Page 40 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

RYKER

A jittery game-day energy pulsates through the penthouse. No words accompany it. Just a melody of blood, sweat, and thrill.

The click-clack-rattle of Maddox’s butterfly knife.

The crisp flutters and snaps of Cash’s card deck.

The jangle of the seven-sided dice in my palm.

A soulful rendition of “House of the Rising Sun,” Axel’s dress shoes tapping on the marble floor as he spins his luck on his Casino Tourbillon watch, and the brush and swoosh of Jax’s matches.

This is our goddamn Super Bowl.

The five of us are gathered in the family room, dressed in our all-black tuxes.

Rena joins us virtually via a wall monitor, soaking in the music.

Floor-to-ceiling windows flaunt the glowing New Orleans skyline—our backdrop before any important evening.

A Picasso painting that my mother would have loved steals the show on the opposite wall, along with our black-and-white memories that didn’t go up in smoke.

And a silent accolade from her cloaks us all.

My father ruled with unforgiving fear. Under his regime, there were squelched deals, lies honored, backs stabbed, and memberships revoked for inexplicable reasons.

He was an asshole, but a successful one. Still, no matter the big business strides he managed, his days were numbered. Even his best friends didn’t shed a tear at his funeral. The line to behead him would have wound around the resort multiple times.

From the outside, our hard-and-fast rules might seem similar.

They aren’t. Our members understand it’s for their own protection and the prosperity of this coveted community.

And those who behave accordingly, frequent our establishment regularly, and become trusted patrons and pillars of our empire are rewarded.

Axel and I started the Prohibition Ball when I was twenty-one. It was our way of formally changing the vibe of La Lune Noire.

Black-and-gold invitations are hand-delivered by courier one month prior.

The chosen are almost never the same. And there are no guarantees.

The arrival of that sought-after envelope earns them access to the affair, but doesn’t gain them admittance to the opening ceremony at midnight.

Puzzles and tasks must be conquered first. Those who pass join us. Those who don’t enter later.

Then we party till dawn.

Everything about this event sells the same lure of exclusivity, prestige, and clout that the most successful upscale 1920s speakeasies did.

In one night, we set the tone for the year—brokering unexpected relationships, brandishing our unique value, showering them with an experience they can’t find anywhere else.

Even those who don’t attend will hear tales about it, salivate over the possibility of being a welcome guest, and do what it takes to reap that reward.

My father’s legacy was terror. Ours is built on fortune.

The final notes of the song that always kicks us off resound, and as if on cue, Mercy’s heels clip-clop from down the hall.

She wanted to give us those few moments together as a family.

I chose not to argue, to insist that she belonged.

Not after the hope she dangled before me this afternoon, only to rip it away in the next breath.

She might have reclaimed her old name and be donning my ring, but Alice the runaway is ever present. I’m realizing no matter how hard I fight for this, it won’t go anywhere unless Mercy chooses to bury her. Until then, she’ll never truly be mine.

But I requested that she not miss the tribute to my mother, and it seems she’s choosing to comply.

We all stand as she rounds the corner in a wine-colored, diamond-studded minidress.

It hugs her sultry curves, has a high halter neckline, which wraps around her throat, and fringe that drapes her shimmery thighs.

Her pouty lips are the same berry shade.

Her dark blonde locks are looped up in the back with wispy curls framing her angel face.

Her big brown doe eyes are lined and smoky.

And her long-as-fuck legs are sex in heels.

My brothers and Rena offer cheers and whoops. But my breath is stolen. I picked out the dress, but my imagination was sorely lacking because this is … a vision of everything life and dreams and heaven should be.

Her gaze cruises around the room, finally parking on me.

I’m not sure what she finds, but her head tilts slightly, as if she’s reconciling something within herself, a melancholy smile tipping one side of her mouth.

Her eyes brim with all she’s still carrying, and her throat works through a swallow.

If I had to guess what she’s thinking, I’d venture it’s a sort of goodbye.

Ignoring how that slices through me, I clear my throat and kick my chin to the waiting glasses. “Time for our toast.”

Regardless of her urge to bolt or inability to envision us beyond the pain of the past, she’ll honor her contract. And tonight is by far the most important plus-one occasion we’ll have.

Axel pours us all Louis XIII de Rémy Martin Black Pearl Grande Champagne Cognac.

Rena utters the first words to break the non-speaking portion of the evening, like she’s done most years.

“Hot damn, girl. The blonde hair and that dress—you sure bring the sex appeal to that crew. It’s about time my brother put a ring on your finger.

I can’t wait to see it.” Her exuberance wanes, a crack in her voice fracturing her final sentiment. “Miss you all so much.”

Mercy blows her a kiss and says what we’re all thinking. “Miss you too, sweet girl. It’s not the same without you here. I’ll save the rest of my gushing until I can hug you.”

They’ll need to catch up more than that eventually, but now isn’t the time.

Jax swallows the torment he feels due to Rena’s absence and puts on a brave face for her. “Got a drink, sis?”

“No cognac drinkers here, but I swiped Wells’s Macallan 18.”

“Does he know?” Axel chuckles, no doubt recalling the countless times she snuck into our stash. Child-rearing in a resort and casino poses its challenges.

“Yeah.” Her chin wobbles, a quaver in her answer. “The whole family is here with me.”

She pans the camera over all of them—her husband, Ty, and the other three couples she lives with in a huge French chateau in their unconventional arrangement. They warble a chorus of hellos. The shift of Rena being theirs to watch over now is overwhelmingly apparent in the simple gesture.

For a still beat, my brothers and I are quiet. She’s happy, but the loss is palpable nevertheless. Especially now, because this night, more than any other, always belongs to my mom. And Rena was the baby girl she had waited for and got so little time with.

Mercy sashays the rest of the way to me, threading our fingers. She leans into my ear, her voice hushed and raspy as she squeezes my hand and clinks her glass with mine. “Everything’s better with cognac.”

That sentimental response is part lingering-best-friend compassion because she knew and loved my mother and part the dutiful fiancée role. I’m not sure it even matters. Having her here and not fully in this is a torture I’d choose again and again over being separated.

I won’t pretend that’s enough for either of us though.

My gaze trails her body, tracing every delectable curve before rising to her parted berry lips and finally those fiery forest-brown embers.

“Always. It also doesn’t hurt that you look like sin and seduction, wrapped up in a pretty bow, just for me.

Remember whose you are and behave tonight, or I’ll be forced to fuck you in front of the room to remind them. ”

My witty girl is briefly at a loss—a rarity I count as a victory.

She might believe she can’t surrender to this, but I sure as hell won’t be making it easy for her to turn her back on it.

And everything about her shouts that she’s aroused—shallow breaths, pebbled nipples, dilated pupils.

There might even be a hint of drool at the corner of that pouty mouth.

Eventually, she smiles—a bit too saccharine to be genuine—her hand flattened over her heart. “Aww, if only your lovely mom could see us now.”

Unaware of our exchange, Axel chokes back the monumental emotions this event was founded upon and starts us off.

“As we embark on a night that changes who the Noires once were because of the woman who gave her life so we could rewrite our legacy, let’s raise our glasses to Mom.

” He pauses until we all comply before extending the honor of the toast to one of us. “Jax, would you do the honors?”

We always quote the final words of my mother’s favorite artist, Pablo Picasso, so the resident artist is a phenomenal pick.

Jax brightens, flashing a cheesy grin at Rena, who giggles, before he tips his snifter to the painting and the wall of pictures that houses our nostalgia. “ ‘Drink to me, drink to my health, you know I can’t drink anymore.’ ”

“To Mom,” the room erupts in unison before swilling the cognac we only bring out once a year.

As if that broke a spell, spirits lift, and chaotic chatter ensues while we extend our goodbyes to Rena and her family, quickly check on Tessa and sleeping Remy, and head out.

Our first stop is a private dinner while we watch our guests arrive and strategize to make it into the opening ceremony.

We always host on a Tuesday evening because that’s our slowest night, so we book very little aside from this.

The emptiness offers endless options. There are numerous conference spaces surrounding the ballroom, and each of those has been transformed into an escape room.

At eleven o’clock, a representative for each invited group will be matched with several others—generally those we feel would collaborate well together—while the rest of their party waits and views their challenge on screens set up in pre-event bar areas.

When the representatives escape, their entire party is admitted.