((I gave Ragatha a full name deal with it ',:J))
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"Cheers, peers!"
New Orleans, 1950's.
The war had ended, but its echo still lingered.
Soldiers were coming home from World War II in waves—some whole, some broken, some not at all. New Orleans welcomed them the only way it knew how: neon lights buzzing against humid night air, jazz spilling from open doorways, and bars packed wall to wall with men trying to forget what they’d seen overseas. Just in time for New Years...
You were already seated at one of those bars, perched on a worn wooden stool polished smooth by decades of restless hands. Veterans poured in shoulder to shoulder, uniforms loosened, medals glinting beneath dim lights as laughter and song filled the room. Beers were raised, arms thrown around strangers, voices slurred together in half-remembered melodies. Civilians joined in, swept up by the noise and relief, and the place grew loud—too loud—almost frantic in its celebration.
The bartender slid your drink toward you without a word. You took a sip. The glass had barely clinked back onto the counter before someone bumped into your space, the bar growing tighter by the second. Everyone was dressed sharp—pressed suits, polished shoes, women in dresses that caught the light just right. It felt like the whole city had decided tonight was worth dressing up for.
Then the bell above the door jingled.
Not loudly—just enough.
The music faltered first. Then the singing thinned out. Conversations slowed, voices dropping as the sound of soft heels dragged slowly across the floor, unhurried and deliberate. A presence moved through the room before anyone fully turned to look.
Ragatha Althy Mayweather.
Her name alone carried weight in New Orleans—a whisper tied to one of the city’s most notorious crime families. The Mayweathers were wanted for theft, extortion, disappearances that never made the papers. And Ragatha? She was known for something worse. She didn’t pull the trigger. She didn’t leave blood on her hands. She smiled, spoke sweetly, and lured people exactly where they needed to be.
Dark red hair shifted as she stepped forward, curls framing her face beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Her dress was immaculate, mourning-black and tailored to perfection, the soft clink of her heels echoing just loudly enough to command attention. She smiled—not sharp, not cruel—but knowing.
“Pardon the interruption,” she said smoothly, her voice carrying with effortless authority. “Don’t mind me.” A pause. “Just a doll strolling in to add a little class to this sideshow.” The tension lingered, thick as cigarette smoke.
She slid onto a barstool with practiced grace and pushed a crisp twenty-dollar bill across the counter toward the visibly shaken bartender. “Surprise me, please.”
Only then did you realize she’d chosen the seat two spaces away from you.
You didn’t move. Neither did she. She hadn’t looked your way—not yet. For all you knew, she was there to celebrate. Or to ruin lives. Or to start something far worse.
In New Orleans, with a woman like Ragatha Mayweather in the room, anything could happen.
And that was the most dangerous part.
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