Ridge (The Stone Legacy #1)

Chapter 1 Ridge

ONE

Ridge

Wells and Keller are trading laughs across the table, loud enough to carry over the clinking of glasses and the low hum of the bar. They’ve always been better at unwinding than I am.

I swirl the bourbon in my glass, my thoughts nowhere near the bar. Being the oldest of six brothers means I’m already in the business, already carrying weight, already expected to take over one day, whether I want that responsibility or not.

Unlike the others, I don’t get to shut it off. While they drink, I’m still tracking shipments, schedules, bottlenecks. I’ve spent years at my father’s side, absorbing how Stone Intermodal actually runs, stepping in when he steps away, making decisions that don’t wait for tomorrow.

My father named me Executive Vice President two years ago, but the title barely matters. What matters is that I’m the one who sits beside him, learning how decisions ripple through the ports, how one delay turns into ten, how mistakes don’t stay contained.

I don’t inherit it someday. I’m already living with it.

Most of the family does something adjacent to the import/export business. But I’m the one who works closest with our father and understands how our ports actually function. I know customs schedules, labor contracts, inspections, and the pressure points no one outside the business ever sees.

Tonight should be lighter. Rarely do I get a stolen hour in a bar with several of my brothers. But it doesn’t.

My phone buzzes against the table, cutting through the haze. The number on the screen is blocked.

I typically answer “Unknown Number.” But something makes me press the green button tonight.

“Yeah?” My tone is flat and neutral.

At first, there’s only static. It’s just enough to put me on edge. A low, distorted voice cuts through the static. “701 Poydras. Come alone. Now.”

The line clicks dead.

I stare at the phone as the hairs on my neck rise. I know the location. It’s an abandoned warehouse we own but lease to Gulf Meridian Imports, a smaller logistics company that runs shipments through us from time to time.

“Everything good?” Wells’s voice cuts through, casual, but his eyes are sharp.

I slip the phone into my pocket, schooling my expression and down the rest of my drink.

“Yeah,” I lie, standing. “Just a quick thing to check out.”

Wells raises a brow, but I don’t offer more. Whatever this is, no need to pull everyone in until I know what it’s about.

“Back soon,” I say over my shoulder.

They go back to their drinks as I step outside. My hand is already in my pocket by the time I reach my car.

Whoever called knew how to find me. That narrows the list fast.

The street is still. It’s the kind of quiet that’s all wrong, like the city’s holding its breath.

A few cars sit parked along the side of the road with clouded windows from the night’s chill. Behind me, the faint notes of a brass band fade away, the saxophone lingering a second longer before disappearing between the buildings.

The silence that follows is almost too loud.

Fog rolls off the river, clinging low to the cracked asphalt around my tires. Dank, brisk air seeps through the cracked window.

I ease the car to the curb and kill the headlights, letting the darkness shroud me. For a second, I just sit there, scanning the dead street. The only sound is the low mechanical whir as I roll the window up.

Who the fuck called me, and why the secrecy?

The buildings loom beside me, their edges softened by the mist in the air. No traffic, no lights, not even a shadow of movement. Just rows of abandoned warehouses disappearing into the dark.

I reach down and check my boot out of habit, the quiet reassurance of weight exactly where my security team insists it should be.

I step one leg out onto the ground, pausing a moment more to make a note of everything around me. Somewhere in the distance, a streetlight buzzes and flickers, the only hint of life.

Other than that almost imperceptible drone, there’s nothing. Not even an animal scurrying or someone rooting through trash cans. It’s a ghost town, a place meant for secrets.

The warehouse the caller mentioned sits about a hundred and fifty feet ahead, squat and heavy against the night. Its outline is uneven, worn down by time and neglect, windows punched out like missing teeth. Nothing about it belongs among the lit streets a block over.

Whoever dragged me out here better have a damn good reason.

I slip my Sig Sauer from its holster in my boot and tuck it into the back of my waistband just in case. The cold metal presses against my skin as I start heading toward the warehouse.

A thin thread of yellow light leaks weakly from a cracked window along the building’s front, like it doesn’t quite want to exist. It doesn’t touch the ground so much as hover there, failing to give anything away.

As I edge closer, it becomes clear the source isn’t near the entrance. Whatever’s lit is buried deeper inside, so I move to the back of the building on the riverside.

I walk across overgrown weeds seeping out of cracks in the cement and climbing the unkempt masonry walls.

I push the eeriness aside and brush off the prickling at the back of my neck. As I round the corner of the building, the wall gives way and a low, muffled sound slips through the air. It’s barely there, more breath than voice.

I stop short, my chest tightening before I can place why. Something about it is familiar.

I stay still for a beat longer than necessary, then check the weight at my back again, more out of instinct than necessity. I know it’s there and cocked and ready.

The night is quiet enough that the faint crunch of gravel under my next step is amplified. I move toward the noise slowly and deliberately, careful not to announce my arrival until I know what I’m walking into.

Cold air fills my lungs, carrying the smell of oil and rust. And underneath it, the unmistakable tang of fresh blood permeates the night.

I don’t need to see anything yet to know what’s happening. Someone is being worked over. The only question is who.

A weak spill of light seeps out ahead, leaking through a broken window near the back of the warehouse. This one is brighter than the front hint of light. This is where it’s happening. Against the dark, it stands out like a beacon.

As I close the distance, the sounds sharpen. I can make out strained breaths, a wet cough, and a raw, scraping noise.

My hand curls, ready. This is the part where I stop asking why and start dealing with what’s in front of me.

I reach the window and stop just short of it. Another sound slips out just as I get there. It’s low and guttural, and thick with pain. I freeze and listen.

Then a sharp crack echoes inside the building, followed by a strangled gasp that makes my jaw tighten.

I press my back to the concrete wall, keeping myself out of sight. Old lessons surface without effort. Risk briefings, security protocols, the kind of situational awareness that comes with growing up around men who understood how fast control can slip.

I lean my head in just enough to see the room.

Inside, the space is lit by a single overhead bulb swinging from a frayed wire. The light is dirty and uneven, casting long shadows across the cement floor.

Three men stand in a loose circle, their backs to the window. Between them, a fourth figure is strapped to a chair. He’s mostly shielded by the men, so I can only make out that he’s barely alive.

He’s slumped forward with his head hanging down. Blood drips steadily from his body, dark against the pale, dirty concrete beneath him.

My focus narrows.

What was once a white button-down shirt is now torn open, soaked through, and heavy with a deep crimson hue. The fabric clings where it shouldn’t, stuck with blood.

One of the men shifts, lifting his arm. A wire flashes, settles at the man’s throat, then snaps tight as it’s wrenched backward, the chair scraping as his body jerks against the pull.

The sound that follows isn’t a scream so much as a broken noise torn out of a throat that’s already had too much taken from it. The man in the chair jerks weakly against his restraints.

Inside the warehouse, the men move with unhurried precision. One steps in, strikes, then steps back. Another takes his place.

Their posture is loose and practiced, like this is routine.

I stay pressed to the wall, forcing myself to catalog what I’m seeing even as my stomach tightens. I can handle violence, but that isn’t how I prefer to do business. Nothing about these men rings familiar. Why am I here?

My breathing stays even. I track the rise and fall of their shoulders, the spacing between them, the way they trade places without speaking. There’s no wasted movement or hesitation from these men.

One of the men has a distinct birthmark on his neck, and something about him tugs at my memory. I’ve seen his face before on the labor side of the port, tied to one of Boudreaux’s staffing contracts. Other than that, nothing stands out.

I focus on the man in the chair. His head hangs forward, chin dropped to his chest, face lost to shadow and blood. Whatever he looks like underneath it all is impossible to tell from this angle.

A low, tired sound slips out of him, more breath than voice, strained and wet. The chair creaks beneath the weight of it as he shifts weakly, barely clinging to consciousness.

Something about it tugs at me anyway. Familiar, close enough to scrape. I can’t place it yet.

The men keep circling, dragging it out, savoring every moment of their cruelty. Their fists swing hard and deliberately, each blow landing with a sickening thud.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, the word slipping out before I can stop it. “Let the poor bastard die already.”

I’ve been present for enough consequences to know the difference between leverage and cruelty. Whoever that man is, he’s gone. They’re not trying to break him for information. They’re breaking him for sport.

Pressure gathers low in my gut, winding tight.