.I sitat a booth near the back of the Orchid with paperwork spread in front of me, the list growing instead of shrinking. There is always something else waiting for my attention.
Some music I’m not paying much attention to plays through the speakers. It’s more atmosphere than sound. It rounds off the edges without demanding focus.
The space is reserved tonight, closed to walk-ins, the way rooms like this often are when privacy matters. The bartender moves unhurriedly behind the bar, polishing glassware he’s already cleaned once, passing the time. Beau sits at a nearby table with his laptop open, close enough to be useful, far enough not to intrude.
The double doors open, and I look up.
Émile Girard steps inside in a tailored gray suit, old money precision in every line of him. His cane marks a quiet rhythm against the wood floor as he crosses the room, unhurried, a faint smirk already in place.
“Mr. Stone,” he says, dipping his head. “Thank you for agreeing to meet.”
I gesture to the seat across from me. My expression stays neutral. “I want to be clear. We’re done.”
He sits with practiced ease, resting his cane against the booth. His hands fold neatly on the table. His gaze is sharp behind wire-framed glasses, assessing, cataloging.
“Laurent sends his regards,” he says. “And his thanks for returning Coco unharmed.”
Her name pulls a sharp, unwanted image into my head anyway. The steadiness in her eyes, the way she held her ground when she should have been afraid, the sound of her footsteps leaving, measured and unhurried, like she refused to let me decide the moment for her.
My chest tightens, fast and unwelcome. I lock it down before it shows.
“She left the same way she arrived,” I say evenly. “Laurent should appreciate that, and we should be square.”
“He does appreciate that you didn’t hurt his daughter,” Émile replies, leaning back. “But he does not take lightly to interference with his family.”
Behind me, Beau shifts. I lift a hand without turning, and he stills.
“Coco’s return was the message,” I say. “One Laurent would be smart to read carefully. I didn’t cross a line that didn’t already exist. I reacted to the belief that my father had been killed by Laurent. When I learned that intel was wrong, I corrected it. I returned his daughter. That is the end of it.”
I don’t mention the restraint it required or explain what I chose not to do. Those details belong to me.
Émile’s smirk deepens. “Some mistakes are easily brushed aside,” he says. “Others are not.”
He lets the silence stretch, testing it. I hold it without blinking.
Finally, he speaks again. “Laurent asked me to deliver this personally. ‘If I come for you, you will not see me coming, Ridge Stone. And if you ever touch anyone in my family again, you will not see anything at all.’”
The room goes still. Beau shifts once more. I stay where I am, jaw tight, letting the words settle. Laurent had chosen his target carefully. Not my men. Not my money. My credibility
I expected the message and the threat. What grates is hearing Coco spoken about like property being passed between hands. Like something handled and warned over.
“Message received,” I say, leaning back. I angle my chin toward Émile. “Tell Laurent I have no interest in touching anyone in his family, so long as he keeps his distance from mine.”
Émile rises as smoothly as he sat. He retrieves his cane, his eyes lingering on mine a beat longer than necessary. “For now,” he says, “let us hope we remain mutually disinclined to escalate.”
I watch him leave with the same deliberate calm he arrived with. The doors close behind him. The room feels colder for it.
Beau steps forward. “You good?”
I don’t answer immediately. My fingers tap once against the table, controlled, measured. Émile’s words replay, not the threat itself but her name in his mouth.
The truth sits there, uncomfortable and unwelcome. Idid the right thing by returning her. I closed the door and ended one war.
That does not mean I liked it.
“I’m fine,” I say at last, standing. I adjust my jacket and turn toward the exit. “Let’s get back to work.”
Outside, the humid New Orleans night presses in heavily. Her image follows me like the sticky heat. The steadiness of her gaze, the calm in her voice.
