Chapter 23
Ryder
The gates are wide open.
Not cracked, not halfway, not guarded and controlled the way they always used to be when I lived here, but wide open, like this is a celebration. Which, judging from my mother’s text late last night, it is.
Music spills out into the driveway, layered with loose, loud laughter. It reaches us before we even step out of the car, wrapping around my throat like a hand.
I don’t move right away.
Liev shuts the door beside me, the sound solid and controlled in contrast to everything bleeding out of the mansion.
For a second, neither of us speaks. I stare at the front of the house, at the lights glowing through every window, at the silhouettes moving inside like shadows in a play I’ve already memorized.
“Ryder.”
His voice is low and steady. I don’t look at him.
“You’re sure about this?”
That draws my attention to him.
I glance at him, taking in the deliberate simplicity of his appearance. Jeans, like mine. The gray guayabera fits him too well to be accidental; the clean lines and soft fabric somehow making him look more dangerous, not less. It draws out the silver at his temples, sharpens the angles of his face.
He looks like a man who doesn’t need to prove anything. He wore this in solidarity.
The thought makes me feel less alone in whatever the fuck this is.
My gaze drops briefly to my reflection in the dark glass of the car. Jeans, a simple fitted t-shirt. Nothing soft about it, nothing that says I dressed for anyone but myself. My mother’s voice echoes in my head, formal, carino, it’s important, and something hot and bitter curls in my chest.
“I’m sure,” I say.
Liev studies me for a second longer, like he’s measuring the tension under my skin, then nods. He doesn’t push.
Good.
I don’t have the patience for it tonight.
I turn toward the house before I can think too hard about what’s waiting inside.
My boots hit the stone path, Liev falling into step beside me.
The music gets louder with every step, bass threading through my ribs, laughter spilling out in bursts that feel almost artificial.
The fountains have been dyed bright colors and look absolutely ridiculous.
By the time we reach the doors, I’m already braced.
I push them open without knocking. The sound hits me first.
Voices overlapping, glasses clinking, music pulsing through hidden speakers. It’s louder inside, thicker, soaked in alcohol and cologne.
There are more people than I expected. At least twenty-five, maybe thirty, and I don’t recognize many of them. That puts my hackles up.
The space is crowded with bodies moving in loose clusters. Men in expensive shirts with top buttons undone, women in dresses that cling and shimmer. Servers weave through the room with trays of hors d’oeuvres, the scent of fried and spiced food cutting through everything else.
Everyone looks relaxed. Too relaxed.
Tipsy, at a minimum. Some of them have already passed tipsy, and it’s barely eight p.m.
No one notices me at first. That doesn’t surprise me. This is what my father’s gatherings look like when he’s in control. Loud, indulgent, and designed to make people forget where they are and who they’re dealing with.
He didn’t come when I needed him.
The thought lands hard, threatening to make my eyes water. I clench my teeth in annoyance and fight back the spike of emotion.
When things in Savannah were unraveling, when my life was being threatened and every move felt like I was walking into a trap, he stayed away.
But now?
Now he’s here. In Miami. Throwing a party.
Heat creeps up my spine, settling behind my ribs, steady and sharp.
A server passes in front of me and hesitates, recognizing me just enough to falter. I take a glass of something without looking at it, just to give my hands something to do. I know now I can’t drink alcohol; not when I’m six weeks pregnant.
Liev stays close. Not touching, not crowding, but there. Present.
We move farther into the room, and I see my mother. She stands near the center of it all, exactly where she belongs in a room like this. She looks beautiful and effortless, with her dark hair swept back from her face and a dress that fits her body perfectly, as if it were made just for her.
She’s laughing.
For a moment, everything else fades. The noise, the crowd, the tension humming in my body; it all blurs as I watch her. There’s something in my chest that twists, tight and aching, because I know that laugh. I know the way her eyes crease at the corners when she’s happy.
I know what it looks like when it isn’t forced.
And this looks real.
My father steps into her space like he was summoned by the thought. He says something I can’t hear, something low enough that it makes her smile soften, and then he leans in and kisses her.
For a split second, something stupid and fragile rises in my chest. A wish that this was real.
That this version of them—the laughing, the closeness, the easy affection—wasn’t just another performance. That somewhere under everything else, there’s a version of my parents that chose each other and meant it.
The thought cracks almost immediately because I know better.
This is nothing more than a facade. A carefully constructed illusion built to keep everyone comfortable, loyal, and blind.
Ply them with alcohol, food, and excess, and they’ll stay happy and stupid.
Keep peddling my father’s drugs and turning the other cheek to his illegal activities.
Then my father looks up and sees me.
The shift is immediate, though subtle enough that no one else would catch it. But I do. I always do.
His expression darkens.
Just for a second.
The warmth drains from his features, replaced by something sharper, colder.
Taking in my clothes. My posture. The fact that I didn’t do what I was told.
The fact that I didn’t play along.
The moment stretches between us, heavy and silent despite the noise around us.
Then, just as quickly, the mask slides back into place.
The smile returns.
But I’ve already seen what was underneath.
The pressure in my chest lingers a second too long. Then Liev’s hand closes around mine. It’s not forceful or a command, just firm enough to ground me. To pull me out of my head before I spiral.
He doesn’t look at me, not directly, but his thumb shifts slightly against my palm, a quiet acknowledgment. “Ready?” A slight, encouraging tug, and we head toward my parents.
My mother sees me, and her face lights up, genuine warmth eased by the liquor. “Ryder,” she breathes, pulling me into a quick embrace.
For a second, I let myself lean into it. Then I pull back.
“Hija,” she says, looking me over. Her gaze flicks to my clothes, hesitates, but she doesn’t comment. Not here.
My father turns his attention to us, a smile already in place.
“Ah,” Hinto Moreno says, spreading his arms slightly. “There she is. My daughter finally decides to join us.”
I stiffen at the tone. Liev doesn’t.
He steps forward just enough to shift the balance. “We wouldn’t miss your visit,” he says smoothly. Then, just slightly, “Though I didn’t realize we were arriving late to it.”
It’s subtle.
But it lands.
My father’s smile tightens at the edges, just for a fraction of a second before he recovers. “Miami moves fast,” he replies easily. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I already have,” Liev says.
Mama claps her hands lightly, cutting through the tension with practiced ease. “Enough,” she says warmly, her gaze moving between them. “You’re both here, that’s what matters. This is a happy night.”
Her hand brushes my arm again, soft and loose. “Go,” she adds gently. “Eat something. Enjoy yourselves. You look like you’ve walked into a business meeting, not a party.”
I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, I nod. “We’ll be around.”
Liev inclines his head politely, and then we move again, slipping away before my father can say anything else that will make this worse.
We weave through the crowd, deeper into the house.
The music fades slightly the farther we go, replaced by quieter conversations and the low hum of people who prefer to talk rather than perform.
We end up in the sitting room tucked off to the side with low couches and dim lighting.
There’s only one other couple in here, whispering to one another, the sexual tension between them palpable. Liev and I share an amused glance.
He stays standing for a moment, scanning the large dining room, cataloging faces. Only when he’s satisfied does he take the seat beside me.
“Who are they?” he asks quietly.
I follow his gaze. Clusters of men I don’t recognize. Some younger, some older. None of the familiar faces I grew up seeing in my father’s orbit. No long-standing lieutenants, no trusted partners.
“No idea,” I admit.
His attention sharpens. “None?”
“Maybe one or two,” I say slowly. “But most of them? No, these aren’t his usual people.”
My father doesn’t mix circles like this. He knows enough to realize that his operation isn’t tight enough to risk exposure. So who are these people?
Liev shifts slightly beside me, casual enough that it doesn’t draw attention. His phone appears in his hand for a second, angled low, subtle.
Click.
Another shift.
Click.
He’s taking pictures. His glance up to my eyes asks silently: Any objections? But some small part of me knows that something about tonight is off. Something about this crowd is wrong, and I’m just as curious as my husband about who these people are.
I give a small shrug, tuck myself into him as if we’re a loving couple visiting family for the evening.
Across the room, my father laughs at something one of the men says, clapping him on the shoulder like they’ve known each other for years. It’s convincing.
“Watch him,” Liev murmurs.
“I always do.”
We sit there for a while, observing.
People move in and out, conversations overlapping, alliances forming and dissolving in real time. I catch snippets and vague references that don’t quite line up with what I know of my father’s current operations.
It makes my skin itch.
Then my father approaches.
He’s flanked by two men I don’t recognize, both watching Liev with open curiosity. My spine straightens automatically as they stop in front of us.
“Settling in well?” Hinto asks, tone light.
Liev leans back slightly, relaxed in a way that isn’t relaxed at all. His legs are spread wide, taking up space, and I place a hand on his thigh. Watching my father’s jaw tick. “I am.”
“I’ve heard otherwise,” Hinto continues, smile sharpening. “Some… trouble. Adjustments can be difficult.”
Liev doesn’t rise to it. “I handle my adjustments,” he says evenly.
One of the men chuckles, like this is all very amusing.
My father’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Liev. “And Ryder? She’s helping you, yes? She’s always been useful.”
Old irritation flares, hot and immediate.
“She knows her place,” he adds, almost absentmindedly, like he’s discussing inventory. “Always has.”
Something inside me snaps, but before I can speak, Liev does. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the temperature around us drops.
“She stands beside me,” he says, calm and absolute. “Not behind me.”
Silence.
It falls fast, cutting through the low noise of the room like a blade.
The two men glance between them, the tension suddenly very real, very visible. My father’s expression stills.
For a second, the mask he wears slips. Not enough for anyone else to catch, but I see it. That familiar flicker of offense and rage that used to break statues and canvases in this very house. Make my mother cry in a locked room.
I don’t move.
Then, slowly, Hinto smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “A modern man.”
The words sound like praise, but they aren’t. He steps closer, just enough that only we can hear him now. His gaze locks onto Liev’s, but the warmth is completely gone.
“Just remember,” he murmurs, voice low and quiet, “Miami isn’t yours.” A beat. “Not yet.”
A warning wrapped in civility. Beneath my palm, Liev’s thigh stiffens like a predator ready to attack. Then my father turns away, chatting easily with an arm around one of the men.
And just like that, the game shifts again.