1. AMAI LANDRY #3
“The fuck you still doing here?” he said, his voice cracking on the last word.
I didn’t answer. Just looked at him. Then at his partner. Then back at him.
The tall one turned, gun in hand, and pointed it at my chest. “You deaf, old man? Get on the fucking floor.”
Old man.
I almost laughed.
“You know where you are?”
They looked at each other. Confused.
“Magazine Street,” the stocky one said. “Jewelry shop. Now get on the fucking floor before I put you there.”
I tilted my head. “You know whose shop this is?”
The tall one’s finger twitched on the trigger. “I don’t give a fuck whose shop it is. You got ten seconds to get down or I’m putting a bullet in your?—”
I moved.
Fast.
Faster than either of them expected.
I closed the distance between us in three steps, grabbed the tall one’s wrist, and twisted. The gun went off—loud, deafening in the enclosed space—but the bullet went wide, shattering another display case. I snapped his wrist with a sharp jerk, felt the bones crack under my grip, and he screamed.
The stocky one raised his gun, but I was already moving. I drove my elbow into the tall one’s throat, crushing his windpipe, and used his body as a shield. The stocky one hesitated—just for a second, just long enough—and I shoved the tall one forward into him.
They went down in a tangle of limbs and panic.
I was on them before they hit the ground.
The stocky one tried to bring his gun up. I stomped on his wrist, felt the bones splinter under my heel, and kicked the gun across the floor. It skittered under a display case, useless.
He screamed. High-pitched. Terrified.
I grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. Not all the way—just enough that his toes scraped the floor, just enough that he understood what was happening.
“You know who I am?” I asked, my voice soft.
He clawed at my hand, gasping, his face twisted with fear.
I squeezed harder.
“I asked you a question.”
“N-no—” he choked out, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t—I don’t know?—”
I smiled.
And then I let him see it. The thing I kept locked away in the jewelry shop, the thing I only let out in rooms like the Sazerac, in moments like this when the world reminded me what I really was.
The Demon.
I slammed his head into the display case. Once. Twice. The glass shattered, and his blood sprayed across the diamonds and platinum bands. He went limp in my hand, unconscious or dead—I didn’t care which.
I dropped him.
The tall one was crawling toward the door, his broken wrist cradled against his chest, his breath coming in wet, rattling gasps. His crushed windpipe was killing him slowly. He wouldn’t make it to the hospital.
I walked over to him. Slowly. Let him hear my footsteps. Let him feel the inevitability.
He looked up at me, his eyes wide and glassy with pain and terror.
“Please,” he whispered, the word barely audible. “Please. I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?” I asked, crouching down beside him.
“Didn’t know—didn’t know it was?—”
“Say it.”
He sobbed. “Didn’t know it was your shop.”
I grabbed his face, my fingers digging into his jaw, and forced him to look at me.
“Amai Landry,” I said, my voice cold and precise. “The Demon of NOLA. You came into my shop. You broke my glass. You pointed a gun at me.”
His whole body was shaking now. Convulsing.
“Everyone in this city knows,” I continued, my grip tightening. “You don’t fuck with The Demon. You don’t touch what’s mine. You don’t even look at what’s mine unless I give you permission.”
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
I leaned in close, so close I could smell the fear coming off him in waves.
“You should be.”
I stood, grabbed him by the back of his neck, and dragged him across the floor. He screamed—tried to fight, tried to pull away—but his broken wrist made him useless. I dragged him to the front door, unlocked it with one hand, and threw him out onto the sidewalk.
He landed hard, his body crumpling like a broken doll.
I stood in the doorway, looking down at him.
“Tell everyone,” I said. “Tell them what happens when you come for me.”
He didn’t answer. Just lay there, gasping, bleeding, dying.
I stepped back inside and locked the door.
The stocky one was still unconscious, his head resting in a pool of his own blood. I walked over to him and checked his pulse. Still alive. Barely.
I pulled out my phone and texted Priest.
Two bodies at the shop. Clean it up.
His response came back within seconds.
On my way.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket and looked around the shop. Broken glass. Blood on the floor. The smell of gunpowder and fear hanging in the air.
I should have felt something. Regret. Anger. Disgust.
But I didn’t.
I felt alive.
The violence had fed something in me—something dark and hungry and necessary. The precision of it. The control. The way their fear had tasted in the air, sharp and metallic.
I’d spent the day creating beauty, making people smile, and pretending to be something soft.
But this—this—was what I really was.
And I would send anyone who forgot it straight to God.
I walked to the back room, washed the blood off my hands in the sink, and waited for Priest to arrive.
By the time he got there, I was calm again. Controlled. The hunger satisfied.
For now.
Priest arrived with three cleaners—men who knew how to make bodies disappear and blood vanish like it never existed. I didn’t need to give instructions. Priest knew what to do.
“I’m heading out,” I said, pulling my keys from my pocket.
Priest looked at me, his expression unreadable. “You good?”
“Always.”
He nodded once. “I’ll lock up when we’re done.”
“Call our glass man to repair the cases. I don’t want my staff to know anything went down.”
“Bet.” Priest nodded.
I left him there and walked out the back entrance to where my car was parked in the private lot. The night air was cool against my skin, carrying the smell of magnolias and the distant hum of Magazine Street traffic.
I slid into the driver’s seat of my Audi, started the engine, and pulled out onto the street.
The city passed by in flashes of neon and shadow—bars spilling laughter onto sidewalks, couples walking hand in hand, and tourists stumbling drunk between restaurants. Normal people living normal lives.
I wasn’t one of them.
I never had been.
I connected my phone to the car’s Bluetooth and pulled up my podcast app. True Crime. Episode 47: The Bayou Strangler. A man who’d killed six women in the late ’90s, dumped their bodies in the swamps outside Houma, and was only caught because he got sloppy with the seventh.
The host’s voice filled the car—calm, analytical, detached.
I listened as she described the crime scenes, the forensic evidence, the way the killer had escalated from careful to reckless.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d just left two men bleeding in my jewelry shop, and here I was, listening to someone dissect another man’s violence like it was a puzzle to be solved.
But that was the difference.
I didn’t get sloppy.
I didn’t escalate.
I was precise. Controlled. Every act of violence I committed had a purpose, a reason, a calculated outcome.
The Bayou Strangler had been driven by compulsion.
I was driven by necessity.
The podcast continued as I drove through the Garden District, past the mansions with their wrought-iron gates and manicured lawns. My house was at the end of a private street—three stories of restored Victorian architecture.
I pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and sat there for a moment in the silence.
The violence was still humming under my skin. The adrenaline hadn’t fully faded. My hands were steady, but my pulse was elevated, my body still primed for action.
I needed to burn it off.
I got out of the car and walked to the front door. The house was quiet when I stepped inside—no music, no television, just the faint sound of movement coming from the kitchen.
Layla.
I could smell dinner before I saw it—something rich and savory, garlic, butter, and herbs. My stomach growled despite everything.
I walked into the kitchen and found her at the stove, stirring something in a cast-iron skillet. She didn’t turn around when I entered, but I knew she’d heard me.
Layla was beautiful in a way that didn’t need announcing.
Chocolate skin that glowed under the kitchen lights, smooth and flawless.
Her body was tight, athletic—the kind of build that came from discipline, not vanity.
She wore black leggings that hugged every curve and a cropped tank top that showed a strip of toned stomach.
Her locs were pulled back into a high ponytail, the ends brushing between her shoulder blades.
She’d been my personal chef for two years. Came in three times a week, prepared meals, stocked the fridge, and left without needing conversation.
But sometimes—when the timing was right, when we both needed it—she stayed.
Tonight, she was staying.
“You’re late,” she said, still not looking at me.
“Had something to handle.”
“You always have something to handle.”
I walked over to the island, leaned against it, and watched her work. She moved with the same precision I did—efficient, confident, no wasted motion.
“What are we having?” I asked.
“Blackened redfish, roasted asparagus, garlic mashed potatoes.” She finally glanced over her shoulder at me, her dark eyes assessing. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
She smiled—small, knowing. “Then sit down. It’s almost ready.”
I did as she said, taking a seat at the island while she plated the food. She set a plate in front of me, then poured two glasses of wine—a Pinot Noir I kept stocked specifically because she liked it.
We ate in comfortable silence. The food was perfect—the fish flaky and seasoned just right, the asparagus crisp, the potatoes creamy and rich. Layla knew how to cook the way I knew how to control a room. It was instinct. Skill. Art.
When we finished, she stood and started clearing the plates.
I caught her wrist.