Chapter 19 Coco #2
“I need to tell you something,” he says, quieter now. “Especially with everything going on.”
I turn back to him. “What do you mean?”
“Your father being blamed for Robert Stone’s murder, you getting taken as retaliation, and now Stone himself playing vigilante.”
My pulse stutters. “What are you talking about, Iggy? Tell me.”
“That night,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “At the drop. I wasn’t jumpy for no reason. I heard things were going down. Rumors.”
A cold line traces my spine. “About what?”
“About Robert Stone,” he says. “That someone was coming for him, and I was antsy because I didn’t want to get caught in the crosshairs.”
The words make my breath stutter. “Why didn’t you say something to me when I asked? You acted like I was crazy to sense something. Do we not trust each other, now?”
“I didn’t know it was real,” he says carefully. “Just whispers. I didn’t want to put a target on you or me. But I knew enough to keep my head down.”
“Why would you think you would get dragged into it?”
“Because that’s how it works.” His tone sharpens, then eases when he sees my face.
“I was not involved, I swear. But when someone powerful goes down, everyone starts pointing fingers. One wrong corner, one wrong moment, being at the right place at the wrong time, and suddenly you’re useful as a scapegoat. ”
I take that in, pieces sliding together whether I want them to or not. I knew from the moment this all started that Ridge was digging for answers. My father’s name dragged into something that never fit him.
“Exactly,” I say slowly. “I know my father didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Iggy’s mouth tightens. “When I heard that on the street, I knew it was bullshit. When I finished everything late that night, and passed the warehouse on Burgundy, the one they say Robert was held in, I saw a bunch of guys standing around.”
My breath catches. “And?”
“They weren’t men I’d ever seen around your dad.” He meets my gaze directly. “I recognized a few of them, and none of them were Boudreauxs.”
My heart thumps hard against my ribs. “You’re positive.”
“Completely. Someone wanted everyone to think they were. But I know.”
The implications press in from all sides. I already knew my father wasn’t involved. That’s not his M.O. But having a tangible alternative gives my hunch credibility.
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” I ask.
He exhales. “When would I have told you? You were taken almost immediately. Before that, you had no real connection to Robert Stone or his business. Now you do, whether you want it or not.”
My hands curl at my sides. “I have to tell Ridge.”
Iggy’s voice sharpens. “You think that’s smart? The more you know, the more dangerous this gets.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “He deserves the truth. He’s been chasing ghosts since his father died, and if this helps him at all get answers, I’m not sitting on it.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “Just be careful. This is not a game.”
“I know.” I pause. “Would you talk to him if he has any questions? Maybe you could describe who you saw?”
“I will,” he says. “I don’t want my name dragged into this, but I know at least one of those guys works for Duvall.”
That name rattles me to my core. I’ve never had any direct interaction with them, but I’ve heard my father talk about them.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll talk to Ridge and reach out.”
As I turn away, my thoughts are already spiraling, pieces snapping together too fast to keep up with all of it. If the Duvalls were involved, Ridge needs to hear it from me. He may dismiss it for all I know, but I don’t want there to be any more bad blood between my father and him.
Later, stretched across my bed at my dad’s house, I stare at my phone, my thumb hovering over Ridge’s contact.
I acted like I didn’t care that he gave me his number last night, but I put it in as soon as I got home.
It was quick, almost mechanical, like neither of us wanted to acknowledge what it meant in that moment. I saved his number anyway.
Now his name sits on my screen, my thumb hovering over the message icon like it’s a loaded switch.
Should I text him?
What would I even say that wouldn’t open a door I’m already standing in front of?
The screen changes before I make up my mind.
A text bubble slides in.
Ridge.
I stare at it for a second, my pulse skidding. I never gave him my number.
Of course he has it.
Midnight. The bunker. If you can sneak out, I’ll be there. If not, don’t risk it. I’ll try again tomorrow.
For a second, I just stare at it, my breath stopping like my body has forgotten what comes next.
Heat floods through me so fast it almost hurts. Relief. Want. A sharp and reckless pang spreads before I can get control of it.
He told me it couldn’t happen. He was firm, leaving no room for argument. I went to bed last night, telling myself that was it, that I would not be the one to push again.
And now here he is, dropping into my DMs when I didn’t even know he had my number, asking me to come over.
Not demanding or apologizing. Just opening the space and letting me know that the door hasn’t closed.
My thumb hovers over the screen, heart beating hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.
I glance around my room and listen to the quiet house. Then I look back at his message. The house is settled now, the kind of stillness that comes late, when everyone believes the night is done making demands.
My father’s weekly Tuesday meeting ran long, but he’s home. He’s locked in his bedroom.
I step into the hallway, careful with my weight, each step placed instead of taken, so I don’t alert him that I’m up and moving around.
I pause outside his door and listen.
The television murmurs faintly through the wood. It sounds like he’s watching his Peaky Blinders, the show he falls asleep to every night.
Which means he believes I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
Perfect.
I go back to my room and close the door softly without turning on the light. I move on instinct, pulling on jeans and a sweater, slipping my shoes on in my hand instead of my feet.
The mirror catches a glimpse of me as I pass. Flushed. Awake. Already gone.
The back staircase creaks less if you know where to step. I learned that years ago. I take it slowly, counting each footfall, pausing once when the house settles around me.
When I confirm no one is stirring, I slip out of the mudroom door.
The night air hits my face the second I step outside, sharp and clean. I pull my sweater tighter as I cross the drive and unlock my car, the beep-beep loud in the quiet.
I pull away, keeping the lights low until the house disappears behind me.
I park just outside the house, texting Ridge as I step into the unseasonably chilly night. My fingers tremble slightly as I type.
I’m here.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Come through the main house. Door’s unlocked. I’ll meet you in the bunker.
I follow his instructions, slipping into the quiet, mostly dark house. The space feels hollow at this hour. My boots sound too loud against the floor as I move down the hall, each faint creak sharpening my awareness.
The thick metal door at the end of the corridor sits slightly ajar. I pause there, my hand resting against the cool surface before pushing it open.
The bunker smells the same as it did. Clean water, damp soil. Something green and quietly thriving beneath all the concrete. My body registers it before my mind does, the sense memory settling me even as it reminds me where I am.
Ridge stands near the table, his phone in one hand, the other braced against the back of a chair. The overhead light casts a hard line across his shoulders, catching the tension he’s holding there.
His gaze lifts, sharp at first, then softens when he sees me. Just enough to knock the breath loose in my chest.
“I’m glad you came,” he says, voice low.
I nod, stepping closer. “I’m glad you texted me. I was about to write you when it came through.”
His mouth curves slightly. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I mean, I’m fine. But I found out something.”
“What?”
“I met Iggy today. At the cemetery.”
His jaw tightens. “The guy I hit.”
“Yes. Him.” I keep my voice steady. “He told me something about the night your father…”
Ridge goes still. Even the hum of the lights seems louder in the pause. “Like what?”
“He didn’t know anything at the time. But that night, he passed the warehouse where they found your father. He saw who was around it that night.” I hold his gaze. “They weren’t my father’s men.”
A breath leaves him slowly through his nose.
He doesn’t say anything. He shifts his grip on the chair instead, fingers tightening until the wood leg shifts on the floor.
“Does he have a name?” he asks.
“He didn’t say to me, but I know he recognized at least one of them. He’s certain they work for Duvall.”
Ridge leans back against the table and crosses his arms, looking away at nothing before turning back to me. “He’s sure.”
“He’s positive. And he’s willing to talk to you. Describe who he saw.”
Silence stretches, dense but focused. Then Ridge nods once. “Set it up. Tomorrow.”
Something steady settles in my chest at the decisiveness of it. “I’ll call him in the morning.”
Ridge’s attention comes back to me fully then. “Thank you for bringing this to me.”
“I told you I would help,” I say. “However I can.”
He pulls me back into him, his hold firm, protective. This time when I look up at him, his gaze is darker, conflicted.
“Coco,” he says, low.
He doesn’t wait for me to move. His hand comes up, fingers firm at my jaw, and he kisses me like the decision has already been made.
The first press of his mouth is controlled, measured. Then his breath catches, and the restraint slips. The kiss deepens, heat rushing in where he was trying to hold the line.
The table presses into my back as he lifts me onto it, his body close but not careless, tension coiled rather than spent.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his mouth near my ear, hands steady at my thighs.
I meet his gaze. “Please don’t stop.”