Chapter 3 Ridge #3
It’s crowded, but controlled. No urgency, no disorder. People move with purpose, voices kept low out of habit rather than fear. This is one of the few rooms in the city where discretion is still assumed, where conversations stay where they’re placed and don’t echo beyond the table.
Business happens here, but rarely in clear terms. Ideas are tested.
Positions are felt out. Nothing is decided outright, and nothing is said that can’t be softened or reinterpreted later.
The Orchid’s value isn’t in what’s agreed to inside it, but in who’s seen together, and how long those pairings last.
My family has history here. That earns familiarity, not control. I recognize faces I know only by reputation—investors, consultants, people whose influence shows up on balance sheets and zoning maps, not headlines.
The lighting stays low and warm, brass fixtures casting an amber glow over the bar and booths. Whiskey and perfume hang in the air. Glasses clink. Laughter surfaces briefly, then fades back into conversation.
You don’t end up here by accident. Someone makes the introduction. Someone confirms you belong. After that, no one stares too long. Attention is subtle. Professional.
My father used to sit three booths down on the left. Same seat every time. From there, he could see the entrance and most of the room without drawing focus to himself.
He taught me how to read places like this. He could always spot who was angling for visibility, who was uneasy, or who was already losing ground and didn’t realize it yet.
A lot of what I learned about this city came from rooms like this. Not in lectures or warnings, but in observation.
For a long time, this place was an extension of him to me.
Tonight, when I step inside, a few heads turn. Not openly. Not enough to draw attention. But enough.
Vin’s already here when I walk in, sitting at the end of the bar. He’s nursing a glass of bourbon. The deep amber liquid catches the light as he tilts it back.
He studies me as I approach with that calm, steady way that defines him.
I slide onto the fixed barstool beside him, ordering my usual. The bartender is quick to deliver a glass of the bar’s finest. I grip the glass, and the coolness bites into my skin as I take my first slow sip. The first one is always the best, burning as it goes down.
Vin breaks the silence first, his voice low and direct. “Ridge, we need to decide on timing. Waiting much longer isn’t going to help us.”
I nod, leaning back slightly, letting him continue. Vin doesn’t talk unless he’s already run the angles. He observes, tracks patterns, and moves only when the variables line up.
“You’ve been thinking this through,” I say. “You wouldn’t bring it up unless you already had a framework. What do we know about her schedule?”
Vin leans forward, forearms resting on the table as the low glow of the Black Orchid settles around us. His expression is calm, deliberate. Focused.
“Tomorrow makes more sense than tonight. She’ll be at Indigo Blue. There’s an art installation for a friend. Public enough to blend in. Predictable without being rigid.”
I consider that. “I was prepared to move sooner,” I say. “But I agree. Timing matters more than speed. We only get one clean window.”
That’s it. Same stakes. Same intent. No hitman energy.
“Exactly.”
“How old is she, anyway?” I ask. The last time I remember hearing anything about her, she was a teenager. I know it’s been a while, but still, she has to be young.
“Twenty-five,” he says, not skipping a beat.
I whistle, surprised she is already in her mid-twenties. It’s hard to imagine. “Okay. And we’re sure she will be at Indigo tomorrow night? Are we sure that’s the best place?”
Vin smirks. “Certain she will be there. It’s public enough that she won’t be on guard, but contained enough for us to move without drawing attention. The side street stays quiet. We wait. We take her when the moment’s right.”
I lean back, rolling it over. Indigo is predictable. Predictable is good. Predictable also means witnesses if something goes sideways.
I look at Vin.
“I’m not having her dragged through a crowd,” I say. “No marks. No panic. This ends with her walking out alive and untouched. That’s nonnegotiable.”
Vin nods once, already adjusting. “Got it. Rocky Hendricks will know how to move someone without turning it into a spectacle.”
I don’t answer immediately. I let the silence stretch just long enough to remind him who decides.
“She sees me first,” I say finally. “Not him. Not anyone else.”
“That’s the point,” Vin replies. “Rocky moves her. You’re the authority, the face. Your command is the reason this happened.”
I consider it. Not the plan, but the message.
“And if she fights?” I ask. “I’m telling you, I don’t want this to go sideways.”
“She won’t,” Vin says. “And if she does, it stops before it turns ugly. She’s leverage, not collateral. That line doesn’t get crossed unless her father crosses it first.”
I nod once.
“Then that’s how it goes.”
Vin works his jaw before taking a sip of his liquor.
“Once we have her, we move her to the cabin in Slidell,” I say. “She stays there until Laurent gives us a reason to move.”
Vin nods once. “Handled. It’s a fortress. One road in, one road out. You should be there most of the time. That’s how everyone understands this came from you.”
“I can do that,” I say. “I want to be clear. No contact, no leaks. Nothing reaches Laurent unless I decide it does.”
“Of course.”
I accept that with a single nod. “How long do you think this will take? Do you have any insight on him?”
Vin considers it. “I suspect with his daughter being dragged into this, it won’t take long at all.”
I lean forward, forearms on the table. Vin meets my gaze without flinching.
“She’s his pressure point, Ridge. Taking her forces his hand.”
“I know what she represents,” I reply.
The plan settles into place.
“Tomorrow night,” I say. “Indigo Blue.”
Vin lifts his glass slightly. Not a toast, but an acknowledgment.
I don’t raise mine.
“This ends with Laurent Boudreaux answering for what he did,” I say. “Nothing else.”
I lift my glass to my lips but don’t drink. My thoughts are already racing ahead to tomorrow night. Every detail has to go perfectly. One slip and this whole thing blows up in our faces.
This is my first real job as the head of this family. I can’t let anything go wrong.
“Make sure the cabin’s ready,” I add. “Stock it. Food. Clothes. Whatever she’ll need.”
Vin nods, already moving through the list in his head. “It’ll be handled.”
Good.
Because from here on out, every move matters.
I sit in the blacked-out SUV, my eyes trained on the dimly lit entrance to Indigo Blue. The street is quiet at this hour, save for the occasional passerby, but my focus never drifts from the door.
We got word from a plant inside the bar that the art show wrapped up about an hour ago. Since then, we’ve been waiting for her to finish whatever conversation is keeping her inside.
All we need now is for her to come out alone.
Finally, she does.
She steps onto the sidewalk with purpose, keys already in hand, phone tucked under her arm as she heads toward her car. When she’s about twenty yards out, she glances down at her screen.
This is it.
Coco Boudreaux isn’t the girl I remember hearing about when we were younger. She’s grown into herself. Petite but curvy, dressed in something fitted that catches the low glow of the streetlights.
I register it, then shut it down just as fast. Attractive or not, she’s the pressure point. She’s a means to an end. I remind myself to keep this clean and professional.
Rocky Hendricks and Beau Landry move fast, closing the distance before she has time to register what’s happening. Rocky gets a firm grip on her from behind, steering her off the sidewalk and out of the line of sight of the street.
She resists instinctively, but it doesn’t matter.
Rocky redirects her momentum, steering her off the sidewalk and straight into the open door as Beau shields the movement from the street.
They get her into the SUV quickly, and she lands hard on the leather seat beside me. The door slams shut, sealing us in. For a second, she’s too focused on trying to shove the door open to notice me.
She figures it out fast.
She spins toward me, eyes blazing, breath sharp with anger. Her leg lashes out, catching me in the shin, and then her hand comes up, aiming for my face.
I catch her wrists easily, pinning her arms against her sides before she can connect. She twists against my grip, teeth bared, fighting like hell.
My hand protests under the strain. The stitches from the other night pull, a sharp reminder I’m not as whole as I should be. I grit my teeth and adjust my hold before it becomes a problem.
“Let me go,” she snaps, venom thick in her voice.
“You can stop fighting,” I say evenly. “Or you can make this more difficult than it has to be.”
She answers by kicking again.
I don’t raise my voice or tighten my grip. I reach for the prepared cloth and apply it with measured pressure, watching her breathing slow as the sedative takes effect.
Her resistance falters, confusion flashing briefly across her face before her eyes lose focus and close. I guide her back against the seat, supporting her head as her body goes slack.
I nod toward the front.
“Go.”
Vin pulls the SUV into motion, the engine humming as we roll away from the curb. Neither of us says another word. The glow of Frenchmen Street fades behind us, swallowed by the dark.
Tomorrow, Laurent Boudreaux will wake up to the consequences of what he set in motion.