AMAI
The steering wheel was slick under my palms.
I’d been gripping it so hard for the past twenty minutes that my knuckles were sore, the leather creaking under the pressure.
Sharp pain shot through my jaw from clenching my teeth.
The rage that had been simmering since I discovered the empty vault had transformed into something molten—something that burned through my chest and throat like I’d swallowed acid.
The highway stretched out in front of me, dark and empty at this hour, the streetlights casting long shadows across the asphalt. I pressed harder on the gas pedal, the engine of my truck responding with a low growl that matched the fury coiling in my gut.
Winston.
It had to be Winston.
There was no other explanation. No other possibility that made sense.
Only four people in the world knew about that vault.
Priest was locked up somewhere—Winston had made sure of that. He was leverage, a chess piece my father had removed from the board to keep me in line.
Kaisen was too fucking stupid to tell anyone.
He might be obsessed with Truth, might be willing to betray me in a dozen different ways, but he wasn’t suicidal.
Telling someone outside the family about the vault would be signing his own death warrant, and Kaisen—for all his faults—had a strong sense of self-preservation.
That left Winston.
The man who’d built this empire on blood and manipulation. The man who’d taught me that loyalty was currency and betrayal was death. The man who’d looked me in the eye and told me that family came first, always, no matter what.
And now he’d fucked us.
Millions. Gone.
The staff at the vault—dead. Executed. Left as a message.
I could feel it in my bones, in the marrow-deep certainty that only came when you knew someone well enough to predict their moves. Winston had done this.
The rage burned hotter, spreading through my veins like poison.
I was going to confront him. I was going to make him admit it. And then—
My phone rang, the sound cutting through the silence of the truck’s cabin.
I glanced at the screen mounted on the dashboard.
Unknown Number.
I almost didn’t answer. Almost let it go to voicemail because I didn’t have the energy to deal with anyone else’s bullshit right now.
But something made me hit the answer button.
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Landry?” The voice on the other end was professional, clipped. Female. “This is Monica Chen from American Express Fraud Prevention. I’m calling regarding some unusual activity on your Black Card ending in 4738.”
I frowned, my grip on the steering wheel loosening slightly.
“What kind of activity?”
“We’ve detected several charges within the past few hours that fall outside your typical spending patterns. The charges originated from New Orleans—specifically, Tulane Medical Center and the Bursar’s Office at Loyola University.”
My frown deepened.
Tulane Medical Center. Loyola University.
And then it clicked.
Truth.
“Can you confirm whether you authorized these transactions, Mr. Landry? If not, we can freeze the card immediately and—”
“I authorized them.”
The words came out before I’d fully processed what I was saying.
But as soon as I said them, I felt something shift in my chest. Something that wasn’t rage or fury or the acid burn of betrayal.
Relief.
“You did?” Monica sounded surprised. “I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Landry. We just wanted to verify given the unusual—”
“It’s fine.” I cut her off, my voice shriller than I intended. “Allow any related charges to go through. No limits.”
“Are you sure? The card doesn’t have a spending limit, but we typically flag—”
“I said allow them.” My tone left no room for argument. “And I want Truth Renois added as an authorized user on the account. Full access. No restrictions.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“Of course, Mr. Landry. I’ll make a note in your file. We’ll need some information from Ms. Renois to complete the authorization—date of birth, social security number—”
“My accountant will handle it. Just make sure it’s done.”
“Understood. I’ll note the account. Is there anything else I can assist you with today?”
“No.”
I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
And then I laughed.
It started as a low chuckle, dark and humorless, but it built into something louder. Something that bordered on manic.
She was spending my money.
Truth was using my card.
Tulane Medical Center—she’d found her own doctor. Someone outside the Landry network. Someone who wouldn’t report back to me or Winston or anyone else.
Loyola University—she was going back to school. Finishing her degree. Building a future that didn’t depend on me.
She was taking control. Reclaiming her independence. Cutting me out.
And she was doing it with my money.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
But what she didn’t understand—what she couldn’t understand—was that every charge she made was a thread. A connection. A tie that bound her to me whether she wanted it or not.
She thought she was breaking free.
But all she was doing was proving that she still needed me.
She could curse me out. She could punch doctors and storm out of clinics and tell me she was done. She could move into her own house and set up her own life and build her own walls.
But she was still using my card.
Still spending my money.
Still tied to me in ways she didn’t even realize.
And that meant she wasn’t really done with me.
She was just mad.
I could work with mad.
Mad was temporary. Mad was emotional. Mad could be soothed, smoothed over, redirected.
Mad wasn’t the same as gone.
If she were truly done—if she’d really cut me out of her life—she wouldn’t have used the card. She would’ve refused to touch anything connected to me. She would’ve gone to her sisters, her mother, anyone else for help.
But she hadn’t.
She’d used my card.
And that told me everything I needed to know.
She was still mine.
She just didn’t know it yet.
I leaned back in the driver’s seat. The rage was still there—burning, consuming, demanding retribution for the empty vault and the dead staff and Winston’s betrayal.
But beneath it, I had hope now.
Twisted, obsessive, probably unhealthy hope—but hope nonetheless.
Truth hadn’t left me.
Not really.
She’d just put up walls. And walls could be torn down. Walls could be climbed. Walls could be dismantled brick by brick until there was nothing left between us.
I didn’t give a fuck if she used the card for honestly. What’s mine was hers. Simple.
It was a black card—there was no limit. She could spend a million dollars and I wouldn’t blink. She could buy a house, a car, an entire wardrobe. She could pay off every debt she had and fund her entire education and it wouldn’t even make a dent.
Because money wasn’t the point.
The point was that she couldn’t escape me even when she tried.
And maybe that made me a sick fuck. Maybe it made me obsessive and controlling and everything she’d accused me of being.
But I didn’t care.
I’d spent my entire life being told what I couldn’t have. What I didn’t deserve. What was out of reach. It didn’t stop me, but I hated hearing it nonetheless.
Winston had drilled it into me from the time I was old enough to understand: the Landry legacy came first. The family came first. Personal desires were secondary. Sacrifices had to be made.
And I’d accepted it. I’d buried the part of me that wanted something more.
A wife. A child. A family.
I’d settled for pieces—for Yahmaria’s cold arrangement, for meaningless encounters with women whose names I forgot, for the hollow satisfaction of power and control.
Until Truth.
She’d walked into my life and shattered every wall I’d built. Every defense I’d constructed. Every lie I’d told myself about what I wanted and what I deserved.
And now that I’d had a taste of what it felt like to want something—someone—for myself, I wasn’t letting go.
Not for Winston. Not for Kaisen. Not for anyone.
Truth could be angry. She could build her walls and set her boundaries and demand her independence.
But she was still spending my money.
And that meant I still had a chance.
My phone buzzed again on the passenger seat.
I glanced at it, expecting another call from the credit card company or maybe one of my crew checking in.
But it was a text from Brandon.
Still no word on Priest. Checked all his usual spots. It’s like he vanished.
I stared at the message, the brief flicker of hope extinguishing as quickly as it had ignited.
I was still trapped in this fucked-up game where every move I made was anticipated, countered, controlled.
The rage surged back, hotter than before.
I tossed the phone back onto the seat and pressed harder on the gas pedal.
The highway blurred past me, the streetlights streaking into long lines of gold and white.
I was going to confront Winston.
I was going to make him tell me where Priest was.
I was going to make him admit what he’d compromised the vault.
And if he refused—if he tried to manipulate me or threaten me or use Priest as leverage again—I was going to remind him that I wasn’t the same man he’d raised.
I wasn’t the obedient son anymore.
I was the man who’d buried his own brother alive to protect the woman he loved.
I was the man who’d shot up an entire clinic because someone had violated what was mine and I’d finally snapped.
I was the man who’d do anything—anything—to keep Truth and my child safe.
And if Winston thought he could control me with threats and leverage and manipulation, he was about to learn just how wrong he was.
The city lights appeared on the horizon, glowing against the dark sky.
I was almost there.
Almost to Winston’s estate.
Almost to the confrontation that had been building since the moment I discovered the empty vault.
But even as the rage consumed me, even as I prepared for war with my own father, a small part of me—the part that was still capable of feeling something other than fury—held onto that flicker of hope.
I just had to survive long enough to prove to her that I was worth keeping.
Even if it meant destroying everything else in the process.