Chapter 16 Ridge #2
Tripp comes first. He was closest to the noise when this started, and he is the only risk node I’ve isolated. By the time I turn onto Elysian Fields, I am already braced for the fact that whatever he knows will not clarify anything. It will only tell me where to look next.
The warehouse off Elysian Fields squats at the edge of the district, all corrugated metal and poured concrete, unfinished in a way that suggests no one ever intended to make it inviting. There is no signage, no attempt to disguise what it is.
It is the kind of place chosen because no one looks twice at it, and no one remembers it afterward.
Midnight presses down on the area, heavy and deliberate, the kind of quiet that settles only after the city has decided to sleep off its sins. A single car passes somewhere in the distance.
From the river, a ship’s horn sounds low and drawn out. For a moment, my mind jumps across the water to the penthouse I haven’t set foot in since this started, before I shut it down.
Streetlights throw weak yellow halos that don’t quite reach the lot. Shadows fill in the rest.
Gil Gerrard leans against the entrance, cigarette glowing between his fingers. He straightens the moment he spots me, stubbing it out against the metal door with unnecessary force. His posture snaps into place like he’s been waiting for this moment to arrive.
“Boss,” he says, dipping his head.
“Take a hike, Gerrard,” I say, not slowing.
He hesitates. Just enough to be noticed. “You sure? Vin said—”
I stop walking and look at him. Not sharply. Not theatrically. Just enough to remind him that my patience is not a renewable resource.
“I’m sure,” I say. “Go find somewhere else to exist for an hour. I want Tripp alone.”
Gil nods once and backs off, gravel crunching under his boots as he disappears into the dark. No argument. No attitude. He knows better.
The warehouse door groans when I push it open, metal protesting metal.
Inside, the air is damp and stale, thick with rust and mildew.
Halogen lights blaze overhead, too bright for a place this empty, flattening everything beneath them.
It feels like a stripped-down stage waiting for a scene no one wants to watch.
My boots echo across the concrete.
Tripp sits in the center of the room, slumped forward in a metal chair, seated and secured to prevent him from leaving. He looks smaller than I remember. Not physically, but in every other way that counts.
Blood streaks his face in uneven lines, dried and tacky. One eye is swollen nearly shut. His shirt hangs torn and damp, and the dark stain down the front tells me he lost control somewhere along the way.
The smell confirms it. Blood and urine, sharp and sour, cling to the air.
I drag a chair toward him. The scrape of metal against concrete tears through the mostly empty space, echoing. Tripp jerks awake, his head snapping up. His good eye widens when he sees me, panic flashing fast and unfiltered.
“Ridge,” he croaks. “Boss, I swear, I didn’t—”
I sit down across from him, forearms resting on my knees. I keep my voice low and even. Measured.
“Don’t call me that,” I cut him off. “You don’t get to use my name like it still means protection.”
His throat works as he swallows. “I didn’t betray you. I didn’t-”
The photos stay where they are for now. I want his story before I give him anything to react to.
“Then I want you to start from the beginning and tell me every detail of how this went down,” I say. I lean forward more, just enough to let the pressure settle. “Why were you establishing rapport with Duvall-adjacent operators? I want every meeting, every location.”
His head drops, shoulders shaking. He tells me about three inconsequential meet-ups, all with names I recognize, but he swears it was only to be present. According to him, there was no agenda other than to be there, be seen, and leave.
“How did you know where to go and when?”
Rhodes already told me this detail, but I want to hear it from Tripp.
“Each time, I would get a Snapchat message telling me where to be and when. I was never asked to confirm or bring anything back. It just said to be there.” His voice trembles now, cracking under the weight of his own story.
“You never spoke to anyone after the meetings?” I ask. “Not once. No voice. No confirmation. Just instructions that erased themselves.”
Anyone could invent this once the damage is done.
“Never. The original note said I would meet with Robert once I completed the test,” he says quickly. “The snaps came from an unknown account. It said not to ask questions, so I didn’t. I thought that’s how it works at that level. No questions, just execution.”
I sit back a fraction, letting him keep going. Talking people tell you more when they think you’re listening.
“We’ve been pushing against the Duvalls over that shipping lane,” he continues. “I thought maybe this was a way to get ahead of them. I thought I was supposed to earn their trust, maybe become a plant, and then bring it back to you.”
“Bring it back to who?” I interject. “Specifically.”
He shakes his head, panic bleeding into desperation. “Robert. Or Vin. Someone up top.”
There it is. The truth underneath the excuse. Ambition mixed with fear. He wanted to be seen, to be doing something more important.
“You made us vulnerable,” I say. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. “You put our name in someone else’s mouth without knowing who was listening.”
“I didn’t tell them anything,” he insists. Tears spill over now, cutting clean tracks through the grime on his face. “They didn’t even seem to know why I was there. I swear, Ridge, I didn’t give them a damn thing.”
I study him. The shaking hands, the way he can’t hold my gaze for more than a second. Tripp has always been a screwup, but he has also always been loyal.
I remember him as a kid, running errands for my father, desperate to belong to something solid. He grew up inside this family, whether we meant him to or not.
That’s what makes this rot.
I stand. The chair falls back and clangs on the hard floor, loud in the silence. Tripp flinches hard, breath hitching.
“Here’s what you don’t seem to understand,” I say. “Intent doesn’t undo consequence. You made a move that cracked our foundation. And now my father is dead.”
“I’ll fix it,” he pleads. “Just tell me how.”
“You don’t fix this,” I say. “I do.”
He shakes his head wildly. “I never heard anyone talk about killing him. I never would have let that happen.”
I look down at him, fists tight at my sides. There’s no satisfaction here. No release. Just responsibility settling in where anger should be.
“If you breathe wrong while I’m dealing with this,” I say, “you won’t breathe again. Are we clear?”
He nods, tears dripping off his chin. “Yes. Yes.”
I turn and walk out.
Gil waits outside, face set, reading my expression without needing explanation.
“Clean him up,” I say. “Keep him locked down until I say otherwise. And let him use a toilet. This isn’t about humiliation.”
Gil nods, already moving.
I don’t look back.
My head stays stuck on Tripp’s story. The burner phone. The directive. The way he kept insisting it came from above without ever saying who “above” actually was.
If he’s telling the truth, then someone reached into the family and used him like a disposable tool. Someone inside knew exactly who to pick.
If it’s someone outside, then they knew enough to aim low and let the damage ripple upward. Either way, it isn’t random. It’s deliberate.
The third option is that Tripp made it all up to save his own skin. That would be cleaner. Easier. Except it doesn’t sit right. Tripp has never been clever. He’s reckless, loud when cornered, sloppy under pressure.
If he were lying, he would have contradicted himself by now or overplayed the fear. What I saw in that warehouse wasn’t performance. It was panic.
Which means this wasn’t his idea.
I turn it over again as I walk, but it keeps leading back to the same conclusion. Someone wanted confusion. Someone wanted us chasing ghosts instead of names.
The night air does nothing to settle me. I head toward the Quarter out of habit more than intent, letting my boots carry me while my mind keeps grinding.
The city hums low around me, boxed in by brick walls that swallow sound. The occasional laugh drifts out of a bar, but none of it reaches me.
Jackson Square opens up ahead. The cathedral is lit and looming with its marble glowing under the lights and twin towers cutting into the night.
A few bodies are scattered across benches, wrapped in jackets and half-dreams. Near the fence, a lone figure stands with her arms crossed tight against her chest.
I recognize her before I’m close enough to see her face.
It’s the way she holds herself. Like she’s bracing against something that isn’t weather. Like the ground might give out if she relaxes for even a second.
Coco.
The sight of her sucks the breath out of me. I slow without meaning to, my attention narrowing until the rest of the square fades out. I told myself I was done with this. With her. Letting her walk away was the right call. More than that, it was necessary and clean.
So much for that.
She hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s staring past the fence, her jaw set, eyes unfocused.
What the hell is she doing out here alone after midnight? Either she’s reckless, or she’s reached the point where staying inside feels worse than whatever waits outside.
I keep moving toward her, not rushing. But also not retreating.
She turns when I’m only a few feet away. Her eyes lock on mine, surprise flashing across her face before she schools it into something sharper. Defensive. The fire snaps back into place like it never left.
“Ridge,” she says. “What are you doing here?”
“Ironic,” I reply, stopping short of her. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s a free city. Last I checked, I don’t need permission to breathe. I’m no longer your captive, remember?”
“Not what I said.” My gaze flicks over her once quickly assessing her. There are no obvious injuries, and no one is hovering too closely. “It’s late. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Her mouth twists. “Didn’t realize you were taking over that job now, too.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“Someone has to,” I say. “Clearly, Laurent’s not making sure you’re safe if he doesn’t have tabs on you in this city.”
Her jaw tightens, and for a second, I expect her to turn away. Instead, she exhales, and her shoulders drop just a fraction. The edge doesn’t disappear, but it dulls.
“I couldn’t stay in that house,” she mutters. “Needed air. He doesn’t know I’m gone. That satisfy you, Mr. Stone?”
“No,” I say. “You should be smarter than that.”
She lifts her chin. “Are you worried about me or that Laurent’s going to lose his mind if he finds out?”
“I couldn’t care what Laurent does, unless it hurts you,” I answer without hesitation.
“Let me worry about myself. I’m no longer your concern,” she snaps, but the sound lacks conviction. Up close, I can see the strain she’s carrying. The tightness around her eyes. The way she keeps her arms locked like she’s holding herself together by force.
“There’s more moving in this city right now than usual. You don’t see it because you’re not supposed to.”
Her eyes narrow. “And you are?”
“I’m the one cleaning it up.”
She lets out a short laugh. “Leave me alone, Ridge.”
“I intend to.” I shake my head once. “But I’m taking you home right now.”
She hesitates. I can see the argument forming, pride pushing up against exhaustion. After a moment, she exhales.
“Fine,” she says. “But only because I don’t have the energy to fight you right now. You’re still a pretentious asshole.”
I step back and give her space. “My car’s ten blocks up.”
She follows, keeping a careful distance. Neither of us speaks. The silence is thick, charged with everything we didn’t say the other night and everything we’re still avoiding now.
I’m aware of her with every step. The sound of her boots, the heat of her presence is all-consuming.
She senses it too. I know because she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention.
When she slides into the passenger seat, the noise of the city is sealed out. I start the car and pull away without comment. She fidgets with the hem of her shirt, then glances over.
“I left something at the bunker,” she says, too casual to be believable. “Can we stop there?”
My grip tightens on the wheel. “What did you forget?”
“It’s important,” she replies, eyes fixed on the window. “Personal. I won’t be long.”
I don’t believe her. Not for a second.
But I turn anyway.
The bunker isn’t far, and if she’s planning something, I’ll know soon enough.
The truth of why I’m taking her back there is simpler and harder to admit. I don’t want to take her back to her father’s house. I don’t want her back behind walls I can’t see through.
I want her exactly where she doesn’t belong.
With me.