CHAPTER TWO
RENA
E very solid surface of this corridor is vibrating, as if the jazz musicians in the beloved vintage photographs are alive and well, memorializing a momentous occasion. A salute to the bizarre, lust-fueled exchange. Celebration is certainly in order. Maybe even a parade.
It was a melancholy pulsing at first, a less lively version of the blues, like my body was aware that something was off. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck bolted to attention, urging me to search for the culprit. And that was when I spotted him.
Ty Reynolds is what dreams are made of—tall, dark, delicious. Powerful and commanding.
So freaking sexy. His knuckles grazing my cheek, thumb dusting my hand, cognac eyes brimming with hunger.
Those damn sultry eyes, lined with long black lashes. There are none in existence that compare—deep and intense, but also clinging to hope. His whole look is different, like the world’s nationalities donated all the best features for his creation. Smooth tawny-brown skin. Soft, short brown curls, begging to be entwined around my finger. A strong jaw, lined in a layer of neatly trimmed stubble.
And his chest or … slab of steel. Holy fuck. The outline of his taut pecs through his black button-up was yummy, but the feel of those chiseled muscles against my palms was an experience. A top-notch destination.
I wanted to melt into him, coil myself around his corded biceps, and let him wear me like a winter sweater.
He’s always kept his distance—never even spoken to me if someone else wasn’t in the conversation. Standoffish is an understatement. So, while his easygoing playfulness with Ivy and Celeste has been appealing, it’s never been aimed at me. I’ve oscillated between being offended and honored, wondering if it’s because he couldn’t care less about me. Or if it’s because he cares too much—wishful thinking regarding my seven-year crush, but you never know. The heart has a way of tangling things until they morph into a pretzel of possibilities.
When I was younger, his reserved disposition made sense. I was a kid, and he was … all man . Being dismissed by the men my brothers associated with was nothing novel. It was expected. Until I became an adult and many of those men started to view me differently, much to my brothers’ dismay.
Not Ty though. Never him. He was sweet, polite, friendly, yet distant.
I nearly resolved to forget about him, thinking maybe my brothers would find someone for me who would treat me well and spark a fire inside my bones.
But that brooding, tortured soul Ty donned today speaks to me, feeding a deeply rooted chasmic craving.
I’m officially ablaze.
If anyone understands tortured souls, it’s me. A taste of home.
A savoring I wasn’t fully aware that I was coveting.
I’m not sure what any of that hallway tension was, but it will live rent-free in my mind for the rest of my days .
With “Me and Bobby McGee” crooning in my head, I swing by the sub shop with a skip in my step.
Gerry—the restaurant manager who oversees all the convenient food venues for our resort—holds out my order in a white paper bag with a crown drawn on it. “Here you go, princess. Extra pickles too.”
As I snatch the bag from him, I can feel my cheeks plastered to my ears, far surpassing a smile. “Thanks, Ger.”
He appears to be oblivious to my girlie giddiness, but Wanita never misses a thing.
Gerry’s assistant manager—and one of my favorite girl-talk ladies—peers out from the back, cupping her hands on her face so that only I can see her mouth her question. What’s his name?
I furrow my brows and lift my index finger to my lips, adamantly refusing to divulge that information. I never tell anyone anything personal, except my brother Jax—he’s two years older and my best friend. He’s also a vault, like I am for him.
But Wanita celebrates every pathetic date I’ve ever been on, so I twist my lips in mock innocence. “Am I that obvious, girl?”
She cackles. “Might want to eat something sour before you see your big brothers.”
I wink and wave a don’t-sweat-it hand through the air. “Nah. Nonsensical rants throw them off any scent. At this point, I could fluster the CIA without batting an eye.”
“I believe it, honey,” Gerry bellows as I trot out of the shop toward the elevator, exchanging greetings, inside jokes, and theatrical expressions along the way.
My brothers and I all have a part to play. And this is mine.
At La Lune Noire, I’m known as the Noire princess. My five older brothers get treated like royalty in their own right. But as the only girl—who much of the staff watched grow up—I hold a special role.
And I love it. The prestige. The doting. The relationships.
The staff is my extended family. I never had cousins or uncles or even friends around me. But the head concierge is like a grandpa, and the casino managers are like uncles. Wanita and some of the other ladies who work here might as well be my cool aunts. Amy, the personal shopping manager, and Tessa, the piercing artist, are like big sisters. I could go on. So many of the personnel have a special place in my heart.
It’s both stifling and comforting.
Because there are always eyes on me—exactly as Axel, my oldest brother, and Ryker, the next oldest, have designed it.
Sometimes, I hate the tight rein my brothers grip me with, but it’s accompanied by so much love that it’s hard to be bitter.
And growing up in a resort since the age of six has had its perks.
Like I said, royalty.
One of those perks is the covert tunnel I’m about to enter. The entire resort is centered on a 1920s speakeasy vibe—secret passages and clubs and memberships. Deep pockets alone won’t grant you access. To be an invited guest to the most coveted areas, you have to sell your soul. Or at least be content to have it chained to our family. For life.
But the passageway I’m preparing to sneak through now is at the back of a snack room on the presidential floor of the South Tower. The snacks rarely get noticed because the suites up here are provided with both a butler and a stocked kitchen.
Axel built this area for Jax and me years ago, so only blood gains admittance here.
On a vending machine full of chips and crackers, I press C40—not a true selection—and the wall behind it slides to offer access. I slip inside the shadowy tunnel, which is lit only by the trickling sunrays filtering inside from the exit and a few flickering sconces, and close myself inside. The passageway is narrow, weaving and ramping to take me up a whole level, but I could navigate it in my sleep.
It’s reminiscent of one of those sports underpasses that football players emerge from, where they go from hidden underground to either brilliant daylight or dazzling evening spotlight when they approach the arena. Arriving.
This is my playground.
When I emerge onto the covered rooftop, blinding halos spot my vision. Midday sun can be brutal up here, even with the overhang Axel installed. The April breeze is refreshing though. There’s nothing quite like a Louisiana spring. The city’s perfume gets trapped at this elevation, magnifying the aromas that enliven the spirit—cypress and moss and magnolia trees. Humid, salty air. And the mouthwatering flavor of Creole. It’s all here.
Jax is blowtorching a mural onto one of the high walls—encaustic art is done with wax and paint and heat. It’s his preferred mode of creativity. Anything with fire intrigues him.
The roofs are tiered. This is the second highest, so it has two walls the height of a single story and two that are merely a foot off the ground—parapets. Below those is another tier. It makes for stunning architecture and provides plenty of camouflaged spaces.
Once Jax catches sight of me, I launch into my thrilling high-noon tale. “I just had a Janis freaking Joplin experience.”
He chuckles, flips his safety goggles atop his head of blue hair, hits the joint resting in a tray beside him, and blows the smoke out with a lopsided grin—Jax’s responses are always on a delay, like a field reporter for the news. “By your enthusiasm, I’m going with ‘Me and Bobby McGee.’ ”
Within the lyrics of that song is a definition for freedom. I’ve leaned into various interpretations of freedom over the years, but this is among my favorites.
Nothing left to lose.
Sauntering toward him, I drop the food bag on the table near his ashtray and smile because he always gets me. “Yep. An epic, not-a-damn-thing-left-to-lose moment.”
“Fuck, girl. Spill.” He abandons the blowtorch and goggles, passes me the joint, and digs for his sandwich, beaming when he discovers his favorite. “Cuban,” he drawls, and upon further inspection, he adds, “And extra pickles.”
That wins me a peck on the cheek.
The stench of the pot coils around me with the wafting smoke as we both settle into a shady spot against one of the small barrier walls. I’m not a huge substance user. Everything in moderation is my motto. Jax doesn’t live by the same mantra. But since he’s actively painting, this isn’t his into-the-couch stuff that knocks me on my ass for hours, paralyzed by weighty limbs and heavy thoughts. So, I’m game.
After a quick hit to celebrate my jackpot morning, I flash a cheesy grin and set the joint in the ashtray. “Ty Reynolds held my hand and ran his knuckles down my cheek—”
“The fuck?” The whites of his eyes—well, the pinks of his eyes—glow around the dark-blue rims of his golden-brown irises. “You were with Ty? Where?”
“High-rollers hallway,” I supply, crossing my fingers that he doesn’t ask if Ty was at Magie Noire. The thought of that was excruciating enough the first time. My stomach won’t tolerate discussing it.
He pauses with his Cuban halfway to his mouth while I shovel some fair-style fries into mine. “Just the two of you?”
“Yep. It gets better.” I brush the salt off my hands and reach into the bag for a napkin, too wound up to eat. “He was seriously untethered. But, good God , he was gaping at me like I was … lunch. Or dessert. Or, fuck … I don’t know. Far hungrier than your stoned ass is looking at that sub.”
Jax chuckles, chewing and popping open a can of Mountain Dew he had on the table.
“And …” I stall with a clap for dramatic effect. “He called me Little Moon.”
For some reason, that’s the information that stills him. He drops his sandwich and wipes his face with a napkin. “A nickname? That’s new. ”
My hand smacks against my hammering heart, coaxing the beat to settle to a pace that is less deadly. Pointless. “I know, right? Seven freaking years to earn it, but—”
“Never gonna happen, sis.” He shakes his head, his face etched with concern.
Ahh. He thinks I’ve built this up in my head. That’s why the nickname was a big deal. That’s concrete. Everything else could be a figment of my imagination.
So, I elbow his colorfully tatted bicep, alerting him to the fact that I’m well aware he believes I’ve concocted a fictitious rendezvous. “Jax, I’m telling you, he was different. Unhinged. And interested .” I waggle my shoulders with a swanky you-know-what-I-mean pump. “Not the reserved Ty you know.”
Jax is unamused, maybe even sad. His gauge ear piercings droop with his mood, which has irritation bubbling inside me. I don’t get it. Ty is amazing. My brothers are intent on finding me someone to date who will be trustworthy with both me and our business. Ty is it. They should be pushing us together.
Jax lifts his Cuban again, folding it over to take a bite of the corner. “Reserved almost always means hiding something. Ty’s my bro. But that dude’s got some dark demons.”
He chews, and I seethe.
“Don’t we all?” I counter.
Jax and I aren’t demon-free. None of the Noires are. We’ve all been burned, but much like Ty, we cover our scars.
“Different,” Jax argues, ruminating as he chomps on the remainder of his bite and washes it down with his soda. “The ones afraid to flaunt them are always worse. I’d much rather you end up with someone who outwardly rages. Then, we know what we’re getting.”
A huff tumbles from my lips, but before I can respond, he tacks on, “And no way will Axel or Ryker go for it—not after the dress shop.”
I’ve never shared my crush on Ty with anyone other than Jax. It always felt like something I should save for the right time or guard, like a precious secret. Ivy and Celeste poke around, suspecting it, and I’ve been known to make an off-the-cuff comment here and there. But Noires never admit to anything that could possibly be incriminating. In our world, that’s pretty much everything.
Including a crush on a guy who seems to have various nefarious positions.
Everyone thinks I’m oblivious to the sordid happenings surrounding me, but I’ve been around Wells’s crew a lot the past couple of years. I knew they erased people because of what they did for Mercy—Ryker’s best friend, who needed to flee an abusive situation. And it’s no secret that both Ivy and Wells are some sort of leaders. Mafia or something of the like. I’ve seen plenty of connected people around here to recognize the signs.
Wells and his guys have always been tight-lipped. But I find the less I pry, the more comfortable they feel to talk around me in their code . That applies even more to Ivy and Celeste.
They’ve revealed enough for me to know their life might be even more twisted than mine. And, yes, the attack that happened at the dress shop a month and a half ago with some group they tagged the Skulls was proof they’re involved in some crazy shit. Celeste and Ivy were rescued swiftly, but they had been abducted in the first place. So, it makes sense that Axel and Ryker are stressed and protective. It was scary.
None of that is a deterrent for me though. And it’s hypocritical for it to be a deterrent for my brothers. I’m also aware of what they do.
We have two counting rooms. If that doesn’t mean anything, let me simply say that casinos only ever have one room to count money. Counting room two could be synonymous with the gallows . But that’s a lot harder to bark in a crowded room. Risky. Everything at La Lune Noire is concealed inside something seemingly ordinary and innocent.
Like a land of Easter eggs .
Where some of the eggs are buckets of wealth and some are death warrants.
I could say the same for Ty—as far as the concealment. There’s more to him. Depth and angst. Jax isn’t wrong that Ty is hiding something. It feels like I unearthed a treasure today because he let me catch a glimpse. I’d be honored to be the one who excavates it all. I’ve never wanted anything more.
Jax knows that Ty has been my shot-in-the-dark fantasy forever. So, him blowing off whatever my lust-driven ordeal was with my ultimate crush is disheartening.
“Whatever,” I hiss in response to him extending Axel and Ryker’s disapproval. “That’s why it was a Janis Joplin moment. Sweet freedom.”
With my brothers, it always comes back to protecting me, cushioning me from a fatal crash. I’m not permitted to partake in the more clandestine side of our business—a bubble-wrapped owner of the same resort and casino as them, destined to be the heart, but never the head. But no matter how they strap me in, being a Noire means I’m a passenger for this corrupt ride. And in this case, it’s the air bag that will break me.
Maybe Ty is my ticket to loftier adventures.
Since I am over this depressing sharing circle, I hop up and sprint to do a roundoff into a back flip in the large square space.
Jax abandons his lunch to join me. “Don’t pout, baby sis. I’ve always got you, girl.” He tucks and springs, landing with a stutter. “Just don’t want you to get your hopes up for something that—”
“Right,” I brush him off and hurtle toward the unpainted wall. This is why we don’t keep furniture up here.
Two steps up the stone and a third to launch a backward flip. He shadows me with a bit more lift. I’m certainly not short at five-eight, but I’m puny compared to my brothers, who are all well over six foot, like Ty and those guys.
Jax and I were both trained in gymnastics from the time we were toddlers. It’s one of the few things I’ve held on to about my mother. She was always there at every practice. So proud. Bright and cheerful. Gleaming blue eyes.
We had a training room in our house and bars and beams in the backyard—all lost in the fire. Axel always made sure we had places to grow in that skill here though.
After my parents died, he made us quit the gymnastics program, but he hired private coaches—all of whom were also involved in the acrobatic shows for the resort. They encouraged us to put our own personal spin on our skills, which generally included mastering their circus techniques. Keeping us in outside activities was probably too much with all of us grieving. Since both of our parents and our house were gone, Axel moved us into the penthouse at La Lune Noire. I’ve been pretty much locked up here since.
Anything I want to experience he brings to me and usually engineers some extraordinary effect on it for some added fun.
We’ve taken vacations, but he’s not fond of letting me mingle with the locals or be anywhere he can’t keep tabs on me. After the devastation we suffered, the horrendous loss, I can’t fault him.
Jax swipes the joint out of the ashtray and lights it again with a fancy snap of his fingers—a magic trick with a match. We’ve mastered a plethora of useless skills. Another perk of being raised around the entertainment industry.
He sucks in a drag as he scales the perimeter wall, walking along it like a balance beam, one foot in front of the other. “Wanna paint with me? I’ll award you sole ownership of the blowtorch.”
Laughing because Jax is impossible to stay mad at, I retrieve a can of Diet Coke from the fridge in our small bar area and crack it open while I answer, “I was thinking of checking to see if Ivy and Celeste are here.”
His brow line wrinkles, arms out to balance. “You didn’t ask Ty?”
“No. As I said, we were having a … thing.” I halt there to see if he’ll give me something, anything. Crickets. After a sip of soda, I co ntinue, “It’s weird that no one mentioned them coming. Must’ve been a spontaneous visit. Want to go up with me?”
“Nah.” He falls forward onto his palms, joint still hanging from his lips, perching in a handstand on the wall. There’s a ten-foot drop on the other side. A few years back, he toppled over it and broke his arm, so Axel lined the other roof with a foamy crash pad.
We’re kind of a full-time job. Even as adults.
Jax lifts onto one hand, removing the joint from his mouth with the other, his blue mop dangling, eyes brighter than the sky, face lit up with stoned pride for his ease of tricks. “I got a manager off this afternoon, so I’m pulling double duty at the shops.”
He oversees the tattoo and piercing boutiques. It’s a perfect fit. The artists adore him, and it affords him plenty of time for his creative projects.
For a while, Axel allowed me to be part of the music acts, which is my great love. I enjoy strumming the guitar—acoustic or electric, depending on my mood—or even singing and working backstage. But the guests started ogling me and making not-so-subtle offers, which made Ryker and Axel lose their minds. Some of the propositions were a little creepy, and being onstage isn’t necessary for my love of music, so there was no point in fighting them on it. I get bored doing any one thing for too long anyway.
To an outsider, it probably appears that I’m merely a glorified assistant now, delivering messages and keeping a pulse on the happiness of our employees. But people view me as a friend and confidante. They talk to me, so when something is off, I can easily sift it out.
It’s a key part of that princess role I play, and something about the way others need me, seeking me out for solace and camaraderie, makes me feel useful, worthy, valued. I’d like to be considered capable of more demanding roles, but I’m not sure I’d prefer them to what I’m doing now.
Jax and I chat for a while—gossip about his crew at the shops and the mural he’s emblazing on the wall. But my mind keeps wandering to the fact that Ty is probably up in my penthouse.
So, once our lunchtime has concluded, I hustle back to the North Tower while Jax heads over to his shops. I love our home—Art Deco ambience, blending nostalgic details with modern style. Despite the opulence, it’s cozy and always buzzing with life.
Except for now, apparently. When I walk into the sprawling apartment, it seems far too quiet for anyone to be entertaining guests. But after spotting a baby seat for Felicity—Wells and Ivy’s daughter—it’s clear that I’m mistaken. In keeping with the hushed tone, I creep through the main living area and turn down the hall with my brothers’ offices.
It’s the conference room that roars to life. I consider knocking, but the thought of Ivy here without anyone telling me, in some private conversation, has me pressing my ear to the door instead.
“Look.” Axel’s acidic tenor seeps out. “It’s not that I don’t see the angle or the potential that the information in the book holds. It’s enraging, to say the least. Of course I want to bury that asshole for what he did. After burning him alive.”
Way to prove my point, big bro. I’m filing that sentence away for the next time he tells me someone I’m associating with is too dangerous.
“And we can do exactly that,” Wells answers. “All we need is your go-ahead, and we’ll set it all in motion.”
“No,” Ryker sneers—never one to dance around things or use a lot of words.
Liam’s voice rings out next; his mellow air is unmistakable. “Don’t you think you should present the information to them before—”
“I’m only going to say this one more time,” Axel roars. “I want Jax and Rena as far away from this shit show as possible. There’d better not be one goddamn word about this leaked to them.”
What the hell is going on? Maybe this is still about that attack at the dress shop. Although I don’t know why Jax would be mentioned. He wasn’t there. Axel is crazy protective over us both though.
“Makes sense.” Gage’s gruff timbre filters into the hall as my chest threatens to cave in on me. “You’ve been hiding this a long time. They’re both adults now. They could find out one day on their own, which would be worse. Might not be so different from when your parents did. If one of them gets sick … Tell them now and—”
“I made a deal with Balzano,” Axel cuts in, his voice so full of angst that it pains me. “The details about that fucking fire don’t matter at this point. The consequences are mine to grapple with however I see fit.”
The fire? Made a deal? He couldn’t mean the fire that killed my parents. No way. Axel has done some wicked things, but he’d never be involved in anything that hurt our mother.
“Axel,” Wells growls, “this is not the time to fall on your sword.”
Axel’s icy tone slices through the door and dank air and reality I’ve assumed my whole life, sharper than any blade. “This isn’t about me. Jax and Rena are as good as dead if they ever find out they’re his.”