Pregnant By A Rich Demon (An Unhinged Romance)

1. AMAI LANDRY

AMAI LANDRY

The private dining room smelled like money.

I could always tell. Old leather and aged bourbon, the kind of cologne that cost more than most people made in a month.

The mahogany table in front of me was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the crystal chandelier overhead.

White linen napkins folded into perfect triangles.

Silverware arranged with surgical precision.

I sat at the head of the table, hands folded, and waited.

Priest sat to my right. Forty-two years old, built like a man who’d spent his youth breaking bones and his adulthood perfecting the craft.

He wore a charcoal suit that fit too well to be off the rack.

His eyes tracked the door with the kind of patience that came from knowing violence was always an option, never a necessity.

The Sazerac Room didn’t advertise. You either knew about it or you didn’t belong.

Second floor of a building on Canal Street that looked like every other renovated Creole townhouse.

But the people who walked through its doors weren’t tourists looking for beignets and jazz.

They were the kind of people who made decisions that changed lives, ended careers, and redistributed power.

I’d reserved the private room for two hours.

I’d been sitting here for twenty-three minutes.

Dominic Arceneaux was late. A prime example of why we were here.

The door to the main dining room was closed, but sound leaked through—the soft murmur of conversation, the clink of silverware on porcelain, the occasional burst of laughter quickly muffled by propriety.

Out there, people were eating duck confit and drinking wine that cost more per bottle than Dominic made in a week.

In here, the air was still.

I picked up my water glass. Took a slow sip. Set it down without a sound.

The weight of the silence was intentional. I’d learned a long time ago that silence made people nervous. Made them fill the space with explanations, excuses, and apologies. Made them reveal themselves.

But Dominic wasn’t here to reveal himself.

He was here to learn.

“He’s three blocks out,” Priest said quietly, checking his phone. “Traffic on St. Charles.”

“Traffic,” I repeated.

My voice was flat. Conversational. The kind of tone that made people who knew me go very still.

Priest said nothing. He knew better.

I looked at the table. Two place settings had been laid out—white linen, crystal glasses catching the light, and silverware arranged with the precision of a surgical tray.

A steak knife lay beside my plate.

Serrated edge. Weighted handle. Sharp enough to cut through bone if you pressed hard enough.

I picked it up. Tested the weight in my hand. The balance was perfect. I set it back down, blade aligned with the edge of the plate.

Precision mattered.

In my world, precision was the difference between respect and chaos. Between power and weakness. Between a man who controlled his territory and a man who lost it to someone hungrier, someone smarter, someone who understood that empires didn’t fall all at once—they cracked first.

Little fractures.

Small mistakes.

Twenty-three minutes late was a crack.

The door opened.

Dominic walked in like a man trying not to look like he was walking to his own execution.

Thirty-four years old, light-skinned, wearing a Saints jersey and jeans that had seen better days.

He carried a duffel bag over one shoulder, and his eyes immediately went to me, then to Priest, then back to me.

“Mr. Landry,” Dominic said.

His voice was too loud. Trying to sound confident but failing.

“I got it. Everything you asked for. It’s all here.”

I didn’t move.

I watched him. Watched the way his shoulders tensed. Watched the way his grip tightened on the duffel bag. Watched the thin sheen of sweat forming on his forehead.

Fear had a smell. Copper and salt. It mixed with the expensive cologne in the air and turned it sour.

“Close the door,” I said.

Dominic hesitated in the doorway just for a second. Just long enough for me to notice.

Then he closed it.

The sound of the latch clicking into place was very loud in the quiet room.

“Sit,” I said.

Dominic sat. He set the duffel bag on the floor beside his chair, his hands moving too quickly, too nervously. The chair scraped against the hardwood floor—a harsh sound that made him wince.

I let the silence stretch.

Priest didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched Dominic the way a man watches something that might need to be handled.

I counted to ten in my head. Slow. Deliberate.

Then, I spoke.

“You’re late.”

“I know,” Dominic said quickly. “I know, Mr. Landry, and I’m sorry. There was traffic on St. Charles, and the pickup took longer than I thought, and?—”

“Twenty-three minutes.”

Dominic stopped talking.

I leaned back in my chair. The leather creaked softly. “I told you to be here at two o’clock. It’s now two twenty-three.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know why I told you to be here at two o’clock?”

Dominic swallowed. I watched his throat work. “Because that’s when you wanted the delivery.”

“Because,” I said, my voice still flat, still conversational. “I have a schedule, and my schedule depends on people doing what they say they’re going to do when they say they’re going to do it.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

The question hung in the air like a blade.

Dominic’s hands were shaking. Just a little. Just enough for me to see.

I picked up the steak knife again.

I didn’t do it quickly. Didn’t make a show of it. Just reached over, wrapped my fingers around the handle, and lifted it off the table. The blade caught the light from the chandelier. Clean. Sharp. Beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful.

“When you’re late,” I said, “you make me look unreliable. When I look unreliable, people start to think they can move into my territory. People like Rahsaan Boudreaux. You know Rahsaan?”

“I-I’ve heard of him?—”

“Rahsaan’s been waiting for me to slip for five years,” I continued. “He’s patient. Smart. The kind of man who knows that empires don’t fall all at once—they crack first. Little fractures. Small mistakes. And then, one day the whole thing comes down.”

Dominic was breathing too fast. Shallow breaths. The kind that came right before panic.

I could see it in his eyes—the moment he understood what was about to happen.

“You being late,” I said, “is a crack.”

“Mr. Landry, please.”

I stood.

The movement was smooth. Controlled. I walked around the table slowly, the steak knife still in my hand, my footsteps soft against the hardwood floor.

Dominic’s eyes tracked me, wide and wet with fear.

I could feel Priest’s attention slightly shift. Ready but not moving. This was my moment. He knew better than to interfere.

“I don’t tolerate cracks,” I said.

I stopped behind Dominic’s chair.

The room was so quiet I could hear his breathing. Fast. Ragged. The sound of a man who knew what was coming but couldn’t stop it.

“Put your hand on the table,” I said.

“What?”

“Your hand. On the table.”

Dominic’s breath hitched. “Mr. Landry, I swear to God, it won’t happen again!”

“I know it won’t.”

My voice was still calm. Still conversational. Like we were discussing the weather. Like this was the most reasonable thing in the world.

Because it was.

This was how my world worked. This was how respect was earned and maintained. This was how men like Rahsaan Boudreaux learned that my territory wasn’t up for negotiation and people knew not to fuck with me.

“Please!” Dominic’s voice cracked. “Please, I have a daughter!”

“I know,” I said. “Jasmine. Seven years old. Goes to Audubon Charter. Takes dance on Thursdays.”

Dominic went very still.

The fear in his eyes shifted. Deepened. Now it wasn’t just about him. Now it was about what I could do to the people he loved.

That was the point.

“Put your hand on the table,” I said again.

Dominic’s hand was shaking so badly he could barely lift it. But he did. Slowly. Fingers splayed. Palm down. Right in the center of the mahogany table on the white tablecloth.

I didn’t hesitate.

I drove the steak knife through his hand and into the wood beneath it.

The sound was wet and final—a thick thunk that seemed to echo in the quiet room. The blade went clean through. I felt the resistance of skin, then muscle, then the scrape of bone, then the solid bite of wood.

Dominic screamed.

High and sharp. The kind of sound that came from a place deeper than pain.

His body jerked forward, but my free hand was already on his shoulder, pressing him down, holding him in place. He tried to pull his hand free, but the knife had pinned him like an insect in a collection.

Blood spread across the white tablecloth. Dark red. Almost black in the chandelier light.

I leaned down, my mouth close to his ear.

“Next time,” I said quietly, “I don’t give a fuck if you have to run a damn marathon. You get my shit here on time.”

Dominic nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face, his free hand clutching at the table.

I straightened and looked at Priest.

Priest stood without a word, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and walked over. He wrapped it around Dominic’s wrist—tight enough to slow the bleeding but not stop it—and then yanked the knife out in one smooth motion.

Dominic screamed again.

The sound died quickly, swallowed by the thick carpet and heavy drapes.

“Get him out of here,” I said.

Priest hauled Dominic to his feet. The man stumbled and nearly fell, but Priest kept him upright and walked him toward the door. Blood dripped on the floor behind them. Dark spots on pale wood.

The door opened and closed.

I stood alone in the beautiful room.

The smell of copper had joined the smell of money. Blood and bourbon. Violence and wealth. The two things that built empires and kept them standing.

I picked up my napkin and wiped the blood off my fingers. The linen came away red. I set it back on the table.

Then, I sat down, picked up my water glass, and took another slow sip.