Page 158 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

And when this was over—when Amai was back under control, when the family structure was restored, when Truth Renois was either eliminated or absorbed into the fold—I’d make sure my sons never forgot this lesson.

Power wasn’t something you took.

It was something you were given.

And it could be taken away just as easily.

The lake property came into view minutes later—a sprawling cabin set back from the water, surrounded by dense woods and accessible only by the narrow dirt road I’d just navigated. I’d been here before, years ago, when Amai first purchased it. He’d called it an investment property. A retreat.

I should have known better.

Amai didn’t do retreats. He did strategic positioning.

I parked near the main cabin and killed the engine. Two black SUVs pulled up behind me. Four men total, all armed, all loyal to me first and the family second. That distinction mattered now more than ever.

I stepped out into the cool night air and surveyed the property. The cabin was dark except for a single light in anupstairs window. Truth was probably inside, sleeping, unaware that her protector had just buried his own brother alive less than a quarter mile away.

One of the men approached, his expression unreadable. “Where’s the location?”

I pulled up the coordinates Kaisen had sent and showed him the screen. “There’s a walking trail on the back of the property. Leads deeper into the woods. The hole is somewhere along that path.”

“How far?”

“Kaisen’s location is ten minutes on foot from the cabin.”

He nodded and gestured to his men. They moved with practiced efficiency, pulling equipment from the SUVs—bolt cutters, crowbars, a portable winch system, medical supplies, water, and blankets.

I watched them work and felt something cold settle in my chest.

This was what it had come to. Extracting one son from a tomb built by another.

“Let’s move,” I said.

We found the trailhead easily enough—a narrow path cutting through the underbrush, barely visible in the darkness. One of the men took point with a flashlight, and I followed close behind. The other three men spread out, covering our flanks.

The woods were dense here, the canopy thick enough to block out most of the moonlight. Our footsteps crunched on dead leaves and broken branches. The air smelled like pine and damp earth.

Ten minutes.

It took us twelve.

The clearing appeared suddenly, a break in the trees where the ground had been deliberately leveled. And in the center of that clearing?—

The steel lid.

A circular steel plate, maybe four feet in diameter, flush with the ground. Heavy-duty. Industrial-grade. The kind of thing you’d use to seal a septic tank or a storm shelter.

Except this wasn’t a shelter.

This was a grave.

I approached slowly, my boots heavy on the packed earth. One of the men swept his flashlight across the surface of the lid, illuminating the locking mechanism—a series of bolts secured from the outside, impossible to open from within.

“Jesus Christ,” one of the men muttered behind me.

I knelt beside the lid and pressed my palm against the cold steel. Beneath it, somewhere in the darkness below, my son was waiting.

“Kaisen,” I called, my voice steady. “Can you hear me?”