7. WINSTON
WINSTON
Istood at the window of the master bedroom, looking out over the manicured lawn of the Lakeview estate.
Appearance was everything.
Behind me, Odette shifted in bed.
I heard the rustle of sheets, the soft exhale that meant she was waking up.
“Winston?”
The lupus flare had knocked her down hard this time—fever, joint pain, the kind of exhaustion that made even sitting up feel impossible.
But she was recovering.
Good.
I needed her functional.
“I’m here,” I said without turning around.
More rustling. Then footsteps—slow, careful—as she made her way to the sitting area adjacent to the bedroom.
I turned.
She was wearing her robe, the silk one I’d bought her for Christmas three years ago. Her hair was wrapped. Her face was drawn but alert.
She lowered herself into the chair by the window with visible effort.
“You should still be in bed,” I said.
“I’ve been in bed for days.” She adjusted the robe around her legs. “I needed to move.”
I didn’t argue.
Odette was stubborn. Always had been.
It was one of the things that had attracted me to her in the first place—that Creole aristocracy backbone, that refusal to break even when her own family disowned her for marrying me.
She’d chosen me over them.
And she’d spent the last twenty years justifying that choice.
We were together for five years before I got the nerve to ask her to be my wife.
I was in the streets heavy, and I didn’t think she’d go for it.
The only thing she asked was that the streets never touched our home. And I kept that promise to her.
“How are the boys?” she asked.
I poured myself coffee from the carafe on the side table.
“They’re fine.”
“Winston.” Her voice sharpened. “I asked you a question.”
I took a sip. Let the silence stretch.
“Kaisen and Amai are grown men,” I said finally. “They don’t need you worrying about them like they’re still children.”
“They’re my sons.”
“And they’re my business.” I set the cup down. “You need to focus on getting better. Not on things you can’t do anything about.”
She blew out a breath but didn’t push.
Not yet.
“Is Amai still seeing that girl from church?” she asked after a moment. “Alexis?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Why would you set him up with anyone when you know he’s married?”
Odette’s expression flickered—guilt, defiance, something in between.
“I thought the divorce went through,” she said quietly.
“You thought.”
“Yahmaria’s never around anyway.” Her voice gained strength. “She’s off doing God knows what with God knows who. Embarrassing him. Embarrassing this family. Amai deserves better than—”
“Amai is still married to Yahmaria,” I interrupted. “Legally. Officially. And that’s not changing.”
Odette stared at me.
“What do you mean it’s not changing?”
“I mean exactly what I said.”
“Winston.”
“The marriage stands,” I said flatly. “End of discussion.”
Her hands gripped the arms of the chair.
“She’s trash,” Odette said, her voice rising. “She runs around this city like she doesn’t have a husband. Like she doesn’t have a name to protect. And you’re telling me Amai has to stay tied to her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I looked at her.
Really looked at her.
Saw the woman who’d given up everything for me. Who’d borne my sons. Who’d stood beside me even when it cost her.
And felt nothing.
“Because it benefits me,” I said simply.
The words landed like a slap.
Odette went very still.
“What?”
“The Landry-Baptiste alliance,” I continued, my voice calm and measured. “It’s worth more than Amai’s happiness. More than his pride. More than whatever feelings he thinks he has.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Victor Baptiste has half the port authority,” I said.
“His connections in Baton Rouge keep our operations running smoothly. Our largest supplier will only ship to that port. His money is tied to our money. His power is tied to our power.” I picked up my coffee again.
“Yahmaria is the glue that holds that alliance together. And as long as she’s married to Amai, that glue stays strong. ”
Odette’s face had gone hard.
“So, you’re using our son?”
“I’m protecting our empire,” I corrected. “Which protects our sons. Which protects you.” I took another sip. “You think Amai built what he has on his own? You think Kaisen gets to live the life he lives without consequences because of luck?”
“They’re your children!”
“They’re assets,” I said coldly. “Just like you. Just like me. And assets get deployed where they’re most useful.”
Silence.
Odette was shaking now.
Not from the lupus.
From rage.
“You need to be a father to them,” she said, her voice trembling. “Not a puppet master. Not a… a user. A father.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
“A father,” I repeated. “You want me to be a father.”
“Yes!”
“I put roofs over their heads,” I said. “I put food on their tables. I gave them educations, connections, power. I made them into men who command respect in this city.” I set the cup down with a sharp click.
“That’s what a father does, Odette. He builds.
He provides. He ensures his sons have what they need to survive. ”
“That’s not love.”
“Love is a luxury,” I interrupted. “And luxuries get you killed in our world.”
She was crying now.
Silent tears running down her face.
“Amai will stay married to Yahmaria,” I said. “Kaisen will stay in line. And you will stop interfering in things you don’t understand.” I straightened my cuffs. “Are we clear?”
Odette didn’t answer.
Just sat there crying, powerless.
The same way she’d sat for twenty years.
“I have a meeting,” I said, moving toward the door. “Rest. You need your strength.”
“One day, Winston, one of them is going to become exactly what you made him. And you’re going to act surprised when he turns on you.”
“We’ll see.”
I left her there.
Alone in the sitting room.
Crying over sons she couldn’t protect from a husband she couldn’t leave.
Because she’d made her choice years ago.
And choices had consequences.
Even for women who thought love was enough.
My driver was already at the car, door open, waiting.
I slid into the back seat without a word.
The leather was cool against my skin. The air conditioning was set to exactly sixty-eight degrees—the way I preferred it. Everything in my world operated precisely how I dictated it.
My phone rang before we’d even pulled out of the driveway.
Dr. Beaumont.
I answered on the second ring.
“Dr. Beaumont. This better be—”
“Mr. Landry!” Her voice was high-pitched, panicked, the careful professional tone completely shattered. “Mr. Landry, there’s been an incident at the clinic and I—oh my God, I don’t even know where to start!”
“Calm the fuck down,” I said flatly. “And speak clearly.”
She took a shaky breath. When she spoke again, her voice had shifted—that code-switching thing she did when she was stressed, suddenly all white-girl panic instead of the measured professional she usually was.
“Amai came to the clinic. He just showed up. And Kaisen was in the lobby with Truth and they—they got into a fight. A really bad fight. And Amai had a knife and—”
My fingers tightened around the phone before I could stop them.
“Slow down,” I interrupted, my voice ice-cold. “What happened?”
“Amai stabbed Kaisen. In the clinic. In front of everyone. There’s blood everywhere, and the staff is panicking. I don’t know what to do and—”
“Is Kaisen alive?”
“Yes. Yes, he’s stable for now, but he needs to get to a hospital immediately. He’s lost a lot of blood, and the wound is deep, and I don’t have the equipment here to—”
“Then call the fucking paramedics yourself,” I said.
“I—what? Mr. Landry, I thought you would—”
“You thought wrong.” I leaned forward slightly. “You call 911. You tell them there’s been a stabbing. You give them the address. You do your job, Dr. Beaumont.”
“But what about—”
“And if my son dies,” I continued, my voice dropping to something colder, something that made the air in the car feel thin, “you die. Do you understand me? Not legally. Not through the courts. You will simply cease to exist. Are we clear?”
Silence.
Then, barely a whisper: “Yes. Yes, Mr. Landry.”
“Good. Call the paramedics. Now.”
I hung up.
The silence in the car was absolute.
I looked at my driver in the rearview mirror.
“Dr. Beaumont’s fertility clinic,” I said. “And push this motherfucking car.”
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t need to. He just accelerated, merging into traffic with the kind of aggressive precision that made other drivers honk and swerve.
I sat back in the leather seat and stared out the window at the New Orleans streets blurring past.
My mind was already calculating.
Kaisen stabbed. By Amai. In front of witnesses.
That meant the clinic staff had seen it. That meant there would be police reports. That meant this was no longer a private matter that could be contained.
That meant everything was falling apart.
And the worst part—the part that made my blood run cold in a way Victor’s threats never could—was that I’d orchestrated this.
I’d put both brothers’ sperm in the same surrogate. I’d kept it from Amai. I’d let Kaisen find out and did nothing to stop him from pursuing Truth.
I’d created the conditions for exactly this kind of explosion.
And now my son was bleeding out in a fertility clinic while the other one was probably already running, already calculating his next move.
I picked up the phone and called Bemo. He was one of my connections who had ties to the New Orleans Police department.
“Winston. What can I do for you today?”
“There’s been an incident between my sons at the New Beginnings Fertility Clinic.
I need this kept quiet. It’s not a good look for business to have my sons plastered in the newspaper for harming each other.
Get someone to the clinic before the staff starts recording statements. I want footage, phones, and names.”
“That won’t be a problem. Do you have someone paying the staff off?”
“It’ll be handled.”
“Okay, I’ll keep it quiet and off the books. Let me make some calls.”
“I owe you one, man.”
“Yes, you do. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Sounds good,” I ended the call.