Chapter 25
Ryder
I shouldn’t be surprised that my mother’s text this morning was a trap. She mentioned finding a vintage Camillus blade that I’d lost years ago, before leaving for college, and without hesitation, I’d driven over to pick it up.
Priceless, if she or the maid had actually found it…and she had. But my father was also there, with a small group of his “associates.”
“Show them around,” Hinto says, like it’s a favor, like he’s giving me something instead of assigning me a task. His hand settles briefly on the back of my neck as he says it. The light pressure looks affectionate from the outside and feels like control from where I stand.
I don’t pull away; not here. Unsurprisingly, Mama already disappeared. Hopefully she feels at least a sliver of guilt for this.
“Of course,” I reply, just smooth enough to make it seem like we’re one big happy family. Ignoring the fact that I’m no longer part of my father’s business.
The men he leaves me with are not his usual circle.
That’s the first thing I notice once we step outside and toward the SUVs waiting to bring us into the city.
There are four of them, all dressed well, all carrying themselves like they belong in another state, not Florida—especially given the sweat stains under their arms.
I recognize two men from his “homecoming” party.
“Your father speaks highly of you,” one of them says as we walk, his gaze lingering too long, too openly. “Says you know the city.”
“I do,” I answer. He smiles like that’s amusing.
I don’t smile back.
We start with the clubs. It’s the easiest way to establish credibility, to give them something visible, something profitable that doesn’t require too much explanation.
The first one is already busy, even this early in the afternoon, music bleeding through the walls as we step inside.
Lights flash across the dance floor, bodies moving in rhythm, drinks flowing freely at the bar.
I watch them as much as they watch the space.
The way their eyes assess security, risk, and staff. The quick, subtle exchanges between them say more than their words do.
They’re not tourists. They’re here evaluating for some reason.
“This one does well,” I say, gesturing toward the bar. “High volume, steady turnover. Cash-heavy.”
One of them nods. “And the product?”
“Moves through the back,” I reply easily. “Controlled. Select clientele.”
That part is still true…for now. I have no idea what Papa might have in mind, especially with stiffs like these guys. They’re so far outside of his normal partners and are much more buttoned-up.
We move again before they can ask more questions, stepping back into the street and toward the next location. I keep my pace steady, my voice calm, my posture relaxed. On the outside, I’m playing the role they expect.
On the inside, I’m cataloging everything. Accents. Speech patterns. The way they defer to one another.
The one who speaks the least is the one they watch the most.
Interesting.
“You run this for your father?” another man asks as we walk.
“Not really, and not anymore. I’m a data analyst.”
The men share amused glances. “Must be nice,” the one who asked the question replies, tone edged with something I don’t bother identifying. “Being handed everything.”
I glance at him. “Nothing I have was ever just handed to me,” I say. “I have a degree and five years of fieldwork.”
He chuckles like I’ve told a joke.
We drive to one of the warehouses next, a place that used to run tighter than anything else in my father’s network.
It’s where his drug shipments arrive, so it’s the one place he put real effort into.
I unlock the door and lead them inside, the scent of chemicals and packaging materials hitting immediately.
“This is where distribution gets…organized,” I say.
Their interest sharpens. They move deeper into the space, looking at everything, touching what they shouldn’t. I let them.
“He’s getting sloppy,” I add casually, like it’s an afterthought.
That gets their attention.
“What do you mean?” the quiet one asks. “You said you weren’t involved any longer.” His eyes narrow. “Your husband—a Russian. You’ve been shifted to his property, I assume.”
The way he says it insinuates that I am the property.
I ignore the dig and shrug lightly. “More volume. Less discretion. He’s pushing faster than he should.”
One of the others frowns. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“It is when you have enemies watching,” I reply. “Law enforcement here isn’t as blind as people think, and some of his rivals are less patient than they used to be. Plus, with my father focused on Savannah, palms here aren’t getting greased as often. Eventually they’ll be unhappy with that.”
Silence follows that.
Good. Let them think about it.
I turn to move back toward the door, already deciding what I’ll tell Liev later. Names, behaviors, the subtle hierarchy I’m starting to see form between them.
A hand grabs my arm. Hard.
I freeze for a fraction of a second, more from surprise than anything else, then slowly turn my head.
The man holding me grins, his grip tightening just enough to make the message clear.
My mind flashes briefly to the Camillus, tucked into the waist of my pants, and I wonder if it’s still sharp enough to slice through this one’s forearm tendons.
“You talk a lot,” he says. “For someone in your position.”
“Let go,” I say evenly.
He laughs, but doesn’t move.
The room shifts; two of the men turn away, casually striding over to a stack of crates and murmuring in low conversation. The other man, the quiet one—he watches, eyes narrowed. A cigarette hanging from his bottom lip.
The man holding onto me licks his lips.
Then—
A sharp, precise movement.
Vivienne appears like she’s been there the whole time, stepping into the space with an effortless grace that doesn’t match what happens next. Her hand catches his wrist, twists, and—
A sickening pop cuts through the air.
The man gasps, dropping to one knee as his arm goes limp, the joint displaced cleanly and efficiently.
Vivienne doesn’t even blink. She releases him like he’s nothing, smoothing her skirt with her other hand as if she just adjusted a wrinkle. The two men across the warehouse stare in shock; the quiet one only watches, smoke from his cigarette rising slowly, eyes trained on the assassin.
“You should listen when she speaks,” she says mildly.
I flex my arm once; the lingering pressure already fading. “Shall we continue?” I ask, like nothing happened.
No one argues. And just like that, the balance shifts back to where it belongs.
* * *
We stop a few blocks away from the last location, the car idling at the curb.
The men peeled off ten minutes ago, all polite smiles and measured words, like nothing happened earlier.
They completely ignored the fact that they didn’t just watch one of their own get dropped to his knees without warning.
I lean back in my seat, exhaling slowly.
Vivienne doesn’t start the engine right away.
She glances at me instead, her expression thoughtful. “Just so we’re clear,” she says lightly, “that wasn’t personal.”
I arch a brow. “Dislocating his wrist?”
“No,” she replies, lips curving faintly. “The part where I intervened.”
I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “You dislocated his wrist because he touched me?”
“Yes.”
“That feels personal.”
“It’s not,” she says, staring into the rearview mirror. “It’s policy. Viktor found the last two men, so Liev asked me to make sure you were safe today.”
I study her. She doesn’t look away.
“No one touches family,” she adds simply.
I look out the window for a second, watching people move along the sidewalk, completely unaware of the conversation happening inside this car. Family. The word has always felt conditional to me; something tied to expectation and control more than anything real.
But the way she says it…
“I could’ve handled it,” I say after a moment.
“I know,” Vivienne replies easily. “I’ve heard about your wedding night.
Or, what was supposed to be your wedding night, rather.
” Her slow grin makes me laugh, the heat of a blush on my cheeks.
“Liev didn’t stop talking about it for days.
The way you left men in the alleys, but left all of them alive. ”
Taking a deep breath and finally feeling calm for the first time today, I ask, “Then why step in?”
Vivienne shrugs. “Because I was there.”
I let that sit for a second, then nod. “Thank you.”
The words feel strange in my mouth. Not because I don’t mean them, but because I don’t say them often.
“You’re welcome.”
Silence settles between us again, quieter this time, less edged.
I shift in my seat, rolling my shoulder once, then glance at her. “I was…prickly when we first met.”
Her lips twitch. “You were.”
“You didn’t make it easy.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” she says, completely unbothered.
That earns a small, reluctant smile from me. It fades quickly, but it’s there.
Vivienne watches me for a moment, then leans back, her expression slipping into something knowing. “You were territorial,” she says. “It’s understandable.”
“I wasn’t territorial.”
“You were,” she repeats, amused now. “About him.”
My jaw tightens. “No. This isn’t—” I cut myself off, exhaling through my nose. “It’s not like that.”
Vivienne tilts her head. “You don’t love him?”
I look away immediately, focusing on the street again, on anything that isn’t her eyes on me.
“No,” I say.
But it comes out too fast, too flat. Still, she doesn’t call me on it, which somehow makes this worse.
“If you say so.”
“I do,” I reply.
I have to, because anything else complicates things in ways I can’t afford.
This marriage was supposed to be a way out from under my father’s control and back into a city I know how to navigate. It was supposed to lead to a path that is mine, even if I have to share it with an unwanted husband.
I can’t let it become something else. If it does, I lose leverage. I lose the ability to walk away when I need to.
And I will need to.
I’ve been watching my father closely since he came back to Miami. I’m paying attention to the cracks I didn’t notice before and the ones I refused to see. The new people. The looser operations. The risks he’s taking, like he thinks he’s untouchable.
He isn’t. No one is.
Information is leverage, patterns are weaknesses, and for the first time I’m starting to see how exposed he really is if someone looks at him the right way. Not as a father, but as a target.
Vivienne starts the car. “Whatever this is between you and Liev,” she says casually, pulling into traffic, “just make sure you don’t underestimate it.”
I lean my head back against the seat, eyes closing for a brief second.
“I won’t,” I murmur.
But I’m not thinking about Liev.
I’m thinking about my father.
And the quiet, dangerous possibility that I might be the one to bring him down.