Page 203 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

I nodded.

Mama walked me to the door, her arm around my waist, supporting me. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” I said.

“Which home?”

I thought about the Garden District house, where Yahmaria was probably still awake, waiting to interrogate me. I thought about the seventh ward, where Truth was safe and protected and mine.

And I thought about the house in the 9th Ward—the one I’d bought years ago as a refuge, a place where I could exist without the weight of the Landry name pressing down on me.

“The 9th,” I said finally.

She nodded. “Be careful, baby.”

“I will.”

I limped to my car, every step sending a fresh wave of pain through my leg. I slid into the driver’s seat and sat there for a long moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel, my mind replaying the confrontation.

Winston had shot me.

My own father had shot me.

Not to kill me. Not even to seriously injure me. Just to remind me that he could. That he was still in control. That I was still his son, no matter how far I tried to run.

And he had Priest.

That was the real weapon. The real leverage.

Because Winston knew—he’d always known—that Priest was the one person I couldn’t afford to lose. The one person who kept everything running, who understood the organization in ways even I didn’t.

Without Priest, I was vulnerable.

And Winston was going to use that vulnerability to bend me to his will.

I started the car and pulled out of the driveway, my leg throbbing with every press of the gas pedal. The city lights blurred past my windows as I drove, my mind working through the implications.

Winston had Priest.

Winston had leverage.

And Winston had just proven that he was willing to use violence—even against his own son—to maintain control.

I thought about Truth, safe at home, unaware of what had just happened. Unaware of the war that was brewing beneath the surface. I thought about Yahmaria, waiting for me at the Garden District house, expecting me to play the role of devoted husband to keep us both alive.

And I thought about what I was willing to sacrifice to keep them both safe.

And I thought about what I was willing to sacrifice to keep her safe.

The answer was still the same.

Everything.

But now I understood the cost.

And it was higher than I’d ever imagined.

The brick house on Mimosa Ct. looked modest from the outside—two stories, a small front porch, a fenced backyard visible from the street. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that screamed wealth or power.