“Exactly.” I pause, then meet his gaze. “And don’t start thinking with your dick just because she’s hot. I’m telling you. She’s cunning.”
He nods once. “Anything else I should know?”
“I don’t want her hurt,” I say flatly. “But that doesn’t mean she gets an inch. Know what I mean?”
Gabe nods again, his expression unreadable. “Status quo unless she gives me hell. I have your permission to respond accordingly if she acts out?”
“Ten-four.” I pause, making sure he catches the seriousness in my tone. “She’s leverage, not a prisoner to punish. Use judgment.”
He meets my gaze, a silent understanding passing between us. “I’ll keep her safe. You can count on that.”
“Good,” I nod, relieved to know I can trust his intuition and ability to handle the situation. I’m not sure I could say the same about many people. “And if anything goes wrong, anything at all, you call me immediately. I don’t care how small it seems. She’s how we are getting to Laurent Boudreaux.”
Gabe’s jaw tightens, and he gives a slight nod confirming his commitment. “I’ve got this, Ridge. No one’s getting near her, and she’s not getting anywhere.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll be gone for a few hours. Keep the ship afloat.”
“Will do.”
I step outside to my Aston Martin DBS Superleggera, gleaming under the faint morning light. Jet black. Clean lines. Built low and precise, engineered with intent insteadof excess. It doesn’t announce itself because it doesn’t need to.
It’s more than a car. It’s control, rendered in steel and glass.
I run a hand along the door before checking the weight at my waistband. Habit, not theater. I carry because people in import and export have a way of mistaking grief for weakness, and I won’t give anyone that opening.
I slide into the driver’s seat and secure it out of sight. Close enough if I need it. Out of the way if I don’t.
The leather settles around me as I start the engine. The hum is low and even, controlled. Nothing rushed. Nothing wasted.
Before I pull out, I tap the screen on the console.
“Clara.”
She answers on the second ring. “Morning, Ridge.”
“How are things holding?” I ask.
“Stable,” she says without hesitation. “The overnight schedules are confirmed. Two delays at the west terminal, weather-related, have already been rerouted. Nothing escalated.”
“Any calls I need to take?”
“Not yet. I pushed everything nonessential to tomorrow. I’ll flag you if that changes.”
“Good,” I say. “Keep it moving.”
“Always,” she replies, already a step ahead.
The line disconnects.
I pull out into the street, the city sliding past as the sky lightens. Whatever else is unfolding beneath the surface, the ports are running. The lanes are open. The work is getting done.
The phone buzzes again, sharper this time, breaking the rhythm. I press a button on the console.
Vin’s voice comes through the speakers, tight and urgent.
“Ridge, things are going south. Fast.”
"I'm on my way back into the city now. I’m meeting Roco at the dock office.”
