Page 14 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

MERCY

C haos is the only word that could adequately describe what I’m witnessing.

The Underground primarily occupies a large auditorium beneath the North Tower.

There are poker tables in the corners, a few bars, a stage, what appears to be a fighting ring, and a roped-off area that will undoubtedly be utilized for something interesting. Probably the squealing pigs.

Hoots, hollers, music, and toasts abound.

It’s all wholly different from the classy establishment that thrives above with hushed secrets and quiet corner meetings.

One of their speakeasies—The Corpse Reviver Cabaret—has a similar feel, but that’s more of a burlesque experience, a wild show. Here, everyone participates.

On our way, Cash had us swing into their conference and banquet center. It’s an area I’d never been to. Still the same Art Deco ambience, complemented by pearls and lace rather than the beads and penis drinks from Bourbon Street.

It serves as a soft introduction for prospective associates.

Established members who are professionals from the business world, not part of organized crime, have a more challenging time sharing all La Lune Noire offers without ousting themselves.

So, holding a convention allows them to pique the interest of those who may be candidates with an innocent sample of the amenities.

Those who have a palate for corruption will beg for a peek behind the curtain.

That information was both fascinating and disturbing.

I have officially joined forces with the other side.

Choosing not to dwell on that, I simply enjoyed the adventure. Otherwise, I’d have curled into a ball, contemplating how disappointed my parents would be with all my life choices.

Cash was master of ceremonies tonight. Every conference is kicked off by a different Noire brother—a glimpse of one of the wizards—giving a toast. Nothing starts until they arrive.

Tonight’s group was Veteran Business Owners.

Cash, Maddox, and I waltzed in, and a hush fell over the room.

With our drinks in hand, Maddox and I waited off to the side while Cash took to the microphone.

His tousled blond hair stood out against his navy sport coat and the hint of ink peeking through his unbuttoned collar.

He looked every bit the part of a royal Noire.

Without any formal greeting, he raised his glass to the room, his face poised with all the veneration the group merited, and he launched his toast. “A soldier’s home is on the land.

A sailor’s home at sea. But a whiskey glass and a stripper’s ass are home sweet home to me.

Welcome to La Lune Noire. Drink and conspire. ”

To say it landed well would be an understatement.

The Veteran attendees erupted in cheers, applause, and swigs.

Cash strutted away like a pro athlete fleeing the madness of a postgame frenzy, linking his arm with mine to tow me out of the room and handing me a black rose that he’d bloomed from God knew where.

With a gleeful yet single-minded focus, they led me to the employee hangout.

While I’m familiar with many unique methods to be granted entrance throughout the resort, I was never invited to the Underground.

We dipped into a vintage library lounge.

At the back of the room, hidden by a shelf, there was a door marked Librarian’s Office, No Admittance .

To the right was a light switch that Maddox flipped three times.

The door unlocked, and once we were inside, he scanned his thumbprint.

And here we are.

Now, Maddox is onstage, microphone in one hand, drink in the other, kicking off these festivities with a vastly different vibe. “What’s the number one rule of the Underground?”

The entire room raises their drinks and shouts in unison, “Never tell Axel or Ryker!”

An unexpected laugh bursts out of me. I love that rule way too much.

“Number two?” he bellows.

The audience chants as one in response, “Nothing’s more exclusive than Noire Underground!”

Maddox jumps into a recap of the greased-pig trial they held last night. It seems they had to rework the number of pigs and competitors because someone had lost a tooth. No one appears to be concerned about that, but I decide I’ll be an onlooker more than a participant at these events.

“Everywhere I Go” by Hollywood Undead blares from the speakers.

The roped-off area is transformed into lanes, and employees with numbers pinned to—or painted on—them wrangle a piglet behind the starting-line tape.

Animal activists might be pissed about this, but they’d be relieved to see the pigs are in control.

They’ve already got a wiggly edge on the humans, and they aren’t even lubed.

“You’re back. And a sexy blonde at that.”

I twist in my high-back stool toward the raspy voice to find Tessa.

She worked in the piercing shop before I left and was also friends with Rena, though I think she’s only four or five years younger than me.

I never interacted with her much. She’s got a don’t-fuck-with-me energy about her, which I admire.

Silver hair, greenish-blue eyes, doll-like ivory skin, and of course, piercings.

“Hey, Tessa.” I stall for a second, conflicted as to whether this is a go-in-for-a-hug situation, but ultimately settle on my brightest smile. “It’s good to see you. I got back today.”

She assesses me, her eyes scanning my entire body as she takes a seat. “Good.”

One-word answers always mess with my head. I simply can’t believe all the thoughts had in that moment fit so compactly.

But I’m saved by Maddox announcing, “Grease your pigs,” through a megaphone.

“Is this normal?” I ask.

Her eyelids and shoulders droop in unison, as if that inquiry disappoints her. “Does any of this look normal?”

“Fair point,” I concede.

She taps the side of my glass. “Drink up. I suck at small talk. Why are you back?”

With nothing being what it seems and so much said between words lately, I appreciate the directness.

So, it pains me to lie, but I suppose that’s what I’m here to do.

“A few reasons. I’m working on a project that Axel needs me on-site for, and Ryker and I are engaged, so I’m staying in the penthouse. ”

“Hmm. That’s either the world’s fastest courting or the longest. You’ve known each other since you were kids, but …” She sips her cocktail, shaking her head when the race ensues and there is immediately a head-on collision and two lubed-up, free-running pigs that evidently outsmarted the boundary.

A chorus of oohs rings out, along with some guffaws and orders for the remaining contestants to keep their heads in the game and for those watching to catch the pork escapees.

“Fucking morons,” Tessa mutters before turning back to me. “Best thing to do if things are fuzzy is fuck with him.”

That catches me off guard. “Fuck with who?”

“Ryker.”

“I’m not opposed, but why am I fucking with Ryker?” I take a drink of my espresso martini, realizing the extra jolt of caffeine that inspired me to order it was unnecessary with so much stimulation at every turn.

For a beat, she appears as exasperated with me as with the swine, but then she storms ahead.

“This engagement is new, even with your past friendship, and it’s Ryker.

A goddamn Noire king. Get the upper hand right out of the gate.

Don’t let him pull all his alpha, controlling bullshit.

If you haven’t fucked yet, that should be easy since he’s celibate. ”

“What?” I gasp, spitting the mouthful of my martini back in the glass. “Ryker—celibate? No way.”

“That’s what I hear.” She shrugs, but then situates herself sideways, her face serious and compassionate.

“I generally stay out of the rumor mill. I hate gossip. There’s nothing worse than a Sunday knitting circle, where everyone drinks lemonade and basks in tales of lives more screwed up than theirs. ”

“Got it,” I assure her, and I do get it. Maybe not with the same urge to poke someone’s eyeball out with a knitting needle, but I also hate gossip. Except in this particular instance when she’s discussing Ryker and his utterly foreign sexual habits. Here, I support it one hundred percent.

“Right.” She nods, as if she were privy to my internal justification. “But I … well, I heard what happened to you.”

As if she summoned Dalton’s voice from the grave, it crashes into me as violently as the toe of his shoe did. “It was all a lie. They weren’t who you thought, and he knew it.”

And the window of everything I was shatters all over again. How many shards can she see?

Tessa raises her palm, likely noticing the color draining from my face.

“You don’t have to confirm or deny. There’s some truth to those rumors.

It’s none of my business what it is. But you deserve to be fawned over.

If anyone does, you do. So, regardless of that massive rock on your finger, whether you’re engaged—or engaged —”

“Why the emphasis on engaged ?” I scrunch my lips together, curious how I fumbled this ruse already.

She rolls her shoulders back, her Caribbean blues glimmering with mischief above her cocktail. “I pierce, and I know things.”

“Well, don’t keep the cat in the bag.” I waggle my brows, urging her to cough up the goods. “You know Ryker is celibate?”

She laughs, the amusement gracing the apples of her cheeks. “I’m not entirely certain about that particular cat . Could be. Makes sense. Point is, you should make him chase you. Make him suffer a little.”

That’s the last thing I want, so without giving details, I simply refute her plans. “He’s already suffered—”

“Fuck. That. Never enough.” She twists back and points toward the race, where a shiny, bare-chested guy with a red number nine painted on his pecs holds a golden-pig trophy over his head, cheering.

“What doesn’t break ’em makes ’em stronger.

” She grins and lifts her drink. “Do your fucking worst, Mercy. Badass bitches make badass alpha-holes better.”

I nod along, eating up this dose of feminine rage. I’m not sure it fits me, but I’m not opposed to trying on some of the accessories. “You’re mean. I could use a mean friend.”

“Then we’re a match.” She wags a warning finger at me. “Just don’t make my list.”

God, I missed how eccentric La Lune Noire people are.

“What kinds of things make your list?”

She glances around the room, ticking several things off about the idiotic activities, the whiners, the volume, and some random tirade about the absurdity of labeling a glass half full or half empty. “Shit makes me angry,” she explains before, “Oh, and Maddox. Always on my fucking list.”

That’s intriguing. Maddox is arrogant and menacing at times, but also sweet.

He looks the part of a villain with his onyx hair, wintry eyes, and neck-to-toe tattoos, but that seems to work for him.

Although I also have an inside glimpse of the Noire family.

They’re different with each other than they are with others.

And Maddox is currently spinning a Karambit knife around—part warning, part entertainment. Maybe there’s a valid reason he’s on her list.

“Cathartic,” I muse.

“You have no idea.” While still a tad brittle, that’s the most upbeat she’s been. “You should try it, but ease into it with a list of questions. Not answers. That comes later.”

“Questions?” I parrot. “What kinds of questions?”

“Start small. Maybe why Ryker opened an employee day care when he did, after putting it off for years, or more importantly, would the answer matter to you?”

The implication thunders with the bass of the music, but it’s one I’ll likely ignore.

While I’m an avid researcher, I’m not in the habit of asking questions unless I’m prepared to accept the answer.

Even as a lawyer, I’m aware it’s sometimes advantageous not to know.

And every cell of my being tells me this is best left untouched.

But it couldn’t hurt to find out if she has the goods.

“Do you know the answer?”

“Me?” She pops her shoulder, plucking our empty glasses from the table and sliding off her stool. “I just work in the tattoo and piercing boutiques. What would I know? And like I said, I don’t fucking gossip.”