Page 42 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

“Thanks, Axe.” I guide Mercy to the microphone as the faint music of the jazz orchestra rises.

Jax passes Mercy and me a French 75. Typically, we simply toast with champagne, but we’ve done our best to help her see herself in the details.

In less than three minutes, everything will wake up.

It’s all to create the illusion of the hushed code words and dark alleyways that led to the grand speakeasy parties once upon a time.

As the clock counts down, more people pile into the ballroom, the staff handing them each a glass of Dom Pérignon, but it’s as though they’re afraid to speak.

Only a hum of whispers harmonizes with the notes of the instruments.

Maddox steps forward, nudging me and holding out his phone with one of the rooms still working through their puzzles.

“These guys just collected their final clue. They have the numbers five, three, eight, two, and less than a minute and a half to crack the correct order for the combination to unlock the door.”

“Put it on the big screen.” I glance at Axel for confirmation, who chuckles and nods.

Whether this group gets through or not, everyone here will remember them.

With the flick of a few buttons, since we’re always prepared for occasions such as this, the tension from the escape room penetrates our shushed pre-party ritual. And I’ll hand it to our staff—who likely tipped them off—and this group because do they ever fucking deliver a show.

They shout over each other, working through the twenty-four possible combinations, one after another flashing red with an irritating buzz , a two-second clearing penalty, and disappointed murmurs from the gathered ballroom crowd.

With ten seconds left, their voices become increasingly strained and agitated.

“Eight, two, five, three.”

“We did that one already—”

Buzz.

“Fuck.”

“Eight, three, five, two.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Go with that.”

The whole room holds their breath because it’s do or die with three seconds left until midnight.

A flash of green precedes the loudest click of a door unlocking in fucking history and a choir of cheers as they all strut inside, victorious arms waving in the air. Their parties are swiftly ushered in to reunite with them. But the celebratory hoopla is brief because it’s time.

The screen darkens, the lights come up on the stage, the ballroom is temporarily locked down, and the jazz orchestra melts into the background with a tease of the lively swing songs to come.

I raise my glass and tuck Mercy into my side, pausing at the microphone long enough to have the crowd salivating for the toast. “On behalf of my beautiful fiancée, the whole Noire family, and myself, welcome to the fifteenth annual La Lune Noire Prohibition Ball. You are the elite, the invited, the ones who beat the clock, found the gate keys, and conquered the grave. Look around and raise your glasses. Hell must be out of business. All the devils are here.”

And with that, the entire room joins in for my final words, “Drink and conspire,” before hoots and hollers swallow it all.

At five past midnight, the Noire empire awakens.

An array of corks pops to the beat of luxury and success.

Balloons fall. Horns blow. Chunks of metallic gold and black confetti rain from the ceiling.

Fountains of champagne and chocolate stream.

Drinks are poured, and hors d’oeuvres are served.

Our electro swing band kicks the night off with an up-tempo song. Acrobats descend from the ceiling. Fire twirlers occupy the far ends of the stage—courtesy of Jax. Showgirls infiltrate the crowd, and the dance floor fills.

But my eyes are on Mercy and the awe gripping her. Before I can soak that in, Maddox swoops in, hoisting her into his arms and dashing toward the horde of people.

Cash points at me as he swaggers after them. “I told you to watch your girl, old man.” Then he tosses me my wallet and grins like the Cheshire Cat. “You can keep that.”

By the time I catch my stolen wallet, the three of them are on the dance floor. And the scene stills to the cackle jumping from her lips and her seamless movements of the Charleston.

The forward and back shuffle. The swish and sway of her arms. The swing of her hips and hitch of her knees. The fringe on her dress spins around her to create a tornado of elation and erotic fantasies. She is every bit the seductive flapper that would be any man’s temptress.

But it’s so much fucking more. I can’t catch my breath.

Axel pats my back. He was there the first time I taught Mercy those moves.

It was in the house we grew up in, when we were teens.

My mom was so excited, unable to stay away.

She lived for music and the 1920s and celebratory moments.

Eventually, she and all my siblings were swing dancing in the great room with us.

Mercy couldn’t stop laughing. It’s one of my favorite memories.

There was a lot of pain in that house, but that day was perfect.

I can’t peel my gaze away, but Axel doesn’t expect me to.

“That’s my Mercy.”

He clears his throat, understanding the full weight of that statement. “Yeah, it is. She’s still in there, Ryker. She just needs time.”

“No.” I blow out an exhale, trying like hell not to lose it. “All the time in the world doesn’t heal pain on its own. She needs hope.”