Page 52 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

RYKER

T he ma?tre d’ pales. Most would consider us New Orleans royalty, even those outside our establishment. But fear is not the same as reverence. Both the staff and the patrons at this hoity-toity country club certainly view me through the lens of the former.

“Get me Nolan.”

His gaze briefly darts to Maddox, standing by my side, before it returns to me. “Right away, sir.”

We follow him through the drab old-money hallway that reeks of pomp and circumstance because I’m not in the mood to wait. Their wise members instinctually scatter in our rear.

Maddox sticks out like a sore thumb, which I appreciate. At six-five, he’s got an inch on me, and even in his tailored black suit, his presence is menacing. Like a thug ready to street fight.

I blend in better. But something about that unsettles them more.

Nolan is the operations manager and the owner’s son. He does a double take when he sees us coming. His past cooperation is the only reason we’re cruising by his office first.

Flashing a wad of twenty thousand dollars for Nolan’s trouble, I don’t bother slowing down. His office is in the hallway before the dining lounge I’m headed toward. Announcing my arrival and paying for the intrusion are a courtesy, but this isn’t teatime.

He rises and scurries after us, pocketing the money when I hand it over. “Do I need to clear a room?”

“Headed to the lounge. We only need table twelve.”

“Understood.” Like an obedient dog, he scampers ahead of us, shooing people out as smoothly as he can.

Former governor Monroe Montgomery is having lunch with some colleagues at a round table. All of them know who I am. A few are our members. Monroe was too at one time.

His back is to me, but his lunch buddies see me coming, and it’s impossible not to notice the way Nolan and his staff are discreetly ushering guests to other rooms.

But no one utters a word of warning.

Instead, I bestow it. With his steak knife speared through his hand and a greeting in his ear. “Good afternoon, Governor.”

As if he’s been expecting this day, he mutters a slew of curses, his eyes bulging as he stoically wheezes through the pain, which effectively clears any remaining guests from the room—aside from table twelve.

His ruddy complexion morphs to a putrid green, but to his credit, he holds himself together. As do his colleagues.

Eventually, his brown-hazel eyes rise to mine. Questioning. Assessing. Wondering why Maddox is here too. But he’s speechless or respectfully declining to speak first, and I decide I like that as much as the blood oozing out all over the pristine white tablecloth.

“Did your balls shrivel up after you sent that goddamn email, motherfucker? Got nothing to fucking say about that asinine request?”

He furrows his salt-and-pepper brows, his breaths shallow and craggy. “What email?”

I know this man. I interrogated him at length over Dalton and what had happened to Hailey Holden. I learned what the shadow of guilt looked like on him as well as illuminated confusion.

Everything points to him not having any idea what I’m talking about.

Still, I prod to be sure, squeezing the back of his neck until his shoulders lift to meet the pinch. “The one about my . Goddamn. Family. That you typed with those fucking fingers.”

His face blanches. The sterling silver hilt of the knife looms above his upturned, crimson-stained palm, reflecting the midday sun glimmering through the windows. His slightly curled fingers are dead, except for the index incessantly twitching.

He shakes his head in my grip. “I didn’t.”

I whip out my pistol and caress his temple with it. “But you knew they were back?”

His chest shudders from fear or perhaps the pain in his hand. “I heard.”

“Was your computer stolen?”

“No.” That comes out like a scoff, almost as if he wishes he could tell me it had been.

“Do you have an assistant?”

“Not since I retired.”

I lower my face to his, noting the oversize pores brimming with sweat. “Does Mrs. Montgomery have access to your computer? Or was your email hacked?”

Another headshake, this one stilted by the awareness of the gun. “No and no.”

“And you didn’t request to see them?”

“You made it clear I shouldn’t.” He lifts his chin, remorse written in every crease. “I’m glad they’re safe, but I … I wouldn’t …”

Fuck. What the hell is going on?

My attention flicks to Monroe’s five associates as I straighten.

“No need to stop enjoying your lunch on my behalf. I will be asking a series of questions. If you have nothing to contribute, you eat. If you know the answers, you share. And if you choose to keep anything from me, you’ll choke. Understood?”

All of them nod or murmur their understanding as they pick up their forks.

Maddox twirls his Karambit knife with a sickening grin.

He’s a billboard for the criminally insane, which is the only instruction I gave him for this outing.

And he’s nailing it. Some of these men are connected and wicked in their own right.

But their association is with The Order.

That’s the hide-in-plain-sight brand of crime, committed by upstanding citizens who are highly educated and prosperous in their careers. They prefer not to brawl.

I direct my focus back to Monroe. “Trafton was killed. Know anything about that?”

His shoulders droop. He’s seemingly relieved that I believe him and we’re onto something else. “He was my lawyer, so I was notified this morning.”

That tracks.

I briefly scan the others, all stuffing their faces, before countering the simplicity of that answer. “He was part of The Order too.”

The three men at the table, who also belong to The Order, shift their eyes up to mine with a plea to not disclose their association.

That could get them killed. Secret societies fail when they aren’t secret .

I’m in the know because they leveraged that to be La Lune Noire members, which is permitted.

My reputation would be shit if I went around exposing them.

Instead, I point my gun at the two who aren’t associated. “Get the fuck out of here and never speak of this.”

They slide out their chairs, resist the urge to run or piss themselves, and stride away.

My wrath returns to Monroe as my pistol finds its rightful place on his temple again.

“Trafton tried to tell me something before he died, which was around the same fucking time I got that email from you. He wouldn’t talk to my brothers, so the only thing I can figure is that it was about what’s mine.

You have a vested interest in my fucking family, you were Trafton’s client, and you were both in The Order. Tell me what the fuck that means.”

Monroe’s eyes widen in alarm. “To me? Nothing.”

This asshole is no help, beyond me realizing he’s as lost as I am. Although there is one area he might have information in.

“Any idea who Dalton would have called for help the night he hurt Mercy?”

He contemplates that for a minute, searching his mind. “No.”

I twist the knife in his hand until he’s writhing and breathless, the serrated edge grating the flesh and muscle and tendons. “Give me more than that.”

He won’t be using that hand ever again, but I’ve got no sympathy for the former governor. That’s his digging hand too. Poor Hailey Holden was in the ground for years before her family found justice, thanks to his help.

After several pants, a rumbling growl, and some drool, he calms himself.

“Other than the time I stopped by to visit … the baby, I didn’t see him much then.

He knew how ashamed I was, and he cut me and his mother out of his life.

I felt like he’d gotten mixed up with the wrong people along the way.

But, from the outside, it didn’t look like he had any acquaintances or friends that were an obvious … asset for that type of situation.”

That’s essentially what Ty’s team and I found too. Nothing adds up. And yet I feel like I can see things weaving together, one fraying thread at a time.

Someone is fucking with me and using Mercy to do it.

Confident Maddox is enough of a threat, I start to pace around the room, hoping it brings clarity. “Would Dalton’s relationship with Mercy or what he fucking did to her or the goddamn phone call he made have anything to do with The Order?”

Monroe dabs at his wound with his cloth napkin, sopping up the blood. “Dalton wasn’t a member of The Order. His values didn’t align.”

Ahh. Because they have very strict rules about the treatment of women, much like KORT—the cabal they’re associated with.

“So, you ousted him?”

He nods, the shame of a failed parent cloaking him. “Yes.”

Another thread. Maybe.

I halt my pacing, locking my eyes on the four men to gauge their reactions. “Dalton knew Mercy’s father had been a member of The Order, as well as what one of his assignments was. And he didn’t find out from her. She had no idea.”

Bewilderment paints them all.

Monroe rubs his forehead. “I don’t know how …”

And I fucking lose it.

“I’m so fucking sick of hearing that you don’t know shit! There is a connection here. I want to know what it fucking is.”

My blood is boiling. I’m so goddamn frustrated.

In an effort to release some of it, I kick a chair at one of the abandoned tables, the place settings filled with half-eaten meals crashing to the floor with it.

A melody of clatters from the broken china and shattered glass blares through the space.

I grip my hair and scratch my head with the end of the pistol, aware that I’m dangerously close to killing them all.

“He’s about to blow.” Maddox states that so matter-of-factly, not a fucking care in the world, as he twirls the blade that could shred them all in seconds. It certainly ups the insanity vibe. “You’d better give him something if you want to leave alive.”

They all gape, dumbfounded.

Finally, one of the guys—Roger, I think—speaks.

“It does seem like there’s a connection.

But if there were, we probably wouldn’t be able to make it.

That’s not how The Order works. We get assignments, but we aren’t permitted to disclose them to anyone.

We also aren’t able to decline involvement if another member needs our services, which means we often don’t know what we’re involved in. We’re just a cog in the wheel.”

I guess I get that. The leaders of The Order aren’t much different than we are.

They’re puppeteers. Having people, who are otherwise pillars of their communities, carry out dirty work that has nothing to do with them and no motive associated with them throws investigators off the scent.

It’s the way they thrive. Much like how we form unlikely alliances for our advantage.

Axel is connected to the leader of The Order through KORT, but having him dig into this will only put Mercy on their radar beyond being part of Axel’s executive staff. I don’t like that idea. It looks to be a dead end anyway.

Basically, it boils down to me needing a simpler way to figure all this shit out.

Trafton.

Fuck. Why didn’t I stop for two minutes to see what he needed to tell me?

That was the best night of my life. I’ll forever cherish every minute with Mercy before, during, and after the Prohibition Ball—till the damn old folks’ home. But I may have fucked everything up by not simply slowing down and doing my damn job.

“Fine.” I move back toward them, attempting to tamp down some of my frenetic energy. “Trafton is my answer. Tell me what you know.”

“He was among the best of us. Loyal,” Monroe supplies. “He wouldn’t have been involved in causing harm to any woman.”

That much I knew. Despite his underhanded dealings, he had a lot of integrity. It’s why he was one of our most esteemed members and why he was present at the ball.

One of the guys, who has been mute for our entire conversation, looks to be in his late sixties.

He wipes his mouth. “We don’t likely have what you’re looking for.

But Trafton had a group he confided in. There were eight of them.

If he was struggling with something, conflicted about whether to clue you in, he either took it to the grave or told them. ”

“Get me their names.”