Page 55 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

An hour later, we’re tucked into a booth in the reserved area of L’ange Noire with Emma and Bryce.

This is the fancier of the two public restaurants at La Lune Noire.

Aside from the openings maintained for the owners and their special guests, they’re always full.

It draws a crowd for the exquisite French cuisine, the elegant atmosphere, and the peek at what lies beyond.

The Corpse Reviver Cabaret is located below the restaurant, and a portion of the door to be let in is visible to L’ange Noire guests.

The occasional swing of the heavy wood, admitting entrance, without experiencing what transpires within is a mystery that sells.

And while the cabaret isn’t open to the public, it also isn’t a place where members do much business.

So, on occasion, a random table may be offered the opportunity to venture into the coveted entertaining speakeasy.

It brings patrons back again and again, their mouths watering from both the delectable dishes and the chance at an invite.

My nerves dissipate swiftly from the carefree conversation that the four of us immediately melt into and the soothing ambience—candles on the tables, the hum of quiet chatting, instrumental jazz piped through the speakers, and the comforting aromas of butter and herbs, rich creams and crusty bread.

I still feel uneasy about my role, but the one day at a time approach is working.

Emma swoons over tales of the Prohibition Ball and my suite full of dresses all through our meal, and I listen to her detail their wedding plans.

It’s still a year away, but she has a vision, and she’s making it happen.

It’s refreshing to have conversations center on joyful topics, much like they did when she met Tessa and me for lunch.

Bryce and Ryker seem to bond over music, which has always been a huge part of Noire life, so that’s a win. One I hope transcends this duplicitous dinner.

Eventually, during dessert, Emma makes a natural segue into the legal issues Bryce is having, and when she’s halfway through with the story, he takes over for her, filling us in.

“It’s been kind of a mess—and one I’m frankly embarrassed about,” Bryce finishes, pushing his crème br?lée toward Emma.

Ryker and I already investigated his case last night. Of course we don’t admit that, which makes me feel sleazy, but maybe I can put that all behind us since he’s done.

It’s another nuisance case, like what I defended Everett for. Sadly, these can be common for the wealthy. Although this one is far more asinine.

A year and a half ago, Bryce was waiting for the Walk sign downtown so he could cross the street when he noticed a woman fumbling with her purse and crossing too early.

A truck was barreling toward them, trying to make it through the intersection before the light changed, and about to hit her.

So, Bryce pushed her out of the way. There were several witnesses who attested to what had happened, including how grateful she was.

But a week later, she filed a lawsuit against him because she had sprained her ankle when he knocked her down and couldn’t work.

She was a waitress, so being on her feet was imperative.

He reluctantly settled by offering her a hefty payoff, which was something his lawyer, Theo Trafton, had urged him to do.

Everything was fine until she slapped a restraining order on him two weeks later.

Trafton was certain it was in the hopes of getting more money, but told him to simply steer clear of the woman. He did.

But two and a half weeks ago, Bryce and Emma were at a bar with three other couples when the woman walked in with some friends.

Unsure what he should do, he and Emma and one of the other couples approached her while keeping some physical distance, and Bryce asked if she needed him to leave.

She said yes, so their entire party left immediately.

Two days later, he got served for violating his restraining order.

I’d be surprised that the restraining order was issued in the first place, but the judge who granted it is a man-eater.

I actually kind of love her. She’s female rage in a robe, wielding her gavel like a big, phallic fuck off .

But I’ve seen her make some wild rulings because of it over the years.

Of course, as a female attorney, that often worked to my advantage.

But still. I heard she’s on her annual leave this month, so for his sake, I hope his case is heard before she returns.

This is the showtime part of our meal though. So, I help myself to a delicious bite of bread pudding, slap on my Noire queen crown, and do the devil’s work. That’s a tad dramatic. I’m sure it will be fine.

“I don’t take on many cases outside of La Lune Noire work, but if you don’t have anyone stepping in for Trafton, I’d be happy to—”

“I’m sure he has a backup, Merce.” Ryker rubs my back, as natural as ever.

“I do,” Bryce says, “but I appreciate the offer. Roger Sutton is stepping in for Trafton. I don’t know him well, but he’s a buddy of another friend of mine, who also knew Trafton. He trusts him, so I’m sure it will work out.”

Emma huffs, digging her spoon into the crème br?lée as her strawberry-blonde hair falls forward with the exasperation.

“The whole thing has been so ridiculous. We really just want to put it behind us. I know that sounds selfish to even say, considering Trafton and what happened to him, but it’s been a frustrating road since the beginning. ”

Ryker is restless, though he doesn’t show it. But he does ignore Emma to zero in on Bryce. “Roger Sutton, he’s one of my members. I don’t see him much, but I ran into him the other day.”

Bryce perks up with interest, scratching his clean-shaven chin. “I take it, you would agree that he’s a good lawyer then?”

“I honestly can’t say.” Ryker’s fingers needle my thigh, caressing it with what seems to be angst. “I’m sure you’re in good hands. Who is the mutual friend?”

“Garret Moore. He’s a fellow charter pilot and a good guy.

” His gaze floats around the restaurant before he tucks Emma into his side.

“I’ve been meeting with him and Theo Trafton and a few other guys for years.

We’re all really close. The loss … well”—he throws a hand toward Ryker—“I’m sure you felt it since he was one of your members. ”

“Undoubtedly.” Ryker sips his Glenfiddich on the rocks—no French 75 tonight—and squeezes my thigh, alerting me that he thinks we’re onto something. “I had a great deal of respect for Trafton. If you were close, that speaks volumes. And since he didn’t have much family—”

“We were it,” Bryce fills in, and the comforting atmosphere suddenly turns morose.

I swallow the last bite of bourbon bread pudding that my stomach can handle before jumping in. “Do you know who would have had a reason to go after him?”

Emma shakes her head, a puff of judgment escaping her lips. “My opinion is unpopular, so I’ll keep it to myself.”

Bryce pins her with an admonishing glare that says, By voicing that comment, you didn’t keep anything to yourself , though it still drips with adoration.

“I’m sure we all have different views on this, so let me phrase it as delicately as I can.

Trafton was a dear friend, but he …” Bryce trails off, seemingly searching for words that won’t offend his fiancée, who has strong ethical standards, or Ryker, who favors the flip side.

It’s a tightrope walk that no one would envy, but he eventually finds his footing.

“He pushed boundaries with people—clients, judges, colleagues. That kind of thing catches up with you. Not that any of us would have expected this, but …”

That was about as eloquent of an answer as anyone could have given.

Emma probably still heard that Trafton was dirty.

Ryker surely commends that type of boundary pushing.

And I suppose I fall somewhere in between.

Because I can’t cast a verdict on someone without knowing their reasoning.

Maybe there’s far more gray in me than I realized.

But it seems Trafton had the veneration of many. That must mean something.

“And there wasn’t a particular issue or person he was at odds with before he died?” Ryker probes, and the air thickens.

Conflict passes over Bryce’s features before he schools them to bemusement. But I saw it—that flicker of acknowledgment. He knows something.

Bryce raises a surrendering hand before he kisses Emma’s temple. “I don’t get involved in those types of specifics.”

Either he knows and he’s scared to comment—which is fair, considering the guy we’re discussing was murdered—or he’s hiding something for Emma’s sake.

Ryker’s phone buzzes before he can pick apart that response, and part of me is relieved to have a second to breathe.

I wish we could go back to discussing Emma’s centerpieces.

I’m not really a flower person, but the simplicity of something so important to her and yet so trivial in the grand scheme of life and death would be welcome.

“We have to go.” Ryker glides to the edge of the booth, dragging me along with him. “I apologize. We’ll have to do this again. The tab has been taken care of.”

I offer a half-hearted wave and goodbye to a bewildered Emma and concerned Bryce before we’re five steps away and my knees are weak. “Is it Remy?”

“No, baby.” He curls me into his side, petting my head. “He’s okay. I’m so sorry. I should have said that first. I was just …”

“Ryker, what is it? Who was on the phone?”

We’re all the way to the penthouse elevators because his pace is that of an Olympic speed walker, the customary waves of his intensity roaring to a turbulent tsunami.

Bernard has the door open for us. He extends his traditional warm greeting, but Ryker barely acknowledges him, and my smile is taut.

As the doors close with a ping, Ryker exhales. “It was Axel. We were sent a package.”

There are those moments in life when you know the next second will wreck you, when you feel the crash before it happens, the lightning before it strikes, the burn before the fire is lit.

The blow before it knocks you down.

But time doesn’t freeze, so we have to move through it.

“What was it?” My voice is so raw that a whisper would be too strong of a descriptor.

But Ryker hears it like a scream. He looks sick.

“Do you want to know? Because I’m trying to fucking do this in a way we can both …

” He rubs his jaw and tows me out of the elevator, but he doesn’t open the penthouse door.

He grips my chin. “Look at me. I’m torn here between keeping your trust and protecting your sanity.

I’m not sure how to do both. But I also think you may be the only one who might understand the significance of what we received and possibly have a clue as to who the fuck is doing this. ”

The sight of him so untethered has the opposite effect on me than I would have anticipated. An uncanny fortitude coasts over me, swimming in my veins and bolstering me to be the resilient serenity he needs.

“I can handle it. What was the package?”

He hedges, uncertainty staining his features.

Two seconds pass, and Axel swings open the door, his ruffled grimace only enhancing both my unease and my resolve. “Did you show her?”

“Not yet … I …” Ryker stammers, holding his phone in indecision.

This is a glimpse of Ryker on that crimson-stained floor. While my memory is spotty, his is likely as vivid as ever. And I’m witnessing how cutting his own shards are.

I clutch his hand, my thumb sweeping over his skin, my gaze darting between him and Axel. “Show me. We’ll face it together.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swipes his phone on and pulls up his text thread with Axel.

And a sob lurches from my lungs when my brain makes sense of what I’m seeing. “I thought the house was … who could … what the hell does this mean?”

It’s the photograph of Dalton, Remy, and me, the one taken a few days postpartum, the one that still has the blood splattered across it from the first punch he threw at me.

“It’s a fucking message.” Rage encapsulates that reply, though Ryker doesn’t expand with all the wrathful ideas he’s clearly harboring. He wraps his arms around me and kisses my hair.

But I think we all grasp the intent. Someone wants to keep me on that damn floor.