing it down with two gallons of protein powder.
Fucking meathead.
I approach the man.“Vapor to see Mr. Broussard.”
Fortunately, he’s expecting me, otherwise I have no doubt this jackass would toss me out on my butt.
“You’re early.” The bouncer crosses his arms over his weathered leather jacket. The edge pulls enough to reveal the flash of chrome from a gun wedged into the waistband of his jeans.
“I like to make a good impression.” I smirk.
He grunts before stepping out of my way.“He’s in the booth in the center near the back.”
I brush past the guy, intentionally too close just to piss him off. A low, menacing growl rumbles behind me. I suppress a laugh. There’s no point in starting shit when I’m here for something far more important.
As far as I know, Broussard’s the key moneyman for several underworld organizations. Fang, the tech guru of my motorcycle club, spent months tracking electronic funds through offshore bank accounts. It wasn’t easy, but Fang’s an expert at all that nerd shit.
Based on what he found, all roads lead back to Broussard. If I can get in with Broussard and convince him to launder money for the club, I’ll be one step closer to taking down my club’s real enemies.
Los Serpientes de Cristal, my actual target, is a Mexican drug cartel who set up shop in my back yard. A few months ago, they shot up my clubhouse and killed a bunch of my men. I’m going to slaughter every last one of them and watch their blood flow through the streets. Only then will I be free of the guilt I have about the men I lost.
Stepping into the club is like walking into a living, breathing piece of New Orleans’soul. The dim lighting creates an intimate atmosphere, while the soft glow of candlelit tables casts flickering shadows across the room.
The walls are adorned with vintage jazz posters and sepia-toned photographs of legendary musicians, their faces frozen in moments of pure passion. Rich mahogany wood dominates the decor, from the polished bar that stretches along one side to the plush, red leather booths that line the perimeter.
A curvy Black singer stands on a red velvet-draped stage near the front of the room. She croons a well-known blues song, captivating the audience with her smoldering notes.
The air’s thick with the scent of aged bourbon and the faint, smoky aroma of cigars. Tantalizing wafts of Cajun spices spill out from the kitchen. My stomach growls. I ignore it. Food can wait. This meeting can’t.
I spot Justin Broussard holding court in a booth. He’s in his early fifties, but still has the muscular build of a man dedicated to both physical and mental discipline. His hair is jet black, kept short and immaculately groomed, with a few strands of gray at the temples that add to his distinguished yet menacing look.
His face is chiseled and angular, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline, covered by a neatly trimmed goatee. His eyes are a piercing green, cold and calculating, always scanning his surroundings with a predatory alertness. A controlled, icy smile that never reaches his eyes plays across his face.
Dressed in a dark gray suit with a red silk tie and matching pocket square, he projects an aura of understated elegance. His attire is impeccable, signaling his attention to detail and his desire to project an image of power and control. On his wrist, he wears a luxury watch, a subtle but clear indication of his wealth.
Several young women clad in slinky cocktail dresses lean toward him, giggling at something he said. When he spots me, his smile drops, and he whispers something that sends the women scattering.
“Mr. Vapor.” His voice is authoritative, with a hint of a deep Southern accent that adds to his aura of mystery and danger. Women love that shit. No wonder he’s drowning in pussy.
“Mr. Broussard.” I return his firm handshake with one of my own.“Forgive me for not wearing a suit.”
