8. VICTOR BAPTISTE #2
I stood in my sitting room for a long time after Winston left.
The bourbon glass was still in my hand.
Empty now.
I set it on the side table and walked to the window.
Watched Winston’s car disappear down the driveway.
Thirty years.
Thirty fucking years I’d been loyal to that man.
I’d brought him into this life when his broke-ass daddy cut him off for wanting an MBA instead of a stethoscope. I’d shown him how to move weight, how to launder money, how to build an empire from street corners and dock shipments.
And what did I get for it?
A partnership that only benefited him.
And now—now that his demon son was off the leash—Winston had the audacity to tell me to survive.
Like I was some foot soldier instead of the man who’d made him.
I pulled out my phone.
Stared at it for a moment.
This was the move that would change everything.
The move that would burn bridges I’d spent decades building.
But Winston had made his choice.
Now I’d make mine.
I scrolled through my contacts until I found the name I needed.
Rahsaan Boudreaux.
My thumb hovered over the call button.
Rahsaan wasn’t Amai Landry—not by a long shot. He didn’t have the same instinct for violence, the same cold precision, the same reputation that made grown men move carefully just hearing his name.
But Rahsaan had something Amai didn’t.
Hunger.
The kind of hunger that came from being bullied out of territory you’d built with your own hands. The kind that made a man patient, strategic, willing to wait years for the right moment to strike back.
And I had something Rahsaan didn’t.
Knowledge.
I knew where the bodies were buried—literally and figuratively. I knew Amai’s patterns, his weaknesses, his blind spots. I knew the Landry operation inside and out because I’d helped Winston build half of it.
Paired with Rahsaan’s hunger and my intel?
We might actually have a shot at exorcising the demon.
I pressed call.
It rang twice.
“Victor Baptiste.” Rahsaan’s voice was smooth, surprised. “This is unexpected.”
“We need to talk,” I said. “Face to face.”
A pause.
“About?”
“About Amai Landry,” I replied. “And how we’re both tired of him breathing our air.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
I could hear the calculation happening on the other end of the line.
“I’m listening,” Rahsaan said finally.
“Not over the phone.” I kept my voice even. Professional. “Your territory. Your choice of location. I’ll come to you.”
That would surprise him.
Victor Baptiste didn’t go to anyone.
But this wasn’t about pride.
This was about survival.
And survival required flexibility.
“When?” Rahsaan asked.
“Tonight. Nine o’clock.”
“That’s fast.”
“The situation’s changed,” I said. “And I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
Silence.
Then, “Warehouse district. Off Tchoupitoulas. I’ll text you the address.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Victor?” Rahsaan’s voice shifted. “You coming alone?”
“Just me,” I said. “This conversation doesn’t need an audience.”
“Good.” He paused. “Because if this is some kind of setup—”
“It’s not,” I interrupted. “I’m done with the Landrys. And I think it’s time we had a conversation about what comes next.”
Another pause.
“Nine o’clock,” Rahsaan said.
“Nine o’clock.”
The line went dead.
I set the phone down and poured myself another bourbon.
Drained it in one swallow.
The alliance I’d spent thirty years building was officially fractured.
And I was about to rebuild it with the man I’d spent the last decade treating as an enemy.
But that was the thing about this life.
There were no permanent enemies.
No permanent friends.
Just permanent interests.
And right now, my interest was making sure the Baptiste empire survived what was coming.
Even if it meant burning down everything I’d helped the Landrys build.
I checked my watch.
7:47 PM.
I had just over an hour to prepare.
I walked upstairs to my office and pulled out the files I’d been keeping for years.
Insurance policies, I’d called them.
Documentation of every deal, every shipment, every body that had gone into the ground with Landry fingerprints all over it.
Winston thought I was just a street nigga who got lucky.
But I’d been preparing for this day since the moment I realized Winston Landry was a snake with an unquenchable thirst for power.
I selected three files.
Slid them into a leather portfolio.
Then I went to my safe and pulled out my .45.
Checked the clip.
Chambered a round.
Rahsaan said to come alone, and I would.
But I wasn’t stupid.
At 8:30 PM, I got in my car and started driving.
The warehouse district was industrial, isolated—the kind of place where conversations happened that nobody wanted recorded.
Perfect for what we needed to discuss.
As I drove through the city, I thought about Amai.
About the boy I’d watched grow up alongside my daughter.
About the man he’d become—cold, controlled, unstable in ways that made him more dangerous than his father ever was.
Winston had created a monster.
And now that monster was going to destroy everything.
Unless I stopped him first.
The GPS announced I’d arrived.
I pulled up to a nondescript warehouse with a single light above the entrance.
Two men stood outside.
Rahsaan’s soldiers.
I parked and got out.
Kept my hands visible.
One of the soldiers patted me down, found the .45 and took it.
“He’s expecting you,” the soldier said.
I nodded and walked inside.
The door closed behind me with a heavy thud.
And just like that, the alliance reformed.
Different players.
Same game.
But this time, I was playing to win.
The interior was sparse. Exposed brick, industrial lighting, an old desk in the center of the room. No windows. No art on the walls. Just function over feeling.
Rahsaan Boudreaux sat behind the desk, leaning back in his chair like a king on a throne he’d fought for.
Thirty-nine years old. Dark skin, sharp eyes, the kind of build that said he’d done his own dirty work before he had soldiers to do it for him.
He didn’t stand when I walked in.
Didn’t offer his hand.
Just watched me with the kind of calculation that came from years of surviving in a world that wanted him dead.
“Victor Baptiste,” he said finally. His voice was smooth. “This is unexpected.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“You got a lot of nerve showing up here.” Rahsaan tilted his head. “Considering you’ve been aligned with the Landrys for what? Thirty years?”
“Thirty-two,” I corrected.
“And now you want to talk to me.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s interesting.”
I didn’t sit down.
Didn’t ask permission.
Just stood there and let him posture.
“You done?” I asked.
Rahsaan’s smile faded.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, you done?” I kept my voice flat. “Because I didn’t drive all the way out here to watch you flex. I came here to talk business. So, either we talk business, or I leave, and you can go back to getting your ass handed to you by Amai Landry.”
The temperature in the room dropped.
Rahsaan leaned forward slowly, his hands flat on the desk.
“You got a death wish, old man?”
“Nah.” I met his eyes. “I got a solution to both our problems. Question is—you smart enough to hear it?”
Silence.
Then Rahsaan leaned back again, his expression unreadable.
“I’m listening.”
I took a step closer to the desk.
“What broke the alliance between two titans in New Orleans?” I asked.
Rahsaan didn’t answer.
Just watched me.
“Amai Landry,” I said. “That’s what broke it. That son of a bitch finally went too far. And now Winston thinks he can tell me to sit down and shut up while his boy runs wild.”
“So, this is about your pride,” Rahsaan said.
“This is about survival,” I corrected. “Amai’s off the reservation. He don’t give a fuck about alliances anymore. He’s going to burn it all down. And when he does, he’ll ruin me.”
Rahsaan studied me for a long moment.
“So, what do you want from me?”
“I don’t need no damn kumbaya,” I said. “I’m not here to hold hands and sing songs. I’m here to ask you one question. You want to work together or not?”
Rahsaan’s eyes narrowed.
“Work together how?”
“I’m the key to your revenge,” I said simply. “I’m the key to getting your territory back. I know where the bodies are buried—literally and figuratively. I know Amai’s patterns, his weaknesses, his blind spots. I know the Landry operation inside and out because I helped Winston build half of it.”
I paused.
Let that sink in.
“You got hunger,” I continued. “You got soldiers. You got motivation. But you don’t got intel. And without intel, you’re just swinging blind and hoping to land a punch.”
Rahsaan was quiet.
Calculating.
“And what do you get out of this?” he asked finally.
“I get to watch the Landrys bleed,” I said. “And I get to make sure my empire survives what’s coming.”
Rahsaan stared at me.
I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes.
Weighing the risk.
Weighing the reward.
Finally, he nodded.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
I reached into my jacket and pulled out the leather portfolio I’d brought.
Slid it across the desk.
Rahsaan opened it.
His eyes scanned the first page.
Then the second.
Then the third.
“Money houses,” I said. “Safe houses. Drug connects. Everything you need to start hitting them where it hurts.”
Rahsaan looked up at me.
“This is real?”
“Every word,” I said. “That should get you started. If you need anything else, call me.”
Rahsaan closed the folder.
Set it on the desk.
Leaned back in his chair.
“The Landrys want a war,” I said, my voice cold. “So we gon’ give ’em hell.”
Rahsaan smiled.
This time, it reached his eyes.
“I can work with that.”
I nodded.
Turned to leave.
“Victor,” Rahsaan called after me.
I stopped.
Looked back.
“You sure about this?” he asked. “Once we start, there’s no going back.”
“I’ve been sure since the moment Winston walked out of my house,” I said.
And I meant it.
I walked out of the warehouse.
Got back in my car.
Started the engine.
And as I drove away, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years.
Control.
The alliance was dead.
Long live the new one.
I couldn’t wait to see Winston’s face when he finds out I was the one who brought his empire down.