Chapter 9 Ridge #3
Tripp in that chair won’t leave my head. The panic in his eyes. The story about a memo that just happened to surface and just happened to be destroyed. Too many coincidences, stacked too neatly, all landing in the aftermath of my father’s murder.
That kind of timing isn’t luck. Its design.
And then there’s Coco underground, in my father’s bunker, sitting at the center of a situation that’s getting more complicated by the hour.
I don’t like patterns I didn’t set myself.
The Black Orchid sits tucked into its corner of the city, quiet from the street and insulated once you step inside. I hand my keys to the valet, not bothering with a confirmation, and head for the door.
Inside, the light stays low, and the noise stays contained.
Smoke lingers in the air, softened by murmured voices and the clink of glass.
It’s early enough that the booths aren’t full, but no one here looks out of place.
Familiar faces. Private conversations. No one pays attention unless there’s a reason to.
It’s always served its purpose.
Vin is already there. He rises when he sees me, his expression steady but drawn tight at the edges. We shake hands once briefly before I slide into the booth across from him.
He doesn’t bother with pleasantries.
“So, what’s going on with Tripp?”
I shoot him a hard look, feeling the heat rise in my chest. He’s been pushing about Tripp all day.
“You’re awfully interested,” I say, my tone clipped, watching as Vin shifts back slightly.
“Tripp’s sweating more than a sinner in church.
Found out he’s been cozying up to Duvall’s people. Or thought he could.”
Vin raises a brow, his mouth tightening.
“You want me to remove him from the board? I’ll do it now.”
“Not yet,” I say evenly. “He claims he was acting on instructions. The problem is, we don’t know whether that’s true, or whether he stitched together a story after the fact.”
Vin snorts. “What kind of instructions?”
“According to him,” I say, “he was flagged through a compliance channel. No name attached. No follow-up. He says the directive was limited by design. A one-time tasking that expired once it was acknowledged.”
Vin’s expression darkens. “Convenient.”
“Very,” I agree. “Which is why I’m not taking it at face value. But it’s also not impossible. My father ran quiet tests like that. He didn’t need to announce himself to see how someone handled ambiguity.”
Vin leans back, jaw set. “Or Tripp’s scrambling for a scapegoat because he knows the consequences of crossing us.”
“Maybe,” I say. My voice stays level, but there’s steel under it now. “But until I know whether someone actually used him—or he used my father’s name as cover—I’m not making this about punishment.”
Vin studies me. “You’re letting him live on a theory.”
“I’m letting him live because I want answers,” I say. “If Tripp was a conduit, I’ll find out who opened the door. And if he played any part in my father’s death—direct or indirect—I won’t hesitate.”
The room goes quiet.
“But I’m not killing the wrong man just to feel like I’m doing something,” I finish. “I’ll decide when we’re done asking questions.”
Vin holds my gaze, nodding slowly, but there’s an intensity there, like he’s testing the waters, watching for any crack.
“Yeah, I get that,” he says, his voice careful. “But I don’t know how much faith you can put in what he says at this point. He’ll say anything to appease you.”
The way Vin keeps pushing grates against something raw inside me, an itch just under the surface. I tamp it down, forcing myself to move forward.
Vin isn’t used to me calling the shots, and I might be overly sensitive about it. I need to keep any emotion out of it. It’s my call, end of story.
“The Boudreauxs,” I say, changing the subject. A surge of focus courses through me as the name drops into the space between us, sharpening my purpose.
Vin straightens, his face darkening. “Yeah. About that—”
“As you know, they know we have her,” I cut in, keeping my voice low but firm. “Obviously. Do we have any insight into how they found out? Did you get them cleaned up and swimming in Lake Pontchartrain?"
“Bodies are gone. I’m still waiting on Wells to get back to me about the how. I didn’t find anything out on the street.”
"I'm done sitting around with my thumb up my ass. I'm pissed they beat me to the punch. I want to put Coco's leverage to use.”
Vin’s brows lift, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “What’s the move?”
I glance around the bar, the low amber lights barely cutting through the smoke that hangs thick in the air. Conversations stay muted here, swallowed by velvet booths and old wood soaked with decades of spilled liquor and worse secrets. I lean forward, keeping my voice low.
“Set up a meeting with Laurent,” I say. “I want him looking me in the eye when he explains why he slit my father’s fucking throat in front of me.”
Vin’s mouth tightens. “Direct.”
“I want answers,” I continue. “And I want him to understand that someone is going to pay for them.”
Vin nods once. “So you make him sweat.”
“More than that.” I let the words settle. “I want him to see the consequences he invited on himself. And if I don’t like what he says, I’ll make sure he understands what losing everything actually feels like.”
Vin studies me, leaning back, arms crossing as he weighs it. “You’re sending the right message, Ridge. This is exactly how your father would have wanted you to answer this.”
I give a short smile. “I want him to feel the damage he caused, in ways he can’t undo.”
I take a sip of my drink.
“Set it up somewhere private. Somewhere he’ll walk into willingly. Comfortable enough not to bolt. Controlled enough not to forget who he’s dealing with.”
Vin’s smirk is brief. “I’ll handle it.”
“Good.”
I lean back, letting the booth creak beneath me. The smell of whiskey and smoke clings to my jacket.
Somewhere beneath it, my mind drifts underground, uninvited. Coco in my father’s bunker, walking the space, touching things that were never meant for her hands. Every minute she’s there tightens something I don’t have time to examine.
“We’re putting every Boudreaux on notice,” I add. “Starting with him. Nothing he values is off the table.”
Vin lifts his glass, watching me over the rim. There’s a sharp edge to his smile. “To keeping our infrastructure intact.”
I clink my glass to his and take a long pull. The whiskey burns going down, hot and familiar.
Good.
I need the burn tonight.