Twelve Mile Limit (The Noire Brothers #2)

CHAPTER ONE

MADDOX

Nearly everything we tell children is an outright lie.

People aren’t more mature after high school.

We do, in fact, bite others. And we like it.

Santa isn’t real. The boogeyman is a guy in a three-piece suit who will shoot you for a late payment.

And coloring and life are better outside the damn lines.

Pushing limits, hurdling boundaries, skirting borders—it all pays off.

Not a fan of working the system? That’s okay. It’s not for everyone.

But the people we put on pedestals—those who make history, those whose bank accounts are the size of a small country—rarely secure that spot by being meek.

They got a seat at that table because they beat down a door.

Or stabbed the guy blocking it.

Rule breakers become just that—rulers.

Lucky for me, obliterating barriers is my personal specialty.

The hatchet sinks into the bull’s-eye with expert precision, and my staff groupies erupt in cheers. This is how we begin our meetings, gathering at the lanes for shooting and such. And we often draw a crowd.

“Every fucking time. That’s a hell of a way to kick off our day, sir.” Brasi holds up a cup of red eye coffee and my butterfly knife—also known as a balisong.

He likes to kiss my ass.

I’m not opposed. It’s part of the royalty gig.

My siblings and I own a resort and casino that caters to the country’s most nefarious groups, a safe haven for the criminal underworld.

There are six of us, my four brothers—Axel, Ryker, Cash, and Jax—and the youngest is my sister, Rena.

She’s married, off living her life, and about to pop twins out very soon.

We operate by our own set of rules, and the people most notoriously known for breaking those pesky things elsewhere fall in line here. When you’re sitting on a gold mine, even other royals are willing to bow.

La Lune Noire is my kingdom.

Most would say we inherited it, so we’re simply reaping the harvest of what our ancestors built. I’d argue that we’ve smashed through some hefty doors and burned others to ash to come out on top. We’ve earned the godlike status. And I have no qualms about indulging in the perks.

“It has been every fucking time, hasn’t it?” I swing two fingers to another employee, Gentry, silently telling him to snatch my coffee and knife as I strut down the lane and grab the hatchet out of the wooden target. “What do you say we make things interesting, Brasi?”

His breath whooshes out, but he keeps his features impassive. “I have no doubt you’d hit the mark, but I’m not sure we have time for that today.”

Smart guy. He saw where I was going right away. I didn’t even need to tell him to kneel. Or get an apple. That deserves an accolade. He certainly exceeds his nickname.

A few years ago, he got drunk at one of our employee parties, right next to the koi pond.

One aggressive roll, and he could’ve been a goner.

His real name is Steve. He doesn’t think I know that, but alas, I am a wealth of knowledge.

Anyway, since he slept with the fishes that night, I figured The Godfather character Luca Brasi fit better.

And I found his reckless stupidity endearing.

He started as my assistant the next day.

Hungover as shit. I worked harder that afternoon than at any time in my life, jogging from one end of the resort and back a half-dozen times for useless shit, just to watch him sweat out alcohol.

He vomited in a lobby plant when he thought I wasn’t looking, but he didn’t fucking quit.

And he doesn’t get plastered anymore either.

I dip my chin in respect and return the hatchet to the wall rack. “It’s those sharp instincts that will keep you from really sleeping with the fishes.”

That’s code for being dead, in case that isn’t obvious.

Gentry’s lips twitch, battling against a smirk. He knows I wouldn’t throw a hatchet at a person’s head. Unless I intended to take it off. Which I don’t because I’m fond of Brasi. Gentry is primarily my brother Ryker’s assistant, but he’s also the hinge between us and them—them being the employees.

Due to the delicate nature of the amenities we extend to our exclusive members, we’re hands-on owners. And the employee-satisfaction piece is my chief domain. Another reason hurling hatchets at them wouldn’t be my best idea.

Since there is truth to the time crunch, I surf my gaze over the employees lingering who do not have clearance to be part of my huddle.

One look, and they obediently scatter as I roll down the sleeves of my button-up and sweep my black hair back into a sexy man bun—not really my words.

From what I hear, sexy is an apt descriptor.

After sticking in one earbud, I start my music and seize possession of my caffeine and cozy weaponry. That’s the go signal.

“Word has it that Smith filed workers’ comp this morning.” That comes with an exasperated eye roll from Bernard, our head concierge butler.

He only joins us when he’s got a break.

Or news to share.

“Nothing lights a fire under my ass like good fucking news.” Casting them a demented grin, I take off. “Let’s walk, gentlemen.”

It’s not good news. It’s actually shit. But I can’t blame Smith for the headache I’m about to have since his bones were the ones cracking.

I twist toward Bernard with an impressive backward swagger so we don’t lose pace. Time is money after all. Or in my case, time is ticking toward my ass chewing. “Actually, Ryker said he took you for a walk this morning.”

He releases a weary breath, too old for this shit. That’s probably why his response is dryer than an AA meeting. “He was likely referring to the dog.”

My nephew, Remy, named his bulldog Bernard. No idea why. But it catapulted that kid to legendary status.

Bernard, the person, was around before I entered the scene.

He worked for my bastard father, adored my music-obsessed mother, and helped my oldest brothers, Axel and Ryker, raise us four younger siblings after our parents died.

I was fourteen and utterly charming, of course.

Still true at thirty-two. If I held my blade to Bernard’s throat, he’d attest to the same.

That wasn’t the point though. The goddamn point is that Bernard is family.

“My bad.” I flick my knife around in front of me, side-eyeing the old guy. “That does explain the comment about you panting though. I was concerned.”

“So appreciated,” he drawls. “But for further reference, I also haven’t pissed in the grass for quite some time.” And that’s what makes Bernard truly special. He’s unfazed.

We duck into a tunnel that will lead us up to the lobby.

La Lune Noire began as a speakeasy in the Prohibition era.

It didn’t expand and get that name until a decade or so later, but those are our roots.

When others stopped utilizing their secret passages and backdoor entrances because Prohibition was repealed, my great-grandfather doubled down.

He became the guy who could host the clandestine negotiations and connect the corrupt.

All the growth since then has clung to those early seeds—codes and secrets and exclusivity.

No doubt what we’ve done with the place would blow his mind though.

My walk-throughs have only one purpose—to scare the piss out of our members and remind them that at least one of us is truly insane.

If you ask me, despite my neck-to-toes tattoos and unsettling eyes, I’m not the one who fits that bill the best. But leaning into that persona is generally a blast. And I tend to just go with things. When they suit me.

Before we reach the main floor entrance, I chug the last of my coffee, toss the cup in the trash by the hidden door, and expel that caffeine boost via an order. “Let’s get this fucking gabfest started. What are you waiting for, ladies? Fill me in.”

Their faces suggest they were discussing something behind my back. More good news.

Brasi takes one for the team, his shoulders slumping slightly. “We’re not sure we can get the twenty thousand pounds of grits here in time for the Independence Day celebration.”

That stops me dead in my tracks. My hand freezes on the keypad that will allow us to enter the luggage-overflow room behind the front desk. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Gentry sighs. “It’s a supplier issue, sir, but we are trying to split the order and find an alternate company.”

“That’s better. I like goddamn solutions.” Punching in the code, I slide the door open, letting the other men go before me. I tower over all of them. At six-five, I tower over almost everyone. “Let’s keep things positive. No one wants to imagine a gritless employee picnic.”

We seamlessly make our way around the stored suitcases and the receptionists, out to the members’ lobby. There’s jazzy blues music piped through the audio system, but I’ve got “Trendsetter” by Connor Price and Haviah Mighty in my ear.

With my current theme song ushering my stride, I flaunt a nimble two-step and a peppy spin, really selling the crazy-coming-through vibe.

Some patrons try not to look, though they always nonchalantly track my knife.

But the dominant dons in the crowd? They wait until our eyes connect, returning my chilling grin. My kind of men.

The lobby has a vintage cigar-lounge vibe with scents of vanilla and aged leather, spice and duplicity. Even at midday, the lights are dim, and the conversations are hushed, so my presence doesn’t go unnoticed.

When Axel and Ryker cruise through here, they’re cataloging every position of our members, noting their associations and purpose for visiting—some come to broker deals while others want a safe retreat with their significant other.

My older brothers like to have all the details so they can manipulate them.

Or create the best experience. It’s all how you word it.