8. VICTOR BAPTISTE
VICTOR BAPTISTE
Winston Landry strolled through my front door like he owned the goddamn place.
That confidence—that swagger that said I’m bigger than you, and we both know it—made my ass itch every time I saw him. Always had. Even back when we were young and hungry and building our empires brick by bloody brick.
Winston had always acted like the rules didn’t apply to him.
Like his money was longer, his reach wider, his name heavier.
And the worst part? He was usually right.
I stood in the foyer of my Metairie estate, arms crossed, watching him walk in without so much as a knock or a phone call ahead of time.
“Winston,” I said, my voice flat. “You must be here to cut the check for that gate your son ran through the other day.”
Winston stopped.
Looked at me.
And smiled.
Not the polite smile you give a business associate. The smile that said you’re amusing me right now, and that should worry you.
“Fuck that gate,” Winston said.
I could feel the veins popping out of my neck.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Winston walked past me into the sitting room like he’d been invited. “You better be glad that’s all Amai did after Yaya intruded into his life the way she did.”
Heat flared in my chest.
“She’s his wife,” I said, following him into the room. “There’s no such thing as intruding when you’re married. That’s her house too.”
Winston poured himself a drink from my bar cart without asking.
Bourbon. Neat.
He took a slow sip, then turned to face me.
“Victor,” he said, his voice calm in a way that made my skin crawl. “We got a bigger problem than a gate or your daughter playing house.”
I didn’t like the way he said that.
Didn’t like the weight behind it.
“What problem?” I asked.
Winston set the glass on the side table.
“Amai’s off the reservation.”
The words hung in the air between us.
I stared at him.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means,” Winston said slowly, deliberately, “that he don’t give a fuck about this alliance anymore. He’s done playing nice. Done pretending. Done protecting what we built together.”
My blood went cold.
“You’re telling me your son is about to burn down everything we’ve spent thirty years building?”
“I’m telling you,” Winston said, his eyes hard, “that Amai is The Demon for a reason. And when he decides something’s over, it’s over. He don’t negotiate. He don’t compromise. He destroys.”
I took a step toward him.
“Then you better get that shit in check, Winston.”
Winston didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Just looked at me with those cold, calculating eyes that had seen more blood than most men could stomach.
“You think I haven’t tried?” His voice was quiet now. Dangerous. “You think I didn’t see this coming the second Yaya walked back into his house uninvited?”
“She’s his wife—”
“She’s a pawn,” Winston interrupted, his voice sharp as a blade. “Your pawn. And Amai knows it. He’s known it from the beginning. The only reason he hasn’t killed her yet is because of me. Because of you. Because of this alliance.”
I felt my hands curl into fists.
“So, what are you saying?”
Winston picked up his glass again.
Drained it.
Set it down with a quiet clink.
“I’m saying,” he said, “that if Amai decides to burn it all down, there’s not a goddamn thing either of us can do to stop him. Not me. Not you. Not the entire city of New Orleans.”
The room felt smaller suddenly.
Hotter.
“He’s your son,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “You raised him. You made him what he is. So, you fix this.”
Winston laughed.
It was a cold, bitter sound.
“You think I made him?” He shook his head.
“Victor, I didn’t make Amai. I just pointed him in the right direction and got the fuck out of the way.
That boy was born with something dark inside him.
Something I recognized because I got it too.
But his?” Winston’s smile faded. “His runs deeper. Colder. And once it’s unleashed, there’s no putting it back. ”
I stared at him.
“So, what the fuck am I supposed to do? Just sit here and watch my empire crumble because your son caught feelings for some broke bitch carrying his baby?”
Winston’s expression shifted.
Hardened.
“Careful,” he said quietly.
“Careful?” I stepped closer. “You come into my house, tell me your son’s about to destroy everything we built, and you want me to be careful?”
“I want you,” Winston said, his voice dropping to something lethal, “to remember that Amai is still my son. And if you or anyone else tries to hurt what he cares about, he won’t just burn down the alliance. He’ll burn down you. Your house. Your businesses. Your entire bloodline.”
The threat hung in the air between us.
Real.
Immediate.
Absolute.
I took a breath.
Forced myself to think past the rage.
“So, what do we do?”
Winston straightened his jacket.
“We survive,” he said. “Same way we always have.”
I stared at Winston.
At the man who’d walked into my world thirty years ago with nothing but a college degree he couldn’t use and a dream his broke-ass father wouldn’t fund.
“Survive?” The word tasted like acid in my mouth. “That’s the only advice you have for your maniac son being on the loose?”
Winston’s expression didn’t change.
Didn’t even flicker.
“We can solve this simply,” he said, his voice calm. “Let them get a divorce. Because we both know neither of them want to be together and will do everything in their power to make the other suffers for it.”
Something in me snapped.
“That’ll be right up your alley, huh?” I stepped toward him. “Finally done with using me, so you ready to cut and run.”
Winston’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Victor—”
“You think I didn’t notice?” My voice was rising now. I didn’t care. “You mostly use your docks in New Orleans. A dock you secured with my fucking connections. You only do enough business in Baton Rouge to throw me a lil’ change, you greedy motherfucker.”
Winston set his glass down.
Slowly.
“I’m the one who turned you onto this street shit,” I continued, the words pouring out now—years of resentment, years of watching him build while I scraped.
“When your college boy ass was having a meltdown because daddy stopped paying your tuition. You didn’t want to be a doctor.
Something his broke ass scraped up every penny to feed—a dream he had for you.
He didn’t give a fuck about that MBA you wanted, nah.
That’s not the payoff he was waiting for. ”
Winston’s eyes flashed with rage.
Good.
Let him feel it.
“I showed you how to get that money,” I said, my voice dropping to something dangerous.
“The only difference between me and you is you did better business. You used that college shit and applied it to your illegal shit. You didn’t share not one tip with me to put me on like I put you on.
You didn’t make sure I was able to expand as fast.”
I took another step closer.
“You tossed me pennies while you piled in millions.”
The air between us was electric now.
Charged with thirty years of partnership and betrayal.
“I knew that day would come though,” I said quietly. “That’s why I stacked assurances. I know where all the bodies are buried, Winston. All of them.”
Acknowledgment flickered in Winston’s eyes.
Recognition that I wasn’t just talking shit.
That I had leverage.
That I’d been preparing for this moment since the day I realized Winston Landry would always put Winston Landry first.
The silence stretched between us.
Heavy.
Loaded.
Then, Winston smiled.
It was the coldest thing I’d ever seen.
“You a grown ass man,” he said, his voice soft and lethal. “It ain’t my job to make sure you eat, bitch ass nigga.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
“You don’t want to compare swinging dicks,” Winston continued, “because mine is bigger. But you knew that already.”
He picked up his glass.
Drained it.
Set it down with a quiet clink.
“So, like I said,” Winston continued, his eyes locked on mine, “try to stay the fuck alive until Amai calms down. And consider calling your fucking daughter off, and maybe this shit can go back to normal.”
I stood there.
Fists clenched.
Heart pounding.
Every instinct screaming at me to put a bullet in Winston Landry’s head right here, right now, and end this partnership the way it should have ended years ago.
But I didn’t.
Because Winston was right about one thing:
His empire was larger, his reach longer, his soldiers more loyal.
And if I moved against him now—if I tried to burn him down—I’d burn myself in the process.
The Baptistes would crumble without the Landry alliance.
And Winston knew it.
He’d always known it.
That’s why he could stand in my house, drink my bourbon, and call me a bitch to my face.
Because he knew I needed him more than he needed me.
And that knowledge—that bitter, choking reality—was worse than any bullet.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” I said quietly. “Like it or not, our wagons are hitched together. For better or worse. Just like a bitter marriage.”
Winston straightened his jacket.
Adjusted his cufflinks.
“We’ll see about that.”
He walked past me toward the door.
Stopped.
Looked back.
“And Victor?” His voice was almost gentle now. “Next time you want to threaten me with what you know? Remember I know just as much about you. Maybe more.”
Then, he was gone.
The front door closed with a quiet click.
I stood there in the silence of my sitting room.
Alone.
Furious.
And for the first time in thirty years, genuinely afraid of what came next.
Because Winston was right about something else too:
Amai Landry was off the reservation.
And when a demon decided to burn everything down, the only question that mattered was whether you’d be close enough to the flames to burn with it.
I poured myself another drink.
Drained it in one swallow.
And started making calls.
Because if the alliance was fracturing, I needed to make sure the Baptistes survived the collapse.
Even if it meant doing things I’d sworn I’d never do.
Even if it meant turning on the Landrys completely.
Survival wasn’t pretty.
But it was necessary.
And I’d survived worse than Winston Landry.