16. AMAI
AMAI
The warehouse sat on the edge of the Industrial Canal, tucked between abandoned shipping containers and a stretch of cracked asphalt that hadn’t seen maintenance in a decade.
It was one of three locations I rotated for crew meetings—never the same place twice in a row, never predictable.
Predictability got you killed in this business.
Good. They should wait.
I stepped out of the car and walked toward the side entrance, my footsteps echoing against the metal siding. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped into the cold, industrial space that smelled like motor oil and concrete dust.
Brandon was leaning against the table when I walked in, arms crossed, his expression tight. Teal stood near the window, watching the street. DeShawn and Trey sat at the far end of the table, both of them looking like they hadn’t slept in days.
They all straightened when they saw me.
I didn’t greet them. I walked to the head of the table, placed my phone face-down on the surface, and let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.
“Where the fuck is Priest?” I asked.
The question landed like a blade. No one moved. No one spoke.
Brandon cleared his throat. “We’ve been looking since yesterday morning. No sign of him. No word from any of our contacts on the street. No chatter from Rahsaan’s crew. Nothing.”
“Nothing,” I repeated, my voice flat. “That’s not an answer, Brandon. That’s a failure.”
“There’s no way anyone snatched Priest without him putting up a fight,” Brandon said, his tone careful but firm. “You know how he moves. He’s always armed. Always aware. If someone tried to take him, we would’ve heard something. A gunshot. A struggle. Witnesses. Something.”
I studied him for a long moment, letting the weight of my silence do the work. Brandon was smart. Loyal. One of the few people in this organization I actually trusted. But right now, trust didn’t mean shit. Results did.
“Does Winston have him?” he asked.
The shift in the room was immediate. The tension that had been simmering beneath the surface suddenly crystallized into something sharper. Everyone knew what it meant if my father had taken Priest. It meant this wasn’t about business. It was about control.
Brandon’s jaw tightened. “I talked to a few people. Quietly. No one’s seen Winston make any moves. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t.”
“And you believe them?” I asked.
Brandon met my eyes. “Do you?”
“Hell no.” I pushed off the table and walked toward the window, looking out at the dark street below. A car passed, its headlights cutting through the night before disappearing around the corner. “But before I go to war with my father, I need to know if Rahsaan has him.”
“If Rahsaan had Priest, he would’ve said something by now,” Brandon countered.
“That’s not how he operates. He’d want us to know.
He’d want the psychological advantage. A message.
A demand. Something to destabilize us.” He paused.
“And if he didn’t want us to know—if he just wanted Priest gone—we’d have found his body by now. ”
The logic was sound. Rahsaan was calculated, but he wasn’t subtle. If he’d taken Priest, it would’ve been loud. Public. A statement.
Which left Winston.
I turned back to face the table. “So, we’re looking at my father.”
“Or someone else entirely,” Teal said quietly from his position near the window. “Someone we haven’t considered.”
I fixed him with a stare. “Then consider faster.”
Teal didn’t flinch, but I saw the way his shoulders tensed. Good. They needed to understand the stakes.
I moved back to the table and placed my palms flat against the surface, leaning forward.
My voice dropped, cold and controlled. “Here’s what I know: Priest is missing.
Operations have been sloppy since he disappeared.
Inventory counts are off. Security rotations have gaps.
Communication between crews is delayed. Shipments are getting fucked up.
And all of that—all of it—makes us vulnerable. ”
I looked at each of them in turn. “Vulnerable means we lose territory. We lose money. We lose respect. And I don’t lose any of those things. Ever.”
Brandon shifted slightly. He knew what was coming.
“I’m not Priest,” I continued, my voice dropping even lower. “Priest was patient. Priest was diplomatic. Priest could manage the details, smooth over conflicts, keep everyone in line without raising his voice. He had mercy.” I straightened and let the silence hang for a beat. “I don’t.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
“If there are any fuckups going forward—any at all—it’s your ass,” I said, my gaze moving from face to face. “No exceptions. No second chances. No explanations that matter. You understand me?”
“Yes,” Brandon said immediately.
“Yes,” the others echoed.
“Good.” I straightened and adjusted my jacket. “Find Priest. Find out who has him. Find out why. I want answers by tomorrow night, or I’m going to start making assumptions. And my assumptions tend to be very fucking expensive for the people involved.”
I walked toward the door, then paused and looked back at them. “And if any of you are thinking about running, about cutting a deal with Rahsaan or anyone else—don’t. Because I will find you. And what I do to you will make whatever Priest is going through look like a vacation.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
I left them there, sitting in that cold warehouse, understanding exactly what I’d just communicated: I was in control. I was always in control. And anyone who forgot that was going to learn the hard way.
As I walked to my car, the night air hit me—thick, humid, carrying the smell of the canal and distant rain. I unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat, my mind already moving through contingencies.
If Winston had Priest, it was a power play. A message. A way to remind me that no matter how much territory I controlled, no matter how much money I made, I was still his son. Still under his thumb.
If Rahsaan had him, it was a declaration of war. A calculated move to destabilize my operation before making a larger play for territory.
If it was someone else—someone I hadn’t considered—then I was already behind. Already reacting instead of controlling.
I hated reacting.
This wasn’t Rahsaan making a power move. This wasn’t about business.
This was personal.
Someone had just made a very serious mistake.
I started the car and pulled out of the lot, my mind already shifting into a different mode. Not the cold calculation I used for business. Not the ruthless efficiency I applied to territory disputes.
This was something darker. Something more primal.
Someone had taken my right hand. And they were about to learn exactly what that cost.
As I drove through the empty streets of New Orleans, the city lights blurring past my windows, I felt the weight of everything pressing down on me. Truth. The baby. Kaisen in that hole. Winston’s manipulation. Yahmaria’s refusal to let go. Priest’s disappearance.
And now this.
A threat I couldn’t see yet. A game I didn’t fully control.
But I would.
Because that’s what I did. I took chaos, and I bent it to my will. I took threats, and I eliminated them. I took vulnerability and turned it into armor.
And whoever had Priest—whoever thought they could use him as leverage against me—was about to discover that some lessons had to be learned in blood.
I thought about Truth, asleep at the lakehouse, safe and protected and mine.
And I thought about what I was willing to do—what I was willing to destroy—to keep them both.
The answer was simple.
Everything.
I’d burn it all down if I had to.
And I wouldn’t lose a single night’s sleep over it.
The family estate looked the same as it always did—imposing, pristine, a monument to Winston’s power and control. The wrought-iron gates stood open, as if he’d been expecting me. As if he knew I’d come.
Of course he knew.
Winston always knew.
I pulled up the circular driveway and killed the engine. My hands were steady on the steering wheel, but my mind was racing through scenarios, contingencies, ways this could go. None of them ended well. But I was past the point of caring about outcomes. I needed answers. I needed Priest back.
And I needed Winston to understand that I wasn’t the same man who’d left this house years ago, desperate to escape his shadow.
I stepped out of the car and walked toward the front door. It opened before I could reach it.
Winston stood in the doorway, backlit by the chandelier in the foyer. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. He looked like a man who’d been waiting for an appointment he knew would arrive on time.
“Amai,” he said, his voice smooth. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
I didn’t respond. I walked past him into the house, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The familiar scent of expensive cologne and old money filled the air. Everything about this place was designed to remind you of your place in the hierarchy.
I turned to face him as he closed the door behind me.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Before we get to that,” he said, his voice dropping to something colder, “let’s talk about what you did to your brother.”
I felt my jaw tighten. “What I did to Kaisen is between me and him.”
“No.” Winston took a sip of his bourbon, savoring it. “What you did to Kaisen is family business. And it’s fucked up that you were going to kill your brother over a bitch you just met.”
The word landed like a slap.
My hands curled into fists at my sides. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
Winston’s eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, the air between us crackled with tension. Then he smiled—cold, humorless, dangerous.
“I ain’t watching shit,” he said quietly. “And what about it?”
He set his glass down on the table with a soft clink and took a step toward me.