Page 12 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

MERCY

R yker’s charisma makes anything coming out of his mouth sound like the answer to all of life’s problems and an offer you can’t refuse at the same time. It’s one of the reasons he’s so successful.

Still, when it’s only him, I can hold my own. Or I could when I was me .

But that is an unattainable feat in the presence of the Noire brothers, their entourage, and their twenty armed guards.

Remy is wrapped around me, excited and somewhat taken aback. That doesn’t stop Bernard from tugging us into a hug. His hold is firm and reassuring and, for the briefest beat, maybe even shaky.

“We’re going to take good care of you now,” he says, with both his customary compassion and formality. His gray hair and kind smile set me more at ease.

And that is the secret ingredient of the La Lune Noire experience that no one can ever quite put their finger on.

They cater to the crooked and calculated, nefarious people who do wicked things.

So, you’d expect the establishment to have a chill in the air.

But you’d be wrong. I’ve lived a lot of life, and I’ve yet to find a place that exudes this warmth.

It’s baffling. And addictive.

Gentry is next, but he’s aware of the stampede barreling toward us, so his kind greeting is swift before he retreats to instruct some bellmen to gather the boxes and luggage.

And then it’s the brothers. All of them are gorgeous slices of unholy mischief.

Jax kisses my cheek, and when Remy’s eyes gleam at the sight of his pale blue hair, gauge piercings, and rainbow body pictures , he steals him from me.

It’s for the best because Maddox picks me up and swings me in a circle. “Fuck, I missed you, girl. You as a blonde is dangerous . Lucky for you, I never play it safe, and you still owe me a date.”

That makes me laugh. When he was fourteen, a few months before their parents died, he asked me out.

He was a cocky little shit even then. I told him I’d consider it someday when I wouldn’t get arrested.

I went away to college after that and didn’t return for a few years.

Maddox was all grown up, embracing his Noire privileges .

He told me he’d outgrown his crush on me because I’d always be Ryker’s girl, even if we were only friends.

But then he flirted with me in front of Ryker any chance he got to piss him off, which was pretty funny.

“I’ll see what I can do.” My eyes flit to Ryker’s, whose are brimming with amusement and possessiveness—nothing new—before I volley with Maddox. “You might be of age now, but I’m engaged, so someone getting arrested is still likely.”

Maddox guffaws at the absurdity of that, sweeping back a strand of onyx hair that’s fallen loose from his man bun. “No worries there. Cops are on the payroll.”

I’m sure they are.

Cash swoops in with his own all-encompassing hug, a glint in his mischievous blues as he sets me down. “You got here just in time for some trouble.”

I slant my head, throwing back a teasing, “When you’re involved, I’d say that’s anytime.”

His smile is pure mayhem as he proudly confirms that assessment.

Axel clears his throat, garnering my attention.

Stoic as always, he simply holds out his arms. And that’s the move that breaks me.

I saunter over to him, guilt, sadness, and comfort all warring inside me.

But that warmth I mentioned—the warmth that infiltrates all of La Lune Noire, the warmth their mom passed on to them, the warmth that has always made them feel like home—curls around me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, resting my head against his chest.

In the turbulent months after I buried my parents, Ryker was my rock, and Axel was the one who kept him steady.

In the calmer years that followed, Axel became a guide and a friend.

And when I awoke in the hospital after being beaten, other than Ryker, Axel was the only one who interacted with me regularly.

He was distraught. Seeing me that way wrecked him, not in the same way it did Ryker.

But Axel senses things. And while he hurt for me, I think he also knew his brother’s best friend was gone—long before I was erased.

I have no doubt that Axel has been doing a lot of steadying since I took off.

“None of that. We’ll figure it out. We’ve all missed you so much.” He squeezes me tighter, rubbing my back, before finally lifting my chin to him and gently thumbing away a rogue tear. “You’re home for good now.”

And like any godfather-type, he says more with one sentence than most could express with a dissertation. That is both a promise and a warning. Protection and captivity. It’s also precisely why, when my world fell apart, I longed to stay here, but knew I needed to run.

“C’mon.” He kicks his chin toward the entrance as his sapphire eyes float to Ryker and I motion for Remy.

Ryker sidles up beside me with my little guy, who is jabbering on about everything, but primarily captivated by all the body pictures since the youngest three Noire brothers are covered. He’s going to be nagging me about getting a tattoo for the next fifteen years.

We step inside a private corridor for the penthouse elevator that leads directly into their suite. It’s different from the one accessible within the resort. That’s where they receive personal guests. This is reserved for them—the family entrance.

Bernard holds up a bracelet as we ride to the top of the North Tower.

“May I?” he asks, reaching for my wrist. Once I offer it, he clicks a diamond-encrusted electronic bracelet on me.

“That is your key to all things Noire, so you are not wholly reliant upon me or”—his crinkled brown eyes skate over the guys, and he chuckles like a proud grandpa—“them. Drinks, dinner, shopping, entrance, offices, you name it—that provides your access.”

“Thank you, Bernard.” I smile with sincere appreciation because I know he’s intent on helping Remy and me feel at home.

When Remy lifts his wrist in the air, the entire group laughs, but Bernard is prepared.

“Ahh. I thought you might want one.” He pulls a black one out that has cars, planes, and trains on it, and Remy squeals while he straps it on.

A moment later, the doors open. Bernard and Gentry remain in the elevator, and the rest of us trudge into the penthouse family room.

I always loved this area. Few guests were welcomed back here.

Much like the key to the kingdom they gave me, this always felt like the peek no one else got.

It wasn’t special because it was the type of exclusive glimpse of the Noire family that a magazine would be thrilled to have though.

The beauty was that they were relaxed, casual, real.

Like Ryker was in my kitchen this morning.

One of my favorite details is the black-and-white photographs.

They have them all over the resort—snapshots of La Lune Noire guests and events, some as far back as their Prohibition days.

But these are of the family, all six of them growing up and so many of Leslie, their mom, whom I adored.

Most were taken here since the majority of their pictures had been lost in their house fire.

Meshed with the Art Deco decor, it renders the space sentimental and historical.

They tow me from room to room, as if I require a tour after all these years. But when we get to the one set up for Remy, I realize I do.

“How did you …” Words fail me.

Remy runs in circles, vrooming his stationary motorcycle, tooting the horn on his toy train set, which weaves around the ceiling and down to the floor, and bouncing on his car bed with Jax.

Maddox and Cash are right in the mix, pointing out Hot Wheels replicas of the vehicles we saw in the garage. Remy is in awe, barely blinking.

“We wanted him to love it here,” Ryker says as if this is no big deal, and maybe it isn’t because I get it. Money doesn’t faze them. But this is so over the top and personal.

I nod along, trying to hide my overwhelm. “I’m sure he will.”

He peers at me for a stretched-out minute, clearly seeing through the armor I’m intent on donning, until his features soften. “Can I show you something else?”

“Sure,” I agree, though I’m confident that anything else might unravel me. This is wonderful and stressful … confusing.

He guides me to a room a few doors down, which I know to be Rena’s.

It’s a palace for their little princess, who isn’t so little anymore, I suppose.

And she no longer lives here. But it feels like her, and I love that.

The magenta-and-black color scheme is bold but elegant, as are the accents—black-and-white checkered couches, a huge mirror framed in shimmery gold, and a black-and-crystal chandelier.

“We didn’t change the decor for a few reasons, so you’ll have to deal with pink.

But I gave Amy your sizes. You remember her.

She’s our head personal shopper and stylist.” He swings open the French doors to a walk-in closet that is larger than my living space was in Sinclair and is filled with suits and dresses, jeans and tops, purses, shoes, everything imaginable.

“You’ll be ready for work or whatever else we do. ”

Pinning my lips so my mouth doesn’t gape, I wander through the space, my fingertips trailing across the decadent fabrics and various shelves, my lungs empty. “Ryker, this is … I could never wear the same thing twice for months. And months. Probably a year. This is too much.”

His face remains impassive, voice casual. “Nothing is too much. It’s part of the agreement.”

“I didn’t see anything about clothing. And I don’t understand how you managed all of this in a day.”

“We have enough people working for us that we could construct a castle in an afternoon.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “It was the clause about providing all essential tools, accommodations, and necessities for you to adhere to the contract.”