Page 28 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)
RYKER
M y brothers and most who know me well harp on my inability to rein in my emotions, claiming I’m a bulldozer, a loose cannon, prone to my heart ruling my decisions.
That’s a bullshit, narrow-minded viewpoint. I think I’ve done a fan-fucking-tastic job of controlling myself around Mercy lately. As Axel suggested, I let my beautiful girl come to me—or for me. Same.
Pulling up my tracking app, with the heart monitor feature that her bracelet provides, only solidifies how impactful every part of our night was.
My girl was untethered, alive with erratic heart palpitations for the best damn reason.
Every dramatic peak on the graph reads like a victory climb.
And that’s aside from the glorious memories of her coming on my tongue, falling apart around my fingers, and the sight of her so damn sexy in my T-shirt and boxers.
Every second is officially emblazoned in my DNA.
Best fucking night of my life. I will come in my pants for a taste of that delectable pussy as often as she lets me.
No fucking shame. I didn’t even wipe away the sticky mess because it is a welcome reminder that I finally held her in my arms the way I’d fantasized about for years.
My hard-to-get-dick strategy is on point. She’s hungry for more.
And I haven’t killed anyone for drooling over her. That should earn me a damn medal.
Still … in my personal life, that ruled-by-emotions theory tracks.
In business, nothing could be further from the truth.
Indifference toward my enemies—or anyone who crosses me—is the only route to sound judgment. Rules are fucking rules.
My first stop is in our medical ward.
Back in the days of Prohibition, alcohol couldn’t be smuggled in through the front door. It required back alleys, tunnels, miles of hidden passageways so authorities were always left scratching their heads, wondering where the hell the deliveries were coming from.
Our bootlegger routes are still maintained.
We use them for our high-end members who may need to seek emergency care or immediate asylum for any number of reasons.
As long as the violence didn’t occur here, we assist without question or penalty.
It’s our safe harbor policy. In the area that was once a receiving post, we now have our own urgent care.
There are limitations, of course. But when a hospital isn’t an option, our concierge staff is an impressive alternative.
What I don’t appreciate is paying a visit down here because a knife fight occurred in my resort.
I scan my thumbprint and enter, barking at Dr. Landry before the door has even closed behind me. “What’s his status?”
“He was lucky. He suffered minor kidney damage, but I think we got to him in time. Vitals are stabilizing. I’ll be monitoring him closely for the next day or so.”
That’s enough information for me to pay a visit to his family, which is also the reason for my next question.
While we don’t deal with this type of situation often because our clientele knows we keep our word and would prefer to avoid the grave, those we harbor struggle to restrain their tempers, especially regarding three areas—women, money, and power.
“Do we know the catalyst for the attack?”
Landry shakes his head, pissed before he speaks the words. “A girlfriend.”
Both assholes are married, so they went to blows over an affair. In my goddamn establishment. If this guy survives, maybe his wife will kill him.
One can hope.
I wave my thanks, hunt down the family to give an update, and make my way to counting room two.
Our chief of security, Kane, is manning the door. He’s no-nonsense, immediately apprising me of all I need to know. “Evening, sir. The physical altercation was one-sided. Other members and guards jumped in promptly. Only one member violated the agreement.”
That’s all to inform me that the guy in our hospital doesn’t need to die if he survives because he didn’t strike first, nor did he retaliate. No breach of our covenant.
Still, I probe further because there is one scenario that would shift the fate of our detainee. “Was the girl in danger, being harmed?”
“No, she’s fine. A willing participant with both men, and from what I gathered, treated very well by both. She floated between them. They suspected, but this was the first time they were here at the same time. She came with the injured man.”
“Well done,” I commend him, grateful he was so thorough in his investigation, but this is where I take over.
Kane often handles disposal for us, but he doesn’t partake in the retribution delivered in counting room two.
We have enough shit on him to be certain he won’t defect, but my brothers and I don’t trust anyone to conduct our business.
Bargaining is a natural step in this process. Others can be bought.
If we want someone dead, we kill them ourselves.
I punch in the code and strut inside. He’s strapped to a chair, and though he knows what’s coming, he still gives it one last college try.
“She was fucking off-limits!” he wails. “I warned him. The asshole fucked her anyway and was smug about it. You understand, man.”
They always appeal. And it never matters.
If this were his wife that he was talking about, I would be hit with a dose of remorse.
I’d get it. I’d relate, knowing that I’d have done worse to any motherfucker who took what was mine.
And then I’d kill him. Because none of that sways me.
Permitting violence here will rob everyone of their safe haven.
As it stands, I loathe cheaters. We’re only as strong as the bond of loyalty we have with those we consider family. If a man honors it, he’s invincible. If he severs it, he’s nothing but waste.
My father was a two-timing bastard, breaking my mother’s heart. So was the other asshole she loved. Countless lives ruined because they couldn’t fucking commit.
Ashes and lies.
So, while remorse wouldn’t stop me from doing what needs to be done, the lack of it sure makes this easier.
Raising my Ed Brown Kobra Carry .45 ACP, which is fucking gorgeous—it’s their signature edition, sleek and adorned with a beautiful, engraved scroll—I aim it at him, extending the only response needed before I fire. “This is business. Rules are fucking rules.”