Page 16 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

RYKER

S till watching her, I whip out my phone to send a text to the new one I gave her. She kept the burner, which is fine. It’s like a security blanket for her, knowing she can escape. The mere thought has hurt and anger swelling in my veins.

Sometimes, when I get back to the penthouse at night, I find her in bed with Remy, both sound asleep and snuggled up together. And it hits me, this twisted pang of jealousy. Not for what they have. But I look at them and know they’re mine, and I don’t know if they’ll ever see me the same way.

It makes me wish I’d been the one to kill Dalton, that I’d given in to the urge and done it the day she told me she was pregnant and moving in with him. Instead, I did everything the way she wanted, and she looks at me like I failed her.

Choking that down, I swipe a text. It’s far easier to keep my explosive emotions under wraps behind a screen.

Me: Remy is with Axel, watching Cars. Again. I’m headed out to do my evening walk-through soon. There’s dinner for you in the fridge.

She picks her phone up, and a soft smile blossoms on her beautiful face. I want a million more.

Before she responds, I send the picture I took of Remy sprawled out on Axel’s lap, his huge stuffed bulldog tucked under one arm and a fistful of popcorn in the other hand. Axel is relaxed. He’s always thrived in the guardian role.

But I can’t let him have all the praise, so I send a selfie I snapped of Remy with me in our rooftop pool that I forgot to send this afternoon and one of us cooking dinner.

We made chicken enchiladas. There was more salsa and cheese on him than in the casserole dish. He also snuck at least ten chips.

Me: He’s an excellent sous chef. Creative, not afraid to get his hands dirty, and willing to sample. He earned the movie.

She laughs at that one—her head falling back slightly, eyes crinkling—before she responds.

Mercy: You’re just diving right in. Ambitious. What happened to ramen noodles being five-star cuisine?

Me: He’d still wholeheartedly support that.

Mercy: He filled up on chips and salsa?

Me: Of course. But he ate some rice and a few bites of enchilada, so it was a negotiation.

Mercy: Sounds weak to me. He also swindled popcorn out of the two of you. Who’s running the show up there?

Me: Who do you think? The little boss.

Mercy: How long have they been watching? Do I have time to meet Amy at the Blind Tiger for a quick drink? I got tied up here, so I’m running behind.

Most of our employees aren’t permitted to drink, eat, or play in the exclusive areas, but Amy is married to Vander Floros—one of our long-standing members—so she straddles that line. We trust them both, and it’s worked out fine.

Me: They started the movie about a half hour ago. You’ve got time. Have a drink and enjoy yourself.

She shuts down her laptop and packs up her purse, all while sending a talk-to-text reply.

Mercy: Thanks. I won’t be long. She’s been asking me all week, and I kept putting it off. I’ll text Axel so he knows. Have a good night.

And that’s how it’s been. Easy. Polite. Cordial. I’m adept at wearing a lot of hats, but cordial is my least favorite.

Certainly with Mercy. We’ve never been polite. That’s one of her best traits—she’s real.

Ashes. Oak. Champagne and delusions.

I shut down my own computer, shrug on my suit jacket, and slink through the family room for one more peek at Axel and Remy. Axel lifts his phone to notify me that he’s been in touch with Mercy. And I head out for my walk-through with Gentry.

Every evening, he waits near the elevator on the main floor at seven thirty, after compiling updates from all the department heads, who are required to check in by seven with a daily report. He’s ready whenever I show up. It’s a good system.

When the doors slide open, Gentry greets me with a nitro cold brew coffee. I take it, sip my evening jolt of caffeine, and proceed directly to the high-rollers hallway, careening through the crowd gathered in our dimly lit members’ lobby.

The aesthetics are reminiscent of an upscale bootlegger’s lounge—tufted leather furniture, geometric gold-plated crystal chandeliers, bookcases, and bar service—with the aroma of debauchery and vanilla, vintage paper and celebratory spirits.

The joy of new beginnings abounds, whether that be a brokered deal, an evening out, or reconnecting with a familiar friend.

The area tends to serve as a rendezvous point, which makes it ideal for me to gauge the temperament of the guests. Axel and I both use this as our starting point.

As I cruise through the main aisle of the casino floor, between the tables, I’m looking for anything out of the ordinary. Gentry won’t begin his rundown until we exit the floor because I like to lend my full concentration to observing.

The percussive bells and chings of the slot machines along the border are as much of a theme song for my nightly routine as the jazz music piped through the speakers. It keeps me alert, just as it’s intended to do for our patrons.

My primary purpose during the walk-through is to be seen. It is a subtle reminder that we’re always present, always ensuring that rules are being followed, which also lends a sense of security to the staff.

While we aren’t fully open to the general public like most casinos are, where employees tolerate ludicrous situations, such as patrons defecating at a table because they refuse to leave a winning streak—yes, that shit really happens at other places—we still have to be mindful that the staff isn’t thrust into an uncomfortable position.

Since we entertain those who are known for less than ethical behavior, it’s vital our employees have confidence that their safety comes before any menacing behavior or requests from the members.

Here, the customer is only right when they play by our rules.

Our small public casino does deal with some piddly issues, but we firmly refuse service to those who are challenging in any capacity, and our managers navigate that. Gambling is not our highest revenue stream. Our exclusivity is. The house always wins, but we win bigger with our members.

When I’m nearly at the end of the casino-floor aisleway, I toss my cold brew cup in the trash, and our evening pit boss waves me over.

“Table nineteen—Lucas Windsor—down three hundred grand. Visibly distressed but upping his bet. Drawn dead the last three hands.”

I shift my gaze that way, noticing the slump of Lucas’s shoulders. “Tell the dealer to shut down his table. Move Mr. Windsor to a new game, different players, and offer fifty grand complimentary chips for the inconvenience. Do not let him lose any more.”

He nods and saunters off. We also don’t let our members leave with huge deficits. No one wants to return to the place they lost their livelihood. At La Lune Noire, the house wins more by keeping money in the members’ pockets.

Nothing else is out of the ordinary as we breeze through the halls, past the restaurants, bars, theater, shops, and up toward the surveillance room, lively swing music ushering our journey.

“It’s been a relatively smooth evening,” Gentry begins once we’re away from the crowds.

“No convention tonight. The aged beef shipment was delayed again, which has caused some irritation among some of the guests due to menu alterations, but the chefs are rising to the challenge. Consider it handled. The negotiations in Conference Room Three are underway, which I’m told are a great success.

” He scrolls through his tablet. “And … there doesn’t seem to be anything else concerning. ”

I kick up my chin to a couple of stockbrokers ambling by before we take a right turn. “Are you telling me I might actually get an early night, Gentry?”

“It would appear that way, sir.”

“And Maddox and Cash aren’t forcing the department heads to feed you a line of bullshit so they can get rid of me for something?”

As he yanks open the door to the staff-only hallway, his forehead wrinkles, and his response oozes authenticity. “I don’t believe so, but I only know what the managers report.”

An early night would be nice. Maybe Mercy and I could do something normal, like play a game or watch an episode of Friends she’s seen a thousand times or a documentary about some bizarre fascination she’s latched on to.

Something domestic since my fresh tattoo prevents me from partaking in my nightly swim.

Something that won’t have her on edge. Axel’s there.

He could be a buffer so I don’t pounce on her.

“Where’s Jax?” I ask as we step into the surveillance room, just in time for me to see Tessa flipping the bird to the eye in the sky—the ceiling camera—from the piercing boutique.

All employees have a signal they give the camera to let us know they’re safe.

Dealers clap out—three swift claps and open palms—to show they aren’t stealing, which is customary in a casino, but here, it also ensures us it’s business as usual.

If they give us two slower claps, we have our security team on the floor immediately.

Other employees have leeway on the gesture they choose, and Tessa is … pissy.

“Jax is gearing up for another late night tattoo. Oh, which brings me to one other matter,” Gentry answers. “Vander Floros is here tonight with Amy, of course, and his two brothers. One is getting inked, and Vander was hoping he and Amy could take the other to Magie Noire with an unvetted guest.”

My heart jumps to my throat as I whip my head toward him. “A guest? What guest?”

“He didn’t say.” Gentry’s tone is tentative, laced with all the apprehension it should be holding.

“Pull up all the cameras for the Blind Tiger,” I instruct the surveillance techs, and within seconds, I find Mercy on the monitor, perched on a stool beside Amy.

Boxed in by Vander and his brothers.

And I see fucking red.

I’m out the door, slipping into one of our concealed passageways, and sprinting through the narrow corridors.

There are some that ramp up to a stairwell, which takes us to our penthouse.

There are some that lead to our armory—a necessity in case we encounter an on-site war.

I briefly consider stopping there first. But I’m already armed, so I opt for the fastest route to our entertainment area, choosing the back entrance into the Blind Tiger’s storage room.

A barback is the first to spot me, and his face pales. Either seeing the owner climb through the hidden door is alarming or I appear as murderous as I feel.

Brushing past him, I sneak around the corner to get an eye on Mercy, and not much has changed.

She’s sideways on her stool, her elbow resting on the bar top with a beer in her hand—her drink of choice when she wants to be certain she won’t overindulge.

That would possibly set me at ease if it wasn’t for the round of shots just delivered.

Deciding not to shoot the Floros brothers from across the crowded room, I flag down the bartender, tell him precisely what to do, and stride toward the assholes.

“Who the fuck ordered those shots?” I bark, and a hush falls over the bar.

Vander gives me a take-it-easy dip of his chin, immediately stepping backward and dragging Amy and his brothers with him. “It was just a round of J?ger.”

“J?ger?” I spit, glancing at Mercy, who has abandoned her beer and swiveled to face me, utterly flabbergasted—cheeks pink, chest heaving, lips parted. My fists clench with the need to fucking throttle someone for daring to bring her harm. “J?ger upsets her stomach. I get her goddamn drinks!”

One of the brothers mutters an apology as I keep him in my peripheral vision, but my focus is lasered on Mercy. She sees it—that I’m contemplating killing them over buying her a shot, that I’ve finally lost my fucking mind over her. And I don’t think she hates it.

Which is why when the bartender hands me my drink, I grip her chin with my demand. “Open.”

Her pupils blow wide, her jaw falls slack, and the whole damn bar fades away as I swill my French 75 cocktail, lean over her, and spit it into her mouth. Her lips instinctually start to close so she can swallow, but I’m on her too fast.

My hand on her throat, my tongue licking into her mouth, my legs caging her petite frame between my body and the bar top.

I set the flute aside and twine that hand into her hair, wrenching her neck to the side so I have better access.

And she kisses me back with all she’s got.

The champagne bubbles dance with every swipe of our tongues, the bite of the liquor coaxing us into another taste, the tang of the lemon refreshing everything that we once were into something more.

Her hands clutch my suit jacket, tugging me closer. Her mouth moves in rhythm with mine. And she purrs.

She fucking purrs.

“Cognac,” she whispers against my mouth, which makes me chuckle as I press back into her, nipping her lower lip.

My tongue gathers a champagne dribble off her chin from the French 75 that is far more than a cocktail—it’s the embodiment of what we’re meant to be. “Only degenerates use gin.”

She arches into me, her peaked nipples grazing my chest and her pulse thrashing against my palm—proof that she’s in this, that the same current zapping through me is surging in her.

Which is why I can’t cut this off, not even to kill that asshole.

My mouth collides with hers again, an all-consuming fusion, devouring all the shit she’s put me through.

None of it matters if it ends with her in my arms.

She smiles into the kiss, and those irresistible brown eyes—with depths of green and gold and honey-coated memories—pop open. “Filthy gin joints.”

“Fuck,” I hiss, relishing her sentimental response. “You’re perfect. My Viper.”

A heavy beat passes between us, crashing through the intimacy.

“Ryker?” she questions, her voice a raspy siren song, but that’s all she says. My witty girl is at a loss for words.

It was the nickname. One slip too many. I showed all my cards. And that’s the second the tethering I waited two decades for morphs into a union she still can’t offer.

After one more taste, one more quick peck, I pull back and glare at the Floros brothers, who wisely chose not to scatter like a guilty party.

“I spared your lives tonight. This probably goes without saying, but your Magie Noire request is a fuck no . And if you ever even think about what’s mine again, I’ll know, and I’ll end you.

” I peer around at the audience that’s gathered, deciding it’s a decent time to ward off any repeat occurrences.

“New rule. No one comes near her without me present. Don’t fucking test me. ”