Vin pauses, assessing, then continues evenly. “Her presence got him to answer. That was the objective.”
“I decide what happens to her,” I say. Flat. Final. “She’s not a message to be sent or discarded.”
Vin studies me for a beat. Not defiance. Evaluation.
“Killing her doesn’t give us answers,” I add. “It just creates noise. That helps him, not us.”
“She’s still a vulnerability,” Vin says carefully. “You can’t let this turn personal.”
I don’t answer right away. He isn’t wrong. He’s also not seeing the whole board.
“I’m handling it. And nothing about this is impulsive.”
Vin leans back slightly. “You’re usually colder about these things.”
“I’m being precise.”
He watches me, then gives a short nod. “All right. We do it your way.”
A faint smile crosses his mouth. “But don’t forget why this works. He lost Robert and thought that was the end of us. This shows him it wasn’t.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I say. “But I’m not rushing it.”
Vin’s expression eases. “Good. Then we see what he says.”
“And then?”
“And then,” he says calmly, “we act.”
We go over the rest. Times. Sightlines. Exit plans. It’s clean. Controlled. Everything is in place.
“I’ll keep it contained,” I say when we’re done.
Vin nods. “And if he steps out of line?”
“Then it ends.”
He leans back, satisfied. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
The room sits tuckedinto the back of the restaurant, dim and quiet, insulated from the noise of the main floor. This is where men come when they don’t want witnesses. The walls have heard too many deals to care about another one.
I sit at a small round table, my drink untouched. My attention stays on the door. The seconds stretch, each one tightening the coil already wound through my chest. I don’t check my watch. I know exactly how long I’ve been waiting.
The door opens, and Laurent Boudreaux walks in.
He’s flanked by two men who move like they expect violence, even when it doesn’t come. Laurent doesn’t rush. He scans the room once, then looks straight at me. His expression is measured, curious in a way that suggests he’s already running calculations.
We hold eye contact as he approaches. The silence between us carries years of bad blood.
“Ridge,” he says, his tone even as he inclines his head.
“Laurent.”
His men peel off, stopping just close enough to intervene if needed. Laurent takes the seat across from me.
I don’t speak. I let the quiet sit. If he’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t show it.
Finally, he tilts his head slightly. “I understand you’ve acquired something that belongs to me.”
