AMAI
“Mr. Landry.” It was Nigel, one of the security detail I’d assigned to Truth’s perimeter.
“Talk to me,” I said, my voice even.
“Subject just arrived at the Mimosa Ct location. Black Audi. Louisiana plates. Confirmed visual on Kaisen Landry.”
“How far are you from me?”
“We’re stationary at the corner of Dauphine and Piety. You’re approximately four miles northeast of our position.”
Four miles.
I could make that in less than five minutes if I pushed it.
“I’m not far at all,” I said. “Hold position. Do not engage unless he attempts entry by force.”
“Copy that.”
I ended the call and immediately cut across two lanes of traffic, ignoring the blare of horns behind me.
The Sanctum could wait.
Yahmaria could wait.
Everything could fucking wait.
Because Kaisen—my own goddamn brother—had just crossed a line I’d drawn in blood.
The Bentley’s engine roared as I pressed the accelerator to the floor, the speedometer climbing past eighty, then ninety. The city blurred around me—shotgun houses, corner stores, chain-link fences—all of it irrelevant.
My jaw clenched so hard I felt my teeth grind.
I’d warned him.
I’d told him to stay the fuck away from her.
And he’d looked me in the eye this morning—exhausted, desperate, pathetic—and I’d known then that he wasn’t going to listen.
He never fucking listened.
The tires screeched as I took a hard right onto St. Claude, the Bentley’s suspension protesting as I pushed it through the turn. A delivery truck honked. I didn’t slow down.
My mind was locked on one objective now.
One purpose.
Kaisen thought he could show up at Truth’s house—my woman’s house—and what? Talk his way back into her life? Convince her that his obsession was somehow more noble than mine?
Fuck that.
I’d given him chances.
I’d given him warnings.
Now I was giving him consequences.
The streets narrowed as I entered the Seventh Ward, the houses pressing closer together, the oak trees forming a canopy overhead. I knew this neighborhood. I’d memorized every block, every alley, every rooftop the moment Truth signed the lease.
Mimosa Ct came into view.
I slowed the Bentley, my breathing controlled, my heartbeat steady.
This wasn’t rage.
This was precision.
I parked three houses down from Truth’s brick two-story, positioning the car so I had a clear line of sight but remained out of immediate view. The black Audi sat in her driveway like a fucking insult.
He was already inside.
Or on the porch.
Either way, he was too close.
I popped the trunk and stepped out, my movements smooth and deliberate. No rush. No panic.
Just purpose.
The tactical case sat in the back, matte black and unassuming. I pulled it out, the weight familiar in my hands, and closed the trunk with a soft click.
Across the street, an older apartment building stood—three stories, faded yellow paint, wrought-iron balconies. Perfect elevation. Perfect angle.
I crossed the street with the case at my side, my stride confident, my expression neutral.
A woman was coming out of the building’s front entrance, her arms full of grocery bags. She looked up, saw me, and froze.
I met her eyes.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t explain.
Just held her gaze until she looked away and hurried past me, her keys jangling in her shaking hands.
The door closed behind her, and I caught it before it locked.
Inside, the hallway smelled like old carpet and fried food. A man in a stained undershirt stood in a doorway on the first floor, a beer in his hand, staring at me.
I stared back.
He stepped inside his apartment and closed the door.
Good.
I took the stairs two at a time, the case steady in my grip. My breathing was even. My focus absolute.
Second floor.
Third floor.
The stairwell ended at a metal door marked ROOF ACCESS - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
I pushed it open.
Sunlight hit me first, blinding me a bit. The rooftop was flat, covered in tar paper and gravel, dotted with old HVAC units and satellite dishes.
And it had a perfect view of Truth’s house.
I moved to the edge, crouching low behind the short parapet wall, and set the case down.
My hands moved on autopilot—flipping the latches, opening the lid, revealing the disassembled rifle inside.
Custom build. .308 caliber. Suppressor already threaded. Scope zeroed at three hundred yards.
I’d used it twice before.
Both times, the target never saw it coming.
I assembled the rifle with practiced efficiency—stock to receiver, barrel to chamber, scope mounted and locked. My fingers moved without hesitation, muscle memory taking over.
Thirty seconds.
That’s all it took.
I pressed the stock against my shoulder and looked through the scope, adjusting the focus until Truth’s front porch came into sharp relief.
And there he was.
Kaisen.
Standing on her porch, his back to me, his posture tense.
Truth stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her face hard.
She wasn’t letting him in.
Good girl.
But he was still there.
Still talking.
Still trying.
I adjusted the scope, centering the crosshairs on his torso. Not his head. Not his heart.
Somewhere that would hurt.
Somewhere that would teach him.
My breathing slowed. My heartbeat steadied.
I could hear his voice in my head from this morning: Once Victor and Rahsaan are dead, we’ll settle the matter of Truth.
No.
We were settling it now, hoe ass nigga.
My finger rested lightly on the trigger, the metal cool against my skin.
I watched through the scope as Kaisen gestured, his voice rising, even though I couldn’t hear the words.
Truth stepped back.
He stepped forward.
And that was it.
That was the line.
I exhaled slowly, my body perfectly still, and applied pressure to the trigger.
The rifle kicked back against my shoulder—a gentle recoil, controlled and familiar.
Through the scope, I watched Kaisen’s body jerk.
His hand flew to his side.
He staggered, his legs buckling, and then he went down hard on Truth’s porch.
I didn’t move.
I kept the scope trained on him, watching the way his body twisted, the way his hand pressed against the wound, the way blood began to seep between his fingers.
Spleen.
Left side, just below the ribcage.
Painful as hell. Serious enough to require surgery. But survivable.
This wasn’t an execution.
This was a warning.
The distinction mattered.
Truth screamed.
The sound cut through the distance between us, sharp and raw, and I felt something twist in my chest.
But I didn’t look away.
I watched as she dropped to her knees beside Kaisen, her hands hovering over him like she didn’t know where to touch, what to do. Truth may need more than a few more classes before they let her around real people because my baby was losing her shit.
Kaisen’s face was contorted in pain, his mouth open, gasping.
Good.
Let him feel it.
Let him understand what happens when you keep pressing my woman.
I lowered the rifle and set it carefully on the gravel rooftop.
My hands moved with practiced efficiency—detaching the scope, unscrewing the suppressor, breaking down the barrel from the receiver. Every piece went back into its designated slot in the foam-lined case.
No rush.
No panic.
Just precision.
Thirty seconds to assemble.
Thirty seconds to disassemble.
I closed the case, latched it, and stood.
The rooftop was silent except for the distant hum of traffic and the faint sound of Truth’s voice calling Kaisen’s name.
I didn’t look back at them.
I moved to the stairwell door, pulled it open, and descended the stairs two at a time, the case steady in my grip.
First floor.
The hallway was empty.
The man in the stained undershirt had his door closed now. Smart.
I pushed through the front entrance and stepped out into the sunlight.
The street was quiet. A few cars parked along the curb. An old woman watering her garden three houses down.
No one looked at me.
No one saw anything.
I crossed the street to where the Bentley sat, popped the trunk, and placed the tactical case inside. The lid closed with a soft, satisfying thunk.
I stood there for a moment, my hand resting on the trunk, and let myself breathe.
Then, I turned and walked toward Truth’s house.
My stride was calm. Unhurried.
Like I was just a man coming to visit his woman.
Truth was still on the porch, kneeling beside Kaisen, her hands pressed against his side. Blood soaked through her fingers, dark and wet.
She looked up as I approached, and the expression on her face—
Horror.
Realization.
Fury.
“Did you do this?” Her voice was shaking, but it wasn’t weak. It was sharp. Accusing.
I stopped at the edge of the porch and met her eyes.
“Sure the fuck did.”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Kaisen groaned, his head lolling to the side, his breathing shallow and ragged.
“Relax,” I said, my tone almost conversational. “I shot him in the spleen. He don’t need that shit for real.”
Truth stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
Maybe I had.
I tilted my head and gave her a small, humorless smile. “That’s me trying to be better… for you.”
The absurdity of it wasn’t lost on me.
Shooting my own brother and framing it as self-improvement.
But it was true.
A year ago, I would’ve put the bullet in his head.
Now, I was aiming for organs he could live without.
Progress.
I stepped onto the porch and crouched beside Kaisen.
His eyes were half-closed, his face pale and slick with sweat. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading across the wood.
I leaned in close, my voice low and cold.
“If I got to maim your ass until you ain’t got nothing but nubs, I’ll do that to get my point across.” I paused, letting the words sink in. “Truth is off-limits. You understand me?”
Kaisen’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t respond.
Good enough.
I stood and turned back to Truth.
She was still staring at me, her hands covered in Kaisen’s blood, her chest heaving.
“I got that DNA you needed,” I said, gesturing toward Kaisen’s wound.
Truth blinked.
Then, she shook her head slowly, her expression somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion.
“Damn, Amai.” Her voice was quiet, almost resigned. “The chaos is never ending with you Landrys.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed a number I’d memorized weeks ago.