That’s why Mr. Wakeford is frustrated. He wants in. As a charter pilot, he knows there are business contacts here that would serve him well. He has the wealth to buy anything he can imagine, and he’s a good man. Anywhere else, that would be a stellar application. But here? He has no skin in this game, so I’m unwilling to let him play. No matter the payout.
Staring at the monitor of our overzealous guests, I see Gentry wasn’t joking. It’s anyone’s guess as to whether that is fighting orfucking. We have a whole club where this would be welcome, but Magie Noire isn’t really their style.
Patching into the South Tower elevator’s speaker from the security phone, I attempt to lure our guests to relocate. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Alvarado. This is Ryker Noire. I’m happy I found you. Amy—our head stylist—just got a new shipment of dresses and accessories, and I was wondering if Mrs. Alvarado would want to have the first peek. We have some associates here from the Bankers’ Society that are currently gathered at the high-rollers bar, if you’d like to wait for her there, Carlos.”
Carlos Alvarado is a semi-legitimate Mafia don, who schedules all his delicate meetings with us. If someone outside of his immediate circle wants to discuss something with him, they do it here, or they don’t do it. He and his wife are incredibly …passionate, so bringing her to a resort for his business leaves her feeling pampered, not ignored. And I heard a rumor that he’s searching for another institution to wash his funds.
He mutters his thanks as she excitedly accepts the invitation, and the elevator is once again on the move.
Hope delivered.
When I disconnect, Gentry nods to his tablet. “Amy said she’ll take care of her.”
Before I can answer, Axel swaggers in. His blue eyes are a few shades darker than mine. His ash-brown hair is a few shades lighter. He stands about a half inch above my six-four stature. And he carries everything with far more ease than I do.
“Hear anything yet?” he asks.
Glancing at my phone again, I shake my head. “Nothing.”
The text I’m waiting for is different from the one I’ve been obsessing over for years. Same subject. New source. And yesterday, I got one that offered a thread of hope.
Knox: I’m getting close.
That was the best message I’d received in three years.
Axel gestures to one of the screens. “Have the Caruso family conceal their pistols. They’re entering the main floor.”
“On it,” one of our security guys responds.
We have a few areas that are open to the public—two of our restaurants, a gift shop, and the main casino floor. It keeps the natives happy. But we require different behavior in open areas.
Our membership fees are high, our rules are hard-and-fast, and our waiting list is a mile long. Everyone approved to venture behind the curtain is armed. The average citizen would frown at that, cower to ride an elevator with corrupt criminals who are all packing assault weapons. Precisely why our guests need a utopia designed for them. And we’re it.
That was essentially the foundation of Prohibition. The lawbreakers banned together, bought their way into the shadows, and covered for each other—all so they could relish a getaway. A lot of deals were made in those underground clubs. It’s the gritty chaos that built a beautiful part of history and the roots from which we flourished.
We’ve simply expanded, becoming more than a resort. We’re a community. Our clients protect our investment as much as we do. This is where they relax, barter deals, band together, cast grudges aside, find common ground, join forces, and breathe. They might shell out a hefty price to belong, but losing this place would plunder funds from their bankroll in the long run.
So, they agree to the terms. If you cause a problem—alarm the public or start any trouble—your membership is revoked, and you are never invited back. If you initiate one single act of violence, you never leave. But you will forever be a part of the soil on which we thrive.
That’s the rocky ground my whole world is centered upon. It’s not for the faint of heart. But anything less would result in anarchy.
“Do you know why Cash accepted a delivery of pigs?” Axel’s voice is laced with equal measures of humor and irritation with that inquiry.
Gentry and every surveillance tech in the room avert their gazes. Like fucking kids.
I cock an eyebrow. “Would you like my theory?”
He scrubs both hands over his face with an exasperated scoff. “Probably not. But I’m guessing it has something to do with the Vaseline I made them return the night of the blackout.”
“Ahh.” I smirk. “Great minds think alike. The grease never went back.”
He isn’t shocked by that. We had a security breach here about a month ago, the first one in over twenty years. The guys were caught and properly disposed of. Well, most of them. Our friends—who are also our sister, Rena’s, husband and family—are working with us to figure out who else was involved because they were the primary targets of that attack. It’s been a slow and grueling process with no leads. So, needless to say, the pallet of petroleum jelly was the least of our worries.
It’s also why the bank transfer I have my private investigator, Knox, following didn’t get wired until last week. If this ends up as a dead end, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.
“As a heads-up, Martina has been looking for you.” Axel can’t keep the goofy grin from blasting across his face.
“Oh fuck,” I sigh.
