Page 102 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

Amai’s name lit up the screen.

I counted two full rings, exhaled through my nose to settle my pulse, and tapped the steering wheel control.

“Yeah?”

“Where you at?” Amai’s voice was pure gravel, tight with the kind of adrenaline that made him reckless. In the background, I could hear sirens wailing and Priest shouting orders over an open radio channel.

“Just leaving my office on Poydras,” I said, my tone smooth, slightly concerned. “What’s going on? My phone’s blowing up about gunfire on Broad.”

“Chef Menteur got hit too,” Amai barked. “Broad is completely shot up. Rahsaan’s old people are testing us. Meet me at the Broad Street shop in twenty minutes. I’m putting this shit to bed tonight.”

“I’m on my way,” I said. “You want me to bring my security detail?”

“Bring everything you got,” Amai snapped and cut the connection.

I set the phone down and smiled.

Amai was a predator, but predators were predictable. When attacked, he didn’t retreat; he went out hunting. He would spend the next six hours tearing up the Ninth Ward, raiding trap houses, and interrogating ghost crews, completely oblivious to what was actually happening behind him.

I had already verified Delphine’s schedule through my mother. Mama had casually mentioned that Delphine was hosting her weekly spades game with her neighbors in the Seventh Ward tonight. Delphine wouldn’t be anywhere near the Garden District until morning.

The street was clear.

I put the Audi in gear, turned onto Amai’s oak-lined block, and pulled smoothly up to the iron gate. The guard at the security booth leaned out, recognized my face and my car, and tapped the gate release without hesitation.

Why wouldn’t he? I was Winston’s son. Amai’s brother. Trumai’s uncle.

I parked in the brick motor court, stepped out into the humid evening air, and walked up the broad stone steps. I wore dark slates and a fitted charcoal polo—calm, professional, entirely unthreatening.

I knocked three times.

A moment later, the heavy cypress door swung inward.

Truth stood in the entryway, looking exhausted. She was wearing a faded gray Loyola Nursing crewneck, dark leggings, and woolen house socks. Her hair was gathered in a loose bun on top of her head, curls escaping around her temples. Behind her, down the wide center hall, I could hear the faint, rhythmic chime of Trumai’s electric baby swing rocking in the living room.

When she saw me, her brow furrowed, but her posture stayed relaxed.

“Kaisen?” She wiped a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “What are you doing here? Amai said he had business on the West Bank.”

“Truth, pack a bag,” I said, keeping my voice low, firm, and urgent. “Right now.”

The casual exhaustion vanished from her face. “What are you talking about?”

“Rahsaan’s crew hit two of our properties ten minutes ago,” I said, stepping across the threshold just far enough to command the space without crowding her. “Chef Menteur and South Broad. Amai called me five minutes ago. They’re coordinating a sweep across the district, and he doesn’t want you and the baby exposed here. He sent me to extract you.”

Truth’s eyes widened, her maternal instincts kicking in instantly. “Retaliation? Amai told me Rahsaan was dead.”

“Rahsaan is dead,” I answered without missing a beat. “His soldiers aren’t. They’re trying to make a statement before we run them out of town. Amai wants you and Trumai in a secured off-site location until he clears the block.”

She hesitated, her sharp, intelligent eyes scanning my face. “Why didn’t he call me himself?”

“He tried. Your line was busy, or he got caught up directing Priest’s team,” I said smoothly. “Call him right now if you want. But we don’t have time to debate it on the porch.”

Truth reached into her pocket, pulled out her iPhone, and hit Amai’s speed dial. This shit could go left if Amai said the wrong thing. I slipped my hand inside my waistband in my back and placed my hand on my gun. I wasn’t leaving without Truth or Tru.

She put it on speaker.

It rang once.