Chapter 22 Ridge #2
“Don’t you fucking tell me who my father was,” I say. “He drew his line and you didn’t like where it landed. End of story.”
Alton coughs, wet and ugly. “We didn’t kill him.”
I straighten slightly, resting my hands on the back of his chair.
“Your men were stationed at this warehouse the night he was taken,” I say. “Your shipments tripled within forty-eight hours of his death, moving through a channel you were explicitly denied. You expect me to believe those two facts aren’t connected?”
Silence answers me.
Colin jerks forward. “We didn’t give the order,” he blurts. “We didn’t—”
“You set the conditions,” I cut in, turning just enough that he knows I’m including him. “You created urgency. You created incentive. You created a problem someone solved for you.”
Alton’s head drops. Not in guilt, but in calculation that’s run out of room.
“You thought this would look like chaos,” I continue. “A grieving company, leadership in flux. Two families distracted by old grudges while you ran freight through a gap you didn’t earn.”
I step back, giving him space. I don’t rush. This isn’t emotional. This is accounting.
“You misjudged one thing,” I say. “You assumed I’d treat my father’s death like a loss I could write off.”
I move behind him. He stiffens when my hand settles at his shoulder. His body reacts even when his voice can’t.
“This ends because you made it necessary,” I say quietly. “Not because I need you to suffer, but because you proved greed and access were more important to you than human life. Now you will lose yours.”
I draw the blade and drive it in once, precise and controlled, exactly where it needs to go. There’s resistance. Then there isn’t.
Alton’s body jerks, then slumps forward, weight pulling against the restraints until gravity finishes the job.
The room goes very still.
Colin’s breathing fractures. “Please,” he says. “We’ve coexisted for years. We could have fixed this. We could have talked.”
I turn toward him.
“You don’t get to negotiate after you decide someone else’s life is expendable,” I say. “That window closed the moment you benefited from his death.”
He shakes his head, eyes wide. “I didn’t touch him.”
I draw the Sig and raise it.
“You didn’t stop it,” I say.
The shot is clean. Controlled. Over before his body has time to react.
When the sound fades, the room settles back into silence.
I lower the gun and secure it at my back. My hands are steady. That’s how I know I can live with the outcome.
I text Augie.
It’s done. Handle cleanup.
When I step outside, the night swallows me in one bite.
Fake blood, plastic knives, and laughing faces painted with fear they don’t understand fill the streets.
None of it touches me, though. This isn’t a celebration or a spectacle.
The bar is still alive past midnight.
Smoke hangs low, tangled with the bite of expensive bourbon and the weight of too many conversations happening at once. The Orchid doesn’t need volume to feel full. It carries its own rhythm, steady and contained, the kind that doesn’t spike or spill.
I’ve been here for over an hour. Long enough to know I’m drinking more than I should, not enough for it to matter. My thoughts keep looping the same stretch of road, circling what’s already happened and what comes next, without landing anywhere useful.
Vin took his time getting here. That wasn’t an accident.
He wasn’t at the warehouse tonight. I wanted to tell him myself how it ended.
He’s the one who’s been pushing me to stop operating in the margins. To let the city understand who I am now, not just whose son I was.
Now they will.
It’s quieter than usual, but I doubt it has anything to do with Halloween. Most of the people who come here don’t bother with costumes. The theatrics don’t interest them. If anything, they’re probably out in the streets enjoying the chaos.
For men like us, every night carries its own version of it.
I sit in one of the back booths, freshly showered, clean clothes, sleeves rolled to my forearms. The blood is gone from my hands, but it hasn’t let go completely. It lingers in ways soap can’t touch.
Vin slides in across from me, already wearing that familiar half-smile. His confidence is sharp tonight, keyed up, like he’s been waiting for this confirmation.
“You look like someone who’s had a long night,” he says, catching Beck’s attention with a glance. “Two bourbons.”
“I finished it,” I say, leaning back against the booth. “Both of them.”
Vin studies my face, not reacting yet. “So it’s done.”
I nod. “Alton and Colin won’t be a problem again.”
He lets out a low breath through his teeth, not surprised, just acknowledging the weight of it. “That’s definitive.”
I don’t respond to that. There’s nothing to add.
“Speaking of clean-up,” I say instead, “check in with Augie. I want everything gone. No noise. No questions later. I sent word through Beau, but I want confirmation.”
Vin is already pulling out his phone. “I’ll handle it.”
Beck drops the drinks. Vin sets his phone aside and wraps his hand around his glass, like grounding himself.
Vin lifts his glass but doesn’t smile. “Ports hate instability. This puts things back where they belong.”
I clink my glass against his and drink. The burn does nothing to smooth the edge inside me.
He leans back in his chair. “And it shows. Calls started coming in this morning. Schedules tightening up. People want to know when lanes are reopening, what capacity looks like next week. Confidence is already coming back.”
“That was the point,” I say. “This wasn’t about optics. It was about order.”
He nods once. “Your father understood that.”
The mention tightens something in my chest, sharp and fast.
Vin nods. “And they are. With them out of the picture, it’s business again. The docks don’t need drama. They need predictability.”
I take another drink, let the weight of that settle.
“Boudreaux’s still part of that,” I say. “Whether I like it or not.”
Vin doesn’t argue. “He handles the labor side, placements, shitty union relationships. He keeps people working. You bring in the freight. You create the volume that keeps the whole thing alive.”
Different roles. Same ecosystem.
“We don’t have to like each other,” I say. “We just have to do our jobs.”
Vin’s mouth tilts slightly. “Exactly. Everyone makes money if everyone does what their supposed to do”
I look down at my glass, watching the liquid shift. The city outside is still moving. Ships still coming in. Containers still stacking.
I drain the rest of my drink and set the glass down. “I was surprised you weren’t there when we took them out.”
Vin meets my gaze without flinching. “Didn’t think you needed backup. And someone had to stay visible. Phones are lighting up, so I was making sure everything was accounted for.”
The answer makes sense. It always does with him.
Still, the question lingers longer than it should. I let it pass.
“Good,” I say, standing. “Stay on top of it. I’m ready to get back to work. I’m done living in reaction mode.”
I’m not sure how I got here.
My hands brace against her front doorframe, palms flat, forehead pressed to the wood like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
I don’t remember knocking. I don’t remember deciding. One moment I was in the car, the next she’s there, eyes wide, already scanning the street.
“Ridge,” she says, sharp and low. “What are you doing here? You know we said it wouldn’t be safe for you to show up here like this.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her hand grips my sleeve, and she pulls me inside, shutting the door quickly behind us.
I stumble, just barely catching myself. It strikes me then, in a distant, sideways way, that I’ve never actually seen where she lives. All this sneaking, all this wanting, and I’ve never crossed this threshold before.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say, the words slow and clumsy in my mouth.
She snorts.
“Shut up. I doubt you can see anything. What did you do tonight?” Her nose wrinkles. “You smell like rubbing alcohol and cigars. Sit down.”
The lamp on the side table throws soft light across the room. It’s warm and steady when everything else is a little fuzzy and tilting. The floor has decided to shift without warning, causing the bourbon to churn in my gut.
I catch the faint trace of her sweet vanilla and something sharper underneath, and it makes thinking harder than it already is.
She kneels in front of me, fingers going for my boots.
“You don’t have to do that,” I murmur. My voice drags. “I just… I wanted to tell you goodnight. I couldn’t end today without seeing you.”
She looks up at me, expression unreadable, then softer than I deserve. “Sweetheart, the day ended hours ago.”
She pulls one boot free, then the other, setting them neatly aside.
“The sun will be up soon,” she adds. “That’ll be a new day.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” I say, leaning back against the couch, my head tipping to the side so I can look at her.
“You’re right,” she says calmly. “And you’re drunk.”
She stands and eases my jacket off my shoulders. Her hands are steady and sure, a comfort I yearn for but don’t let myself indulge in.
She folds it over the back of a chair like this is normal. Like I haven’t walked in carrying something ugly and heavy with me.
The alcohol and being here with her like this pulls something I’ve stuffed down years ago loose in my chest. It’s the kind of ache I’ve learned over the years to never touch.
My mother flashes through my mind without warning, and I push it away just as fast.
“I’m always careful,” I say. “But tonight… I didn’t want to be.”
She sits on the edge of the coffee table, knees brushing mine. “You could have called,” she says gently. “You told me you would be tied up all night. I would’ve met you at the bunker.”
I let out a rough laugh. “How did I not think of that?”
The truth sits there, unspoken. I didn’t want to hide. I wanted to come here. I wanted to walk through her front door like I had every right to be here.
She reaches for my hand, and the warmth and familiarity and connection are everything.
Something in me shifts too fast, too far. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
“I love you.”
Her hand stills.
For a beat, the room is perfectly quiet. No hum of the city. No sound but my pulse thudding in my ears.
She opens her mouth.
I shake my head, slow and deliberate. “Don’t,” I say. “Just… don’t say anything right now.”
I don’t know if I’m protecting her or myself. I just know if she speaks, this changes into something I’m not ready to face sober.
She doesn’t pull away or answer. And I realize I’m fucked.