16. AMAI #3
He picked up his bourbon and walked out of the room, leaving me bleeding on the floor with my mother’s hands pressed against the wound.
Mama’s tears fell onto my shirt as she held the pillow in place. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said quietly.
“He’s a monster,” she whispered. “I should’ve left him years ago. I should’ve taken you and your brothers and—”
“Mama.” I reached up and touched her hand. “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay. Nothing about this was okay.
But I couldn’t let her see how much this had broken something inside me. I couldn’t let her see that the man I’d spent my entire life trying to escape had just reminded me that I was still his son. Still under his control.
Still trapped.
Dr. Arceneaux arrived eighteen minutes later, his medical bag in hand. He took one look at the wound and shook his head.
“Gunshot,” he said flatly. “Through-and-through.”
He knelt beside me and examined the wound, his hands efficient and practiced. “You’re lucky. Another inch to the right, and it would’ve hit the femoral artery. You’d have bled out in minutes.”
“Lucky,” I repeated, the word tasting bitter in my mouth.
Dr. Arceneaux cleaned and bandaged the wound, his movements quick and professional. He gave me a shot of something for the pain, then helped me to my feet.
“You need to stay off that leg for a few days,” he said. “And if there’s any sign of infection—fever, increased pain, swelling—you call me immediately.”
I nodded.
Mama walked me to the door, her arm around my waist, supporting me. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” I said.
“Which home?”
I thought about the Garden District house, where Yahmaria was probably still awake, waiting to interrogate me. I thought about the seventh ward, where Truth was safe and protected and mine.
And I thought about the house in the 9th Ward—the one I’d bought years ago as a refuge, a place where I could exist without the weight of the Landry name pressing down on me.
“The 9th,” I said finally.
She nodded. “Be careful, baby.”
“I will.”
I limped to my car, every step sending a fresh wave of pain through my leg. I slid into the driver’s seat and sat there for a long moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel, my mind replaying the confrontation.
Winston had shot me.
My own father had shot me.
Not to kill me. Not even to seriously injure me. Just to remind me that he could. That he was still in control. That I was still his son, no matter how far I tried to run.
And he had Priest.
That was the real weapon. The real leverage.
Because Winston knew—he’d always known—that Priest was the one person I couldn’t afford to lose. The one person who kept everything running, who understood the organization in ways even I didn’t.
Without Priest, I was vulnerable.
And Winston was going to use that vulnerability to bend me to his will.
I started the car and pulled out of the driveway, my leg throbbing with every press of the gas pedal. The city lights blurred past my windows as I drove, my mind working through the implications.
Winston had Priest.
Winston had leverage.
And Winston had just proven that he was willing to use violence—even against his own son—to maintain control.
I thought about Truth, safe at home, unaware of what had just happened. Unaware of the war that was brewing beneath the surface. I thought about Yahmaria, waiting for me at the Garden District house, expecting me to play the role of devoted husband to keep us both alive.
And I thought about what I was willing to sacrifice to keep them both safe.
And I thought about what I was willing to sacrifice to keep her safe.
The answer was still the same.
Everything.
But now I understood the cost.
And it was higher than I’d ever imagined.
The brick house on Mimosa Ct. looked modest from the outside—two stories, a small front porch, a fenced backyard visible from the street. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that screamed wealth or power.
But it was hers.
I could see that the moment I pulled up to the curb. The way the porch light glowed warm against the evening dusk. The way the curtains in the front window were already hung—simple, white, clean. The way the small potted plant sat beside the front door like a declaration.
I live here. This is mine.
She moved in fast as hell.
I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel, my left leg throbbing with a dull, insistent pain that radiated from the graze wound up to my hip.
Winston’s bullet had been a message.
A reminder.
A warning.
And it had worked.
Because sitting here, staring at Truth’s house—at the life she was building without me—I felt the trap closing in tighter.
I was a weapon he’d forged.
But now I was a weapon he couldn’t fully control.
And that terrified him.
Which meant it should terrify me.
I exhaled slowly and opened the car door, stepping out onto the street.
My leg buckled slightly under my weight, and I gritted my teeth against the sharp spike of pain.
The wound wasn’t serious—Dr. Arceneaux had cleaned and bandaged it, given me antibiotics and painkillers I hadn’t taken because I needed to stay sharp—but it was a constant reminder of what Winston was capable of.
Of what he was willing to do.
I limped up the walkway to the front porch. Each step sent fire through my leg. I wasn’t going to let her see how much it hurt. I wasn’t going to let her see the weakness.
But even as I thought it, I knew it was a lie.
Because Truth saw everything.
She always had.
I knocked on the door—three sharp raps—and waited.
Footsteps inside. Light, quick. Then the door opened, and there she was.
Truth stood in the doorway wearing a loose cotton dress that fell to her knees, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her face free of makeup. She looked tired. Fragile. But beneath that fragility was something else.
Steel.
“Amai.” Her voice was neutral, guarded. “What are you doing here?”
“You told me to meet you,” I said. “So I’m here.”
She hesitated, then stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”
I walked past her into the house, and the first thing I noticed was the smell—fresh paint, new carpet, something floral and clean. The living room was sparsely furnished—a couch, a coffee table, a lamp in the corner. But it was hers. Every piece of it.
She closed the door behind me and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re limping.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re limping,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. “What happened?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Amai—”
“I said I’m fine.” My voice came out sharper than I intended, and I saw her flinch slightly. I forced myself to soften. “It’s nothing. Just a long day.”
She didn’t believe me. I could see it in the way her gaze lingered on my leg, the way her jaw tightened. But she didn’t push.
Instead, she turned and walked toward the stairs. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
I followed her up the narrow staircase, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain through my leg. I kept my face blank, my breathing steady, but by the time we reached the second floor, I was gritting my teeth so hard my jaw ached.
Truth led me down a short hallway and stopped in front of a closed door. She placed her hand on the knob, then looked back at me.
“I’ve been working on this,” she said quietly. “I wanted it to be ready.”
She opened the door.
The nursery.
I stepped inside, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak.
The walls were painted a soft sage green.
A white crib sat against the far wall, already assembled, with a mobile hanging above it—little wooden animals that turned slowly in the air.
A rocking chair sat in the corner by the window, a folded blanket draped over the armrest. A small dresser stood beside the crib, its top already stocked with diapers, wipes, baby lotion.
Everything was ready.
Everything was hers.
“I know it’s not much,” Truth said, her voice uncertain. “But it’s a start. I wanted the baby to have a space. A real space.”
I walked further into the room, my eyes taking in every detail. The care she’d put into this. The thought. The planning.
She’d done this without me.
She’d built this life—this future—without asking for my help. Without needing me.
And that realization hit me harder than Winston’s bullet.
“It’s perfect,” I said finally, my voice rough.
She smiled—small, tentative. “You think so?”
“Yeah.” I turned to face her. “But you know the contract still stands.”
Her smile faded. “What?”
“The contract we signed,” I said, keeping my voice even. “The surrogacy agreement.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Are you serious right now?”
“I’m reminding you of the terms.”
“You’re threatening me.”
“I’m stating facts.”
“No.” She stepped closer, her voice rising. “You’re trying to control me. Again. You pursued me, Amai. You showed up at my mama’s house. You followed me to the clinic. You kissed me. You made love to me. This is all your fault.”
The words hit like a slap.
“I didn’t ask for this,” she continued, her voice shaking with anger.
“I didn’t ask to be caught in a war between you and your brother.
I didn’t ask for two specimens to be used without my knowledge.
I didn’t ask for any of this! I was supposed to be a surrogate.
That’s it. Clean. Simple. Not messy and dangerous and—”