Chapter 2 Keller
TWO
Keller
Masking Traditions: Masks are a central element of many New Orleans krewes, particularly during Carnival balls and select parades, allowing members to conceal their identities behind ritual and costume.
Historically, masking reinforced exclusivity and anonymity, blurring the line between spectacle and secrecy within krewe culture.
Gas lanterns flicker along the colonnade, throwing soft light across white marble and wrought iron older than anyone here tonight.
The Krewe of Argentum doesn't do anything half-ass, and their gala venue at the old port ballroom reflects that. Historic, grand, perched close enough to the river that you can smell the water beneath the magnolia blooms.
I adjust my white gloves and tug the mask into place. The silver filigree sits light against my face, secured just enough to stay through hours of conversation and champagne. My white tails catch the breeze.
West steps in with me, no mask, no formality beyond the black suit that makes him look like he could break a man in half without wrinkling his jacket. His hazel eyes sweep the entrance, the doormen, the clusters of guests filtering inside.
"You know," he drawls, falling into step beside me. "You think you're hot shit wearing that thing. I know it's an honor, supposedly, to have a mask. But if you ask me, you look like a douche bag."
I grin beneath the mask. "Ah, dear West, so uncultured. I pity you."
I joke with him. I'm not cultured, either. I just got lucky that my mom was so involved with preservation in the city, and then Dad's growth, that we got in.
"I work with some of the richest people in the world, and I still don't get your world. Masks and white tuxes and weird names."
We move through the entrance, past doormen who nod without asking questions. The foyer opens into a ballroom that could swallow a city block. Crystal chandeliers hang low enough to catch the light but high enough to remind you they cost more than most houses.
The crowd moves in waves, masked members of Argentum gliding through unmasked guests with the ease of people who've spent their lives knowing exactly where they stand.
This is port influence on full display, industries that shaped the city before most people's grandparents were born. That's how we became members back in the early nineties.
The mask isn't mystery here. It's hierarchy.
"How many you think will ask for an invite to your tables before midnight?" West's voice is low and amused.
"Shit. Most of these people live for exclusive invites. You could probably have a hundred of them."
He's not wrong. A seat at the Stone private tables is one of the most coveted invites south of the Hudson River. Exclusive is the important modifier. I don't accept just anyone.
"I prefer quality over quantity."
He snorts. "I guess that's why you're the best."
The room hums with purpose beneath the polite laughter and clinking glasses.
Conversations layer over each other, deals disguised as pleasantries, alliances formed between sips of bourbon.
I've been coming to these events long enough to know the rhythm.
You don't push here. You let them come to you, and they always do.
West shifts his weight, shoulders relaxed but ready. "Anything specific on the menu tonight?"
"Just enjoying the night, West. Chill."
"Right."
I scan the room, letting my gaze move across faces and posture, cataloging who's standing where, who's avoiding whom, which clusters hold real power versus decoration.
A state senator stands near the bar. A shipping magnate by the windows.
Old money talking to new money near the orchestra, both pretending the gap doesn't exist.
This world makes sense to me. The shipping lanes that made my father a billionaire don't. Out there, chaos moves, and Stone Intermodal, our family's logistics company, tries to keep order. But here I know the rules and the players. I know how to read a room before anyone opens their mouth.
West nudges my arm. "What's caught your eye? I can tell you're honed in on something. Or someone."
I am.
Across the room, near the edge of the dance floor, a woman stands with a tall man in a black tux. She's dressed well in a beautiful green dress, but not ostentatiously. Something about the way she holds herself, alert but contained, pulls my focus.
I stop scanning the room and miss half of what West is saying. The way she angles her chin, the line of her shoulders, I'm certain. She's the woman from the Quarter a few weeks ago.
I go still, just for a breath.
She's here, at a Krewe of Argentum gala. I look at the man she's talking to and realize it's Louisiana's senator. I know him and his wife, and she isn't his wife.
West turns his attention to where I'm looking. He doesn't speak at first, just watches.
"Woman by the floor," I say, keeping my voice level. "Chestnut hair, green dress. She's talking to Senator Mercer."
West's eyes land on her immediately. He studies her for two seconds longer than he needs to. "She's a looker."
I don't say anything.
"Keller."
"Yeah."
"She's here with someone."
"I don't think they are together. Look at how they are standing and talking. Plus, I know his wife."
"Well, she's not here alone. If not him, it's someone else."
"I might just have to find out for myself."
"You're a dog."
"Woof."
He shifts his stance, tilting his head toward the crowd with the resignation of a man who's already lost the argument.
"I'm going to the bar. Want anything?" West asks.
I shake my head, focused on the woman in the green dress. The senator shakes someone's hand and starts talking to them, leaving her alone for a moment. I decide to take the opportunity.
West will figure it out. He's a big boy and can fend for himself.
The crowd shifts as I cross the ballroom, parting just enough to let me through without collision.
I keep my pace easy, nothing rushed or intentional.
By the time I reach the edge of the colonnade, the woman in the green dress is standing near a pillar, her glass balanced in one hand, watching the orchestra tune a violin.
I stop beside her, not crowding, angling toward the music instead of her directly.
“I’m not usually an orchestra guy, but they’re kind of killing it.”
She glances at me, probably wondering who the masked stranger dropping a line is. Her hazel eyes catch the chandelier light, sharp and assessing. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t dismiss me either. She turns back to the stage.
“I was actually looking at the woodwork behind them,” she says. “But yes. They’re good.”
I follow her line of sight and admire the intricate hand-carved wainscotting behind the band that climbs all the way up to the wide dentil work around the top of the room.
She turns slightly to face me without moving closer, studying the mask for a beat. Her expression is neutral but focused as she tips her chin slightly toward the ceiling, studying the beams overhead. The chandeliers throw light across old timber and plaster.
“It’s survived worse than this crowd, that’s for sure,” I say, nodding toward the cluster of men near the bar.
That earns the smallest hint of a smile.
“My mom used to bring me here when I was a kid. Before all the polish.”
“So you knew it before it was pretty,” she says. “That has to change how you see it.”
“It definitely makes you appreciate it more.”
She studies me a second longer. Her brown eyes twinkle slightly under the low lights. A strand of hair is out of place and hanging slightly in her face, and I fight the urge to push it behind her ear.
"You're familiar." Her voice stays low, but the certainty is unmistakable. "Hard to say with that mask on. You aren't the man that saved me from certain death on Decatur Street a few weeks ago by chance, are you?"
I don't deflect. "I could be. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing?"
Her gaze flicks to the silver filigree, then back to my eyes. "So you're the mysterious type, huh?"
She takes a sip of her bright orange drink. She lowers the glass slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.
"Not so mysterious," I say. "I just like to read a room before I expose myself."
Her lips twitch. "Oh, you're smooth."
"Honest."
She takes another sip, buying herself a second before responding. The orchestra starts to play. It's something slow and familiar, filling the space so we don't feel the need to fill it.
"So, Mr. Mysterious, can I get a name? I'm Quinn, by the way."
I raise my mask at this point to avoid being the douchey guy that West accused me of. "I'm Keller. Nice to meet you, officially, Quinn."
She blinks, a recalibration happening in real time as she takes in my face fully now, no filigree between us.
I put the mask in my breast pocket and ask her if I can get her another drink before asking what she's having.
"Screwdriver."
"You're seriously drinking a screwdriver? Holy shit, that's amazing. Can I get you another?"
"Hey, I'm a fan of Sunday brunch, what can I say? I'm good right now, thank you, though." She goes back to looking at the architecture, ignoring my reaction to her drink of choice.
"This building is so neat. I've always wanted to come in here. It's the only reason I agreed to come with my cousin."
"Your cousin? Is Senator Mercer your cousin?"
She laughs. "I'll never get used to him being referred to as that. Yes, Nate Mercer is my cousin. He talked me into coming tonight with him."
"He's a lucky guy. I could give you an unofficial tour of the building if you want. Not trying to be weird, but I actually know my way around here."
"That sounds more fun than talking to potential donors, so I'll take you up on it. This was the old port building? I know it's old, but is that right? It almost seems too fancy for that."
“No, you're correct. This was one of the most important port buildings in the country for most of the nineteenth century.” I stop short of telling her that my family is one of the biggest in the business.