Because he takes it without touching anyone.
“Mmm. Daddy Nash is home.” Sonny breezes past me with a low murmur and a quick eyebrow waggle.
Shiloh sees him and goes quiet in a way I haven’t witnessed yet. His usual grin shows up, but it pulls tight at thecorners.
“Hey, Nash.”
Nash doesn’t answer. He gives Shiloh a brief look and tip of his chin, then lets his gaze slide to me—one sharp sweep that feels like fingertips on my jaw. Measuring, maybe. Interested enough to make my finger shake above the POS screen before I force it still.
Every rule I’ve set since coming to New Orleans rearranges itself on the spot. I came here to stay in Noir, stay close to the answers, and avoid getting thrown out before I found what I needed. Simple. Or it was, until he walked in and made the whole room feel like a trapdoor.
He heads for the back hallway without another word, pauses at a section of paneling I would’ve sworn was solid, and presses against the wood. A hidden seam opens to let him through. Then it seals behind him, the wood sliding back into place so neatly it looks like I imagined the whole thing.
I stare at the wall for half a beat before I turn to Justine, another server. “Wha…where did he go?”
She’s polishing glasses too hard, mouth pinched in that way people get when they’ve been pretending not to notice something for a long time and resent being asked to name it.
“Downstairs,” she says, aiming for casual and missing. “That’s his thing.”
My curiosity spikes so fast it feels physical. “What do youmean, downstairs? I didn’t know there was anything down there.”
Until now.Almost like he wanted me to.
Or wanted me to know there are doors in this place I haven’t earned.
Shiloh mutters something under his breath and heads for the office, where Ever has mostly been camped since Nash arrived—as if proximity counts as preparedness.
“Yeah, and you’re probably not gonna,” Justine says, recovering enough to give me a sidelong look. “You’re not the kind of person they let down there.”
My eyes narrow. “What kind of person is that?”
She shrugs, but it’s all performance. “Hell if I know. It’s called Noir Night, and they have an entire other entrance on the back side of the building, and an entirely separate staff that runs it. I’ve never even met most of ’em.”
“Noir Night?” I repeat. “That’s really what they call it? Is it like a nightclub or something?”
Before she can answer, Jean Paul shoulders in between us, broad and stocky and smelling like fryer grease and impatience. He’s one of the newer hires, built like a fire hydrant and twice as cheerful.
“She’s messing with you,” he says, dropping his ticket on the bar. “She don’t know what goes on down there.”
“I know enough,” Justine snaps.
Apparently the easiest way to get information around here is to let other people argue over whose ignorance is more informed.
I keep my voice light. “Then enlighten me.”
Justine leans in like she’s sharing gossip, but her eyes dart toward the hallway. “Private gambling. High rollers. Invitation-only. The kind of place rich people go when legal isn’t exclusive enough.”
Jean Paul snorts. “That’s not information. That’s rumor.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not rumor if everybody knows it.”
“Everybody doesn’t know it,” he shoots back. “That’s the point.”
I almost smile.
“Fort Knox rules?” I ask, baiting them both.
Justine points at me with the towel. “Exactly. Harder to get into than a bank vault.”
