13. WINSTON #2
I set the burner phone aside and picked up my regular phone, pulling up Kaisen’s location again.
The blue dot hadn’t moved.
I stood and grabbed my keys from the desk. I’d drive out there myself. Not because Kaisen deserved a personal rescue, but because I needed to see what Amai had built.
I needed to understand the mind of the son who’d buried his brother alive.
I needed to see the hole, the prison that Amai had constructed with his own hands.
Because that prison told me everything I needed to know about how far Amai was willing to go.
And if he was willing to go that far for a woman he barely knew, for a child that might not even be his—
What would he do when I took away the man who kept his world running?
I walked out of my office and down the hallway, my footsteps echoing on the marble floors.
Odette was in the sitting room, reading. She looked up as I passed.
“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice soft, concerned.
“To handle something,” I said.
“Is it Kaisen?”
I stopped. Looked at her. My wife, the mother of my children, the woman who’d stood beside me through wars and losses and the kind of violence that would have broken most people.
She knew.
“Yes,” I said.
“Is he alright?”
“He will be.”
She held my gaze for a long moment, and I saw the question in her eyes. The one she wouldn’t ask because she already knew the answer.
What did Amai do?
“Be careful,” she said finally.
I nodded and continued walking.
Careful. Yes. I’d be careful.
But Amai?
Amai had stopped being careful the moment he decided that woman was worth more than his family.
And now he was going to learn what happened when you forgot where you came from.
When you forgot who made you.
When you forgot that kings could be unmade just as easily as they were crowned.
I climbed into my car and started the engine.
The drive to the lake would take forty-five minutes.
By the time I arrived, Priest would be in Terrell’s jail, locked in solitary confinement with no record of his existence.
By the time Amai realized what I’d done, it would be too late to stop it.
And Kaisen?
Kaisen would be pulled from his concrete tomb, cleaned up, and reminded that despite his failures, despite his betrayals, he was still my son.
I pulled out of the estate and onto the main road, my hands steady on the wheel.
Amai thought he’d won. Thought he’d claimed his prize and eliminated his rival.
But he’d forgotten the most important lesson I’d ever taught him.
There’s always someone above you.
Always someone with more power, more resources, more willingness to do what needs to be done.
And that someone was me.
I’d built this family. I’d shaped these sons.
And if one of them had gone rogue, had decided his obsession was more important than his legacy—
Then I’d remind him what it cost to defy me.
Even if it meant tearing everything down and rebuilding it from scratch.
Even if it meant breaking the son I’d spent thirty-eight years creating.
Some lessons had to be learned in blood.
And Amai’s education was just beginning.
I made the first call while still on the road, hands-free through the car’s system.
The line connected after two rings.
“Yeah.” The voice was gravel and cigarettes—Brandon Arceneaux, one of my oldest enforcers. He’d been with me since the early days, back when territory wars were settled with baseball bats and gasoline instead of lawyers and shell corporations.
“I need a clean extraction,” I said. “Target is Priest Harris. He’ll be arriving at my estate in approximately twelve minutes. Intercept before he reaches the gate.”
There was a pause. Brandon knew who Priest was—everyone in the organization did. Amai’s right hand. His most trusted lieutenant.
“You sure about this?” he asked, his voice careful.
“I don’t make calls I’m not sure about.”
“Understood. How do you want it handled?”
“Professional. No violence unless he resists. Sedation if necessary. I want him conscious but compliant when he arrives at the facility.”
“Which facility?”
“Terrell Thibodeaux’s parish jail. I’ll text you the coordinates. He’s expecting delivery within three hours.”
Another pause. “That’s off-books.”
“That’s the point.”
“What about Amai?”
The question hung in the air between us. What about my son? What about the man who’d built his entire operation on Priest’s organizational genius and loyalty?
“Amai will be informed when I decide he needs to know,” I said, my voice flat. “Not before.”
“Copy that. We’ll have him within fifteen minutes.”
I ended the call and immediately pulled up my contacts again, scrolling to Terrell Thibodeaux.
He answered on the first ring this time, his voice tight with anticipation. “Winston. I’ve got the cell ready.”
“Good. My men will deliver the package within three hours. I need him in solitary. Complete isolation. No phone calls, no visitors, no communication with the outside world.”
“And if someone comes looking?”
“They won’t. The target doesn’t have family. No wife, no kids, no one who’ll report him missing. His employer will assume he’s handling business elsewhere.”
“His employer being your son.”
“Yes.”
“The same son who just buried his brother alive.”
I felt my jaw tighten. News traveled fast in this world. Too fast.
“Where did you hear that?”
“I’ve got sources. You know how it is.” Terrell’s voice was careful, measured. “I’m just saying—if Amai’s willing to do that to his own blood, what’s he gonna do when he finds out you’ve got his right-hand man locked up?”
“That’s my concern, not yours. Your concern is keeping Priest Harris in that cell and making sure no one—not Amai, not anyone else—can access him.”
“Understood. But Winston—”
“What?”
“You’re playing a dangerous game.”
I smiled, though there was no humor in it. “I’ve been playing dangerous games since before you were born, T. This is just another move on the board.”
I ended the call and set the phone in the cup holder, my eyes on the road ahead.
He was right, of course. This was dangerous. Priest wasn’t just some low-level soldier or expendable muscle. He was integral to Amai’s operation. He was the infrastructure that allowed Amai to focus on strategy and expansion.
Without Priest, Amai’s entire organization would start to fracture within days.
That was exactly the point.
I needed Amai destabilized. I needed him scrambling, desperate, forced to come to me for answers and solutions. I needed him reminded that his power existed within a structure I’d built, and that structure could be dismantled piece by piece if he continued to operate outside my authority.
Priest was the first piece.
The most important piece.
Because Priest was the only person Amai actually listened to. The only person whose counsel he sought, whose judgment he trusted. Kaisen had always been too volatile, too desperate for approval. Syx was too unpredictable, too self-interested.
But Priest? Priest was steady. Loyal. Competent.
And that made him dangerous.
Not to me—not directly. But dangerous in the sense that he enabled Amai’s independence. He made it possible for Amai to function without needing me, without requiring my resources or guidance.
That had to end.
My phone buzzed with a text from Brandon.
Target acquired. He killed three men and beat the fuck out of two more. He’s sedated. En route to facility.
I glanced at the timestamp. Fourteen minutes since I’d made the call. Efficient.
I typed back: Confirm delivery when complete.
The response came immediately. Copy.
I set the phone down and focused on the road. The lake property was still thirty minutes away. Plenty of time to think through the next steps.
Priest would be confused right now. Probably sitting in the back of the van, hands zip-tied, a hood over his head to disorient him. He’d be running through scenarios in his mind and wondering if he would live.
Priest had always been respectful toward me, deferential even. He understood the hierarchy. He knew I was the patriarch, the foundation upon which everything else was built.
But he was Amai’s man first. His loyalty was to my son, not to me.
That was the problem.
In the old days—back when I was building this empire from nothing—loyalty was absolute. You were loyal to the family, to the structure, to the legacy. Individual relationships were secondary to the collective good.
But Amai had changed that. He’d built his operation on personal loyalty, on relationships forged through shared violence and mutual respect. His men followed him because they believed in him, not because they feared the consequences of disobedience.
It was effective, I’d give him that. Amai’s crew was tight, disciplined, willing to die for him.
But it also made them insular. Isolated from the larger family structure. Operating as a separate entity rather than an integrated part of the whole.
That couldn’t continue.
I’d tolerated it for years because Amai delivered results. He expanded our territory, increased our revenue, eliminated threats with brutal efficiency. As long as he was profitable and didn’t directly challenge my authority, I’d let him operate with relative autonomy.
But burying Kaisen alive had crossed a line.
Not because I cared about Kaisen’s suffering—he’d brought that on himself through his own stupidity and jealousy. But because it demonstrated that Amai was willing to destroy family for the sake of his obsession with this woman.
That was unacceptable.
Family was everything. Family was the foundation. You could hate your brother, resent him, even wish him dead—but you didn’t act on it. You didn’t tear apart the structure for personal satisfaction.
Amai had forgotten that lesson.
Or maybe he’d never truly learned it.
Either way, he was about to be reminded.
My phone buzzed again. Another text from Brandon.
Delivery complete. Subject secured in solitary. Minimal complications.
I typed back: Good work. Maintain radio silence until further notice.
Copy.
I set the phone down and allowed myself a moment of satisfaction.
Priest was locked away. Isolated. Unreachable.