“Coco,” he says. “That’s not short for Corinne by accident.”
I tell him the story. The childhood mispronunciation. The name that stuck.
“It fits,” he says. “Coco has teeth.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The quiet hums again, charged and fragile. I break it before it turns dangerous.
“About that coffee,” I murmur, fingers tracing his chest.
His hand closes over mine, stilling it.
“I’ll make it,” he says. “You should shower first.”
He shifts out from under me, already pulling his jeans on, the ease of it practiced. The man I watched sleep and got to know, if only briefly, is gone, replaced by the one who keeps things ordered, controlled, already moving on.
I stay where I am, the warmth of him still lingering against my side, and understand too late that this moment was never meant to last. It was borrowed. Something he allowed himself before putting the armor back on.
And the danger isn’t that he’s keeping me here anymore.
It’s that part of me that doesn’t want to leave.
FOURTEEN
Ridge
The Old Absinthe House:Located on Bourbon Street, established in 1806, was a notorious gathering spot for outlaws, pirates, and smugglers. Legend claims Jean Lafitte met General Andrew Jackson here to negotiate pirate support for the Battle of New Orleans. Its mystique as a haven for shadowy deals and rebellion endures to this day.
I slipinto a booth at the back of the bar. The leather creaks under my weight as I settle in, familiar enough that I don’t think about it.
It’s quiet at this hour. Regulars hunch over their drinks, eyes lifting just long enough to clock a newcomer before dropping again. This place has always worked that way. You’re either known or you’re watched. Sometimes both.
Tonight, Vin is meeting me so we can break down our meeting with Laurent.
We spoke briefly afterward, but he had a meeting, and I wanted to get back to the bunker. We planned to circleback to debrief and come up with a plan. I want to know what he’s found since we parted ways.
Laurent’s denial has been sitting with me since the moment he said it. Not because I want to believe him. But because it fits too cleanly to ignore. If he didn’t order the hit, then someone wanted us to think he did.
Or maybe I just don’t like what it means if he is telling the truth, and he wasn’t behind my father’s murder. The thought sits wrong no matter how I turn it over.
Then Coco flashes through my head, and I shove it aside.
Vin didn’t agree immediately, but assured me he would do some digging. He said there was something specific he wanted to look into before we talked again, but didn’t say what.
I’m barely settled when Vin strides in. His silhouette is sharp against the low light.
He scans the room first like he always does. It’s not paranoia, but practice and utility. My father has him trained well. He slides into the booth across from me, already orienting himself to the space.
His expression is closed off, unreadable enough that I don’t bother guessing what he’s come up with.
Beck, the server, appears within moments, as precise as ever. He’s been working at this place longer than I can remember. His tux is immaculate, satin lapels catching the light as he stops beside the booth.
“Mr. Moreau. Scotch, neat?”
His eyes flick to me for half a second, and then down at my half-empty glass. There’s no question there, just an acknowledgment that he will bring me a fresh one.
Vin gives a slight tilt of his head without breaking eye contact with me. That’s all it takes.
