RYKER
Hope is the most seductive prize you can wave in front of a person and the one thing we grip until our dying breath. Some would consider it the greatest of all life’s treasures. Others would label it as torment. Both have merit.
Even those who are perceived to have it all still yearn for something.
Nail that down, and you’re their god.
My family and I own most of the country’s nefarious individuals due to that very principle.
But even we can’t escape it.
I am a man with everything.
Except her.
“Mr. Alvarado and his wife are stopped in the South Tower elevator,” my assistant, Gentry, states, kicking off his rundown for our evening walk-through of La Lune Noire—the resort and casino that my five siblings and I own in New Orleans.
“Governor Evans checked in a day early,” he continues while swiping through the notes on his tablet, “and Senator Hughes is still here. We’ve been doing our best to run interference, butGovernor Evans is unhappy that there were no seats available at L’ange Noire. Axel is addressing this next issue, but asked that you be informed. Some foot soldiers of the Barone family arrived at the bootlegger’s tunnel for Dr. Landry due to a stab wound and a burn victim. There were no breaches of safe harbor boundaries. Maddox would like you to be master of ceremonies for the Bankers’ Society tonight. He said he has an important employee engagement matter that came up. And finally, Mr. Bryce Wakeford is on the main floor of the casino, once again inquiring about membership or entrance to a backroom game. He’d like to speak with you personally.”
“Are the Alvarados fighting or fucking?” I ask as we breeze through the halls.
It’s eight thirty—the start of prime time—so the crowds are picking up. We weave around a throng of couples, the scented cloud of gin and Chanel No. 5 perfume paying homage to another time. They look as though they could have stepped out of one of the 1920s photographs on the walls. The men are in suits and fedoras, the women adorned with beads, diamonds, and feathers. All of them have a spring in their gait that matches the swing music piped through the speakers.
Gentry slants his head with a shrug. “It’s anyone’s guess, sir.”
“Right.” I chuckle. This happens on every visit. “I’ll handle the Alvarados.”
As I move on to the next issue, I dig my phone out of the inner pocket of my suit jacket and dip my chin to a few of our theater performers scurrying by. “Keep me abreast of the Barone casualties. Tell Governor Evans that I will happily comp her meal at L’ange Noire tomorrow evening at the time of her choosing. But she may be interested to know that a certain judge she’s been trying to get a meeting with will be eating at nine. That should appease her. If her ex isn’t gone by tomorrow morning, I’ll have someone from his office summon him.”
“Got it,” Gentry says, holding a door open for us to slip into a staff-only area.
My teeth grind as I check my phone, frustrated at the same lack of a text greeting me that I’ve been staring at all day. Week. Month.Years.
Hope is the gateway to hell—ashes, oak, champagne, and delusions.
But, like always, I stuff down that rage, brush off the urge to jump out of my skin, and move forward. “Does Maddox’s employee engagement matter have anything to do with the pallet of five-gallon vats of Vaseline that was delivered last month?”
Maddox, Cash, and Jax are my younger brothers. They all have a colorful perspective on running our business. Maddox and Cash are in charge of resort entertainment and workforce satisfaction.
Gentry’s lips twitch ever so slightly before he regains his usual poker face. “I can’t say for sure, sir.”
I narrow my eyes at him as we veer toward the surveillance room. “Am I going to find out that a shipment of pigs arrived here today?”
He clears his throat. “Again, sir, I can’t say for certain. I haven’t been down to receiving.”
While that may be true, he absolutely knows. But I won’t press him. I don’t like snitches. And Maddox and Cash’s methods are unconventional, but everything here is, and they keep our staff happy. Gloriously happy. At this point, we have a stack of applicants and no turnover. Only nepotism wins a spot on our payroll. And even those are hard to come by. No one ever quits. So, looking the other way regarding the antics used to maintain that retention is the best strategy to keep my blood pressure down. My older brother, Axel, who oversees the operation with me, would second that.
“As far as Mr. Wakeford goes,” I continue, stepping into the surveillance room, which houses over a hundred monitors, “tell him there are no such games or memberships available at this time. If the status changes, I’ll be happy to reach out.”
It will never fucking change.
We don’t bow down to the high rollers, like other casinos, begging them to stay with us and kissing their asses. They kiss ours.
We’re the onlyus, but there are countlessthems. Nowhere caters to the felons, Mob bosses, hit men, dirty politicians, crooked government officials, shady businessmen, and duplicitous icons in one place. We’re neutral ground. A safe haven for those who live with more stress daily than the average person could stomach in a lifetime. We’re their escape. Their meeting ground. TheirCalgon, take me away bubble bath—as my mother once phrased it.
Money alone doesn’t buy you admission. That’s only earned with your firstborn, your soul, and your darkest secrets. Okay, so the first two on that list are debatable. The point is, a celebrity might have millions, but the notoriety and deep pockets won’t secure them a seat at our table. Only the skeletons in their closet can reserve that.
It’s an insurance policy that supplies a lifetime of corruption, connections, and giggles.
