Chapter Twenty - Ryder
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ryder
I wish I could focus on the game of poker that I’m losing like a rookie, but I can’t. My thoughts are reserved for the woman inside, entertaining the capos’ dates, so I have the chance to pick their brains now that they’ve been loosened up with food and alcohol.
Rachel’s hair falls over her shoulders in loose, natural curls that I know she spent a lot of time arranging.
Her outfit is the perfect mix of professional and elegant—now lacking the bulky charm that I locked away in a safe—and I can’t bring myself to care about the money I’m losing as I let my focus take her in.
Beautiful is such an inadequate word to describe my Rachel.
She’s not only beautiful in the sense of her physical features, but also in her genuine kindness, her pure intentions, and her unwavering strength.
It’s no wonder the other women gravitate toward her, though she minimally contributes to their conversation.
She hosts like she was born to do it, even if she’s likely counting down the minutes until she can change into her pajamas and a pair of fuzzy socks.
The women pass around a bottle of wine to top off their glasses, and after Rachel politely declines, she glances in my direction.
One—not particularly expressive—look from her is enough to make me want to kick everyone out and have this woman all to myself. I don’t care if all we do is talk—hell, I’ll even take her yelling at me if it means I get to spend time with her.
I’m not under any illusions. I know how Rachel feels. I know that three years ago, she walked away from me—from us—and hasn’t looked back.
But I have.
I’m not sure there’s a single thing she could do that would ever change how I feel about her.
And right now, in a moment where absolutely nothing significant is happening, those feelings are nearly overwhelming, leaving a physical ache that reverberates just behind my ribcage.
Rachel—oblivious to the torrent of need tearing me apart from the inside out—lifts a curious brow. I subtly shake my head in answer and scratch my chin to play it off like I’m assessing the cards in my hand.
Before the women came back from their tour and stole my focus, I genuinely enjoyed playing poker with the capos.
It’s a surprisingly pleasant combination of cards, whiskey, cigars, and exchanging stories.
Harris does most of the talking, but I jump in from time to time, and even Briggs—as reluctantly as he seems to do everything—shares about the days of his prime.
Knox is quiet, and I’m still trying to figure out if it’s his personality or if he’s still not used to the dynamic of being a capo instead of a soldier.
When I catch Rachel checking her watch for the fourth time in a minute, I decide to put the plan in motion.
“I finished auditing the records that could be related to Mason Consoli,” I state nonchalantly, and I pour two fingers of whiskey into my glass.
Harris drops his head back. “And here I thought we were doing so well avoiding work talk.”
Briggs regards me with a mix of interest and ire. “Is that so?”
“Didn’t find a single thing,” I say with a shrug. “I have a flash drive for each of you, so everyone can take a look before we call it, but I’d say it’s safe to assume our base isn’t where Mason was taking from.”
“And what did Moreno say about this?”
The mention of Moreno is salt in the wound, and Briggs knows it.
“I figured you’d appreciate looking through the files before we send him the verdict.”
Briggs nods, a sly haughtiness icing his features. “I’ll take a look and personally give Mr. Moreno my thoughts when I see him in a few weeks.”
I know he’s baiting me, but I can’t help giving in and raising a single brow to ask the question for me. Briggs is all too smug when he leans back in his chair. “The capo conference is coming up, and Moreno has already extended my invitation.”
Of course, Briggs would be invited to the capo conference. One capo from every base comes to LA once a year to meet with Moreno for a week of meetings and training. I hadn’t expected an invitation, but it’s the first time since Moreno came into power that I’ll miss it.
I know better than to give Briggs the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of me, so I only nod and return to our game.
We play a few more rounds, and I shoot Rachel a text, letting her know it won’t be much longer.
Harris leans back in his chair. “Got to say, Bates, this was pretty nice.”
“This is a typical night in Los Angeles. We should do it more often.”
“Not sure Harris’s wallet could handle this as a routine,” Knox jabs.
It’s one of the few things he’s said all night, and I take it as a victory.
“One night of bad luck doesn’t mean anything. I rarely lose,” Harris retorts.
Even Knox chuckles at that.
There’s something peaceful in the fact that tonight brought out a more relaxed side in the capos. Nights like this are routine in LA, and it’s strange that none of the capos here are close the way everyone back home is.
Home.
The usual longing that accompanies that word doesn’t have the same sobering effect as it has since I left, and though I’m sure it’s only time that’s eased the pain of my exile, I can’t stop my eyes from wandering to the woman inside for the thousandth time.
Two hours later, Rachel opens the door to the office I’ve been waiting in since everyone left an hour ago.
Just like I predicted, she’s wearing a matching set of silk pajamas and bright pink fuzzy socks that Lyla gave her for Mother’s Day.
She also carries two cups—one a mug with a tea bag hanging from the side, and the other is my refilled whiskey glass.
I thank her as I take it. “Anything from the women?”
“As far as I can tell, they don’t know anything,” she says as she settles into the chaise.
“At least, I’m sure that Ava and Emily don’t.
They haven’t been around long enough that they’d be trusted with anything.
Donna’s been with Briggs for over a decade, so she’s the only one who might be involved, but I doubt it. ”
“Why?”
She weighs her head from side to side. “I don’t know, I just—I like her.”
I point to one of the pictures hanging on the timeline that still decorates the wall. “And I liked Nate until I had to put a bullet in his head. Liking someone isn’t an indication of whether they’re a traitor.”
She rolls her eyes and pulls her legs beneath her.
“I only spent a few hours with her. Most of it was listening to Ava and Emily relay the most recent season of The Bachelor. So, excuse me if the brief conversations we had didn’t give me the impression she was a thief.”
It was a long shot, but we had to be thorough.
The real test is for the capos, starting with how they reacted to the news that I didn’t find anything in my search.
Unfortunately—but unsurprisingly—the reactions weren’t telling.
For instance, Briggs hates that I took this project in the first place, so his indignation was expected.
Harris looked pleased, but that could easily be because Briggs and I weren’t at each other’s throats, and Knox didn’t show a reaction at all—no big surprise there.
The second part of the test should start any second now.
Like I’ve manifested it myself, the chime I’ve been waiting for finally sounds from the computer.
“Is that it?” Rachel asks, coming to stand at my side.
“One of them,” I say, and we look to where the screen confirms that one of the flash drives has been inserted and opened.
“What if they don’t look through it tonight?”
“They will,” I assure her. One thing all capos have in common is that we’re workaholics. Combine that with the urgency of finding where Mason got his funding from, and it’s guaranteed that each capo will go through the files as soon as they can.
“Can you see who opened it?”
“Knox,” I answer.
The next chime comes in, and we lean in closer to look.
“Harris.”
One more chime, that’s all we need.
“How do the flash drives show you this?”
“They have a virus on them. It’s minimally invasive, nothing they should be able to trace, but it’ll tell us when they’re accessing the files.
The only aspect of the virus that’ll actually affect their personal accounts is that I’ve tailored it to specifically alert us when any report that’s been submitted is being altered. ”
“That’s a thing?”
I shrug. “Kade’s made all sorts of viruses like it. They can be customized, so—”
I’m cut off by the sound of the last chime.
“Briggs,” I confirm. “That’s all of them. Once they look through the files, they’ll agree that nothing is out of place. Then, it’s just a matter of waiting for our culprit to feel safe enough to alter files again. Then, we’ll know exactly where it’s coming from.”
Now that the virus is in place on each capo’s account, I can submit this month’s Rohypnol record in a few days. I’ve set the rate lower than it’s been for months, hoping it will force the traitor to take action.
“We have to celebrate. You know what? I think I have a bottle of champagne downstairs. I’ll go get it.” Rachel practically skips out of the room, and her enthusiasm is one of the few things I can count on to force a smile out of me.
The same overwhelming desire that had me emptying my wallet to the capos sucks me in again, this time with the force of the realization that we’re actually alone. It’s the first time we’ve been together without the threat of Lyla or anyone else interrupting us.
Within five seconds, I’ve come up with hundreds of reasons to convince her to give what we had another chance. Within ten seconds, I’ve stood from my chair to do just that.
At the twelve-second mark, a buzz from the floor stops me where I stand, and I reach to pick up Rachel’s phone. It must have fallen when she darted from the room. I turn it over to check for any cracks on the screen from hitting the floor—there aren’t any—but there is a message.
Unknown number: Hey, Rachel! It’s Jacob Torres. If you’re up for it, I’d love to take you out tomorrow night. Let me know!
Torres? As in, Lyla’s martial arts instructor? When did he get Rachel’s number?
Senseless outrage surges through my veins like pure adrenaline as I spend who-knows-how-long staring at that message. I have half a mind to delete it before she sees, and I might’ve if she hadn’t walked in at that exact moment.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her smile still firmly in place as she holds two empty glasses and a bottle of champagne.
Maybe her good mood is only partially because of the progress we made tonight. Maybe she was already happy from Jacob Torres.
I hold out her phone. “I didn’t know you and Mr. Torres were well acquainted.”
“Did you look through my messages?” she demands, dropping her smile and snatching the phone from my grasp. She barely gets the glasses on the desk before they shatter on the ground.
“You dropped it, and I was checking for cracks when it came through,” I say, tone far calmer than I’m feeling. “It’s extremely inappropriate of him to use the number you gave him on Lyla’s paperwork to ask you on a date. I’ll go in tomorrow and deal with this.”
“It’s not like that,” she says, and… is that a nervous smile? “He asked for my number earlier today, and I gave it to him.”
“Are you serious?”
Whether by my clipped tone or hostile words, I’ve got her full attention now. She lowers her phone, scanning me as if to assess my mood before narrowing her eyes to meet my challenge. “And what if I am?”
“You would go out with a guy like that?”
Her eyes flare. “A guy like what? Who loves kids? Owns a legal business? Has a steady, normal life? You’re right, Ryder. I’m out of my mind for considering going on a date with such a man.”
“And I’m what? Some thug?”
“I never said that. Besides, who even said you were in the running?”
“I used to be.”
“That was four years ago.”
“And you still have no idea what you want.”
“Or maybe I just have the good sense to know it isn’t you.”
I stare into the eyes I dream about every single night and search for an ounce of regret—of anything that would indicate she spoke out of anger and not truth.
But all I find is unwavering conviction.
I gesture to the phone she clutches with white knuckles. “And what are your senses telling you now?”
“That I should give Jacob a chance,” she says without a second of hesitation.
I spent the entire night wondering how to win back the only woman who has ever owned every part of who I am.
She spent the entire night waiting for another man to ask her out.
The resentment—and yes, embarrassment—that accompanies the realization makes me think it would’ve been more merciful for her to fire two bullets into my chest. It sounds preferable to this feeling.
I don’t trust myself to do or say something I’ll regret, so I give her one sharp nod and walk out the door.