1. AMAI LANDRY #2
The door to the main dining room remained closed. No one came to check on the noise. No one ever did. The Sazerac Room had a reputation, and that reputation included knowing when to look the other way.
I set the glass down.
Pulled out my phone.
Sent a text to Raymond Fontenot: Schedule the interview. Friday. 2 PM.
The response came back within seconds: Confirmed.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket.
Outside, the city moved—cars honking, streetcars rattling down St. Charles, people laughing, and living and dying without ever knowing my name. The world kept turning, indifferent to what happened in rooms like this.
I looked at the blood on the tablecloth.
At the steak knife on a nearby plate, still wet.
At the empty chair where Dominic had sat twenty-three minutes late and learned what that cost.
This was my world.
Clean. Efficient. Absolute.
The door opened quietly. Priest stepped back inside, his suit jacket catching the chandelier light. He took in the scene—the blood on the tablecloth, the knife, the empty chair—without changing expression. He’d seen worse. He’d done worse.
“You heading to the shop?” he asked.
I stood, straightening my cuffs. The movement was deliberate, controlled. I’d learned a long time ago that how you move mattered. It told people whether you were still dangerous or if the danger had passed.
“Yeah,” I said. “I need to check on the new collection before the weekend rush.”
Priest nodded. He knew the routine. The Sazerac Room was one world. The jewelry shop was another. Both belonged to me, but they operated on completely different frequencies.
The drive to the Garden District took fifteen minutes. My driver, JD, knew better than to make conversation. He just drove, smooth and efficient, while I sat in the back seat and watched the city blur past the tinted windows.
The shop sat on Magazine Street, occupying half a block of prime real estate.
Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed pieces that caught the light like they were born from it—diamond solitaires, custom engagement rings, delicate gold chains, and statement pieces that cost more than most people made in a year.
The storefront was all clean lines and understated elegance.
No gaudy signage. Just a small brass plaque that read, Landry Designs.
I walked through the front door, and the temperature of my entire body shifted.
The cold precision of the Sazerac Room melted away. My shoulders relaxed. My jaw unclenched. The weight I carried—the weight of being The Demon—settled somewhere deeper, somewhere I could lock it away for a few hours.
“Mr. Landry!”
Vicki, my head designer, looked up from the workbench where she was setting a diamond into a platinum band. She was in her fifties, had been with me for eight years, and had the kind of eye for detail that made her invaluable. She set down her tools and came around the counter, smiling.
“How’s the new collection coming?” I asked, and I meant it. The warmth in my voice was genuine—a different kind of genuine than the cold precision of the Sazerac Room, but genuine nonetheless.
“Beautiful,” she said. “The client for the custom emerald piece is coming in tomorrow to see the final design. I think she’s going to lose her mind when she sees it.”
I smiled. Actually smiled. “Show me.”
Vicki led me to the back room where the custom pieces were kept. The emerald ring sat on a velvet display stand—a stunning piece with a deep green stone surrounded by white diamonds in a halo setting. The metalwork was intricate, delicate, perfect.
“This is exceptional,” I said, picking it up carefully. The weight of it felt right in my hand. “You outdid yourself.”
Vicki beamed. “Thank you. I was worried about the setting, but I think the platinum really brings out the color of the stone.”
“It does,” I agreed. “This is going to make her very happy.”
I set the ring back down and turned to face her. “You know what I appreciate about you, Vicki? You don’t just make jewelry. You make moments. You make memories. That’s a gift.”
She flushed, pleased. “That’s very kind of you to say, Mr. Landry.”
“It’s the truth,” I said. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”
I moved through the shop, greeting the other staff members.
There was Drake, who handled the front counter and had an uncanny ability to make clients feel comfortable.
There was Jennifer, who managed the books and kept everything running smoothly behind the scenes.
And there was David, the apprentice, who was learning the craft and showed real promise.
To each of them, I had a word. A compliment. A joke.
“Drake, I heard you sold the Cartier piece to that couple from Uptown. Nice work closing that sale.”
“Jennifer, the quarterly numbers look solid. You’re keeping us organized. I appreciate that.”
“David, I saw the sketches you left on the design table. The detail work is getting sharper. Keep pushing yourself.”
They all responded the same way—with genuine pleasure and the kind of loyalty that came from being seen and valued.
They had no idea who I was outside these walls.
To them, I was just a successful businessman who owned a high-end jewelry shop.
A man who appreciated good work and treated his employees well.
A client came in while I was there—a woman in her early thirties, nervous energy radiating off her. She was looking at engagement rings, and I could tell from the way she kept glancing at her phone that she was waiting for her fiancé to arrive.
I approached her with a warm smile.
“Welcome to Landry Designs,” I said. “Are you looking for something special today?”
“I’m—yes,” she said, her nervousness easing slightly at my tone. “My fiancé is supposed to meet me here. We’re looking at engagement rings. I wanted to see what you had before we decided.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” I said. “What’s your style? Classic? Modern? Something with a story?”
We talked for ten minutes. I showed her pieces, asked about her fiancé, and listened to her talk about their relationship.
By the time her fiancé arrived, she was relaxed and smiling, and she’d already decided on a ring—a beautiful solitaire diamond in a white gold setting that caught the light like it was alive.
“You’re going to make her very happy,” I told the fiancé as he looked at the ring with the kind of awe that only came from a man about to propose.
“I hope so,” he said. “I’m terrified.”
I laughed—a real laugh. “That’s how you know it matters. The fear means you care.”
I left them with Drake to handle the paperwork and walked back to my office in the rear of the shop.
The space was clean, organized, and decorated with photographs of custom pieces I’d designed over the years.
There was a window that looked out onto the street, and I stood there for a moment, watching people pass by.
This was the other side of me. The side that created beauty instead of destruction. The side that made people smile instead of fear.
Both versions were real.
Both versions were necessary.
I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 4:47 PM. The shop would close in about an hour. I’d stay until closing, make sure everything was locked up properly, then head home.
But first, I had a moment of peace in this space where I could be something other than the monster whom NOLA feared.
I looked at the photographs on my wall—all the beautiful things I’d created, all the moments I’d helped make possible.
Then I thought about the blood on the tablecloth at the Sazerac Room.
About Dominic’s hand pinned to the mahogany table.
About the text I’d sent to Raymond: Schedule the interview. Friday. 2 PM.
Truth Renois, somewhere in the Seventh Ward, about to walk into my world without understanding what that meant.
I turned away from the window and headed back out to the shop floor.
“Everything good?” Vicki asked, looking up from her workbench.
“Everything’s perfect,” I said, and I meant it.
Both sides of me were satisfied.
For now.
The sun was setting over Magazine Street when I walked Vicki to the door. She was the last one out—David and Jennifer had left twenty minutes earlier, and Drake right behind them.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay and help lock up?” Vicki asked, pulling her purse onto her shoulder.
“I’m good,” I said, holding the door open for her. “Go home. Enjoy your evening.”
She smiled, that warm maternal smile she always gave me. “You work too hard, Mr. Landry.”
“Somebody’s got to,” I said, and she laughed.
I watched her walk to her car and waited until she pulled out of the parking spot before I drove away. Then I locked the front door, flipped the light to CLOSED, and turned back to the empty shop.
The silence settled around me like a second skin.
I moved through the space methodically—checking display cases, making sure everything was secure, and counting the register. The routine was calming. Predictable. I liked predictable.
I was in the back room, locking the safe, when I heard the front door chime.
I froze.
I’d locked that door. I knew I’d locked it.
I straightened slowly, listening. Footsteps. Two sets. Heavy. Male. Moving through the shop floor with the kind of carelessness that came from thinking you were alone.
A smile pulled at the corner of my mouth.
I walked back toward the front, my footsteps silent on the polished floor. When I reached the doorway, I stopped and watched.
Two men. Early twenties, maybe. One tall and skinny with a face full of acne scars. The other shorter, stockier, wearing a shirt two sizes too big. They were at the display case near the window, the tall one already smashing the glass with the butt of a gun.
The sound was loud. Sharp. Glass raining onto the floor like diamonds.
I leaned against the doorframe and waited.
The stocky one looked up first. Saw me. His eyes went wide for half a second before he raised his gun—a cheap 9mm that probably jammed every third shot.