Chapter 14 Ridge #2
Everything else in my life is breaking apart. My father is dead, men I trusted are feeding information to the wrong people, and now there’s a larger question hanging over everything about whether the Duvalls are the ones steering this from a distance.
Right now, Coco is the only thing that stills the noise. That alone should be reason enough to walk away.
She doesn’t deserve this. And I don’t have the space to untangle what’s tying me to her.
Still, something keeps my foot on the brake.
Wells flagged a thread earlier regarding the tables, according to Keller. A timing anomaly in chip flow that lined up too cleanly with security shift changes. It was probably nothing, but it was enough to put Keller on edge. He called me before the doors opened to run it by me.
“With the prince here,” he’d said, “I’m not taking chances.”
He didn’t ask me to come. He wouldn’t because this is his domain. My father put him in charge of the tables last year.
Keller runs this operation twice a week with West at his side, both of them dressed sharply, hair slicked back, eyes always moving. Keller was born to read people, know their tells, their habits. Their breaking points.
This place is his responsibility completely, especially now that Dad is gone.
It’s also one of our largest income streams and one of the ways our influence stays intact. If something goes wrong here, it echoes. My father used to step in when it mattered.
Now that weight sits with me.
Prince Khalid Al-Sharif is already inside. He’s Saudi royalty, flies in on his jet once a month. He has endless money and a taste for high-stakes poker that borders on compulsion.
His presence alone raises the risk. Not just financially, but reputationally. In this world, the two are inseparable.
I step out of the car, the night air cool and damp against my skin. I pull the Sig from under the dash and position it in my back waistband before heading toward the steel door and clock the Glock in my boot holster. You can never be too prepared.
Inside, the contrast is immediate.
The room hums, chips clink, and voices murmur. Laughter rises and falls.
Crystal chandeliers throw warm light across velvet tables, dark wood, and muted gold accents. It’s indulgent without being loud. Designed to reassure the people who come here that nothing ugly can touch them.
At one table, an oil executive slouches with a glass of whiskey. At another, a tech billionaire studies his cards like they owe him something.
Prince Khalid sits farther in with a cigar balanced between his fingers. His eyes are detached and watchful. Two bodyguards flank him with broad shoulders and tailored suits, standing still with their hands clasped in front of them. I can see the outlines of weapons holstered at their chests.
Keller stands near the bar with West, scotch in hand. He’s relaxed at a glance, but I can tell he’s alert beneath it. The message is intentional. This place may cater to the elite, but it’s ours.
I move through the room, ignoring the looks that follow. Most of them don’t know who I am, and they don’t need to.
Keller catches my eye and tips his chin.
I’m halfway to him when the steel door behind me slams open.
The first gunshot splits the air. Then another.
Screams erupt as tables overturn and glass shatters. Five men rush in, faces masked, weapons up. They spread out with practiced precision, shouting commands as panic tears through the room.
“Everyone down! Now!”
A shot cracks into the ceiling, and plaster rains down.
People dive for cover. Chips scatter across the floor. The prince’s guards move instantly, bodies shielding him as they crouch low. Dealers freeze with their hands raised, faces drained.
One of them steps too far into the open.
I drop behind the table as security responds instantly. Controlled bursts, trained movement. The room locks down in seconds.
Keller is already behind the bar with his weapon drawn. He fires, and his shot catches one of them in the leg. The man stumbles but stays upright, spraying rounds blindly in response.
One of the prince’s bodyguards ushers the prince behind a shelf while the other fires a shot, clipping one of the men.
Two of the intruders break for the cash bank near the front. One covers while the other grabs the box and shoves it into a duffel. They’re efficient and confident, like they’ve rehearsed this.
My stomach tightens. This is well-orchestrated. Someone wanted to make a statement.
A shot from somewhere I can’t tell takes one of them down. His partner doesn’t hesitate, finishes the grab, and retreats.
The remaining two lay down cover fire, forcing me back, as another helps the injured guy out. A round splinters the table inches from my head, wood fragments biting into my skin.
Keller fires again. This time, he hits one in the arm. The man yells but keeps moving.
“They’re heading out!” Keller shouts.
The last man pauses long enough to toss something across the floor before they disappear through the door. Tires scream outside.
Security is out, chasing them down. By the time I reach the exit, they’re gone.
I slam my fist into the doorframe, breath coming hard. Behind me, the room is a wreck. Tables are overturned, and glass is everywhere. Plares are huddled and shaking.
Keller joins me, face set. “They knew the layout and the perfect timing. This wasn’t random.”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”
The quiet that follows is wrong. Too sharp.
Then a sound cuts through it. It’s cheerful and completely out of place.
A ringtone.
I turn toward it.
A phone lies in the middle of the floor, abandoned.
Keller reaches for it. I stop him with a look and hold out my hand. “Give it to me.”
He hesitates, then does. The device is light. Insultingly so.
I flip it open and bring it to my ear. The ringtone cuts off.
There’s silence on the other end until a voice comes through.
“Ridge,” Laurent Boudreaux drawls, his accent thick and deliberate. “Since you wouldn’t listen at our last meeting, I figured I’d get your attention another way.”
My grip tightens.
“That was just the beginning,” he continues. “You think a million and change makes us even? That’s a down payment.”
I say nothing.
“You took my daughter. I want her back tonight. If not, this will start looking mild by comparison.”
The line goes dead.
I snap the phone shut and drop it onto the nearest table.
Keller watches me carefully. “What did he say?”
I don’t answer right away. The damage. The money. The fallout. All of it matters. None of it compares to the decision waiting for me.
“Repay the guests,” I say finally. “Every cent.”
Keller nods. “And cleanup?”
“Handle it.”
He studies me, reading what I am not saying. Then he steps back. “Understood.”
I turn away from the wreckage and head for the door.
Laurent wants his daughter back by sunrise. Vin thinks we need to keep her right where she is so the Duvalls keep believing the lie. Letting her go would cool things down. It would close one front before it turns into something that can’t be contained.
There is no clean choice here. Only different kinds of damage.