7. AMAI
AMAI
The hot water hit my shoulders, and I closed my eyes, letting the steam fill my lungs.
My knuckles were still raw from Phillip’s face.
Blood—his blood—swirled pink down the drain, mixing with soap and the last remnants of adrenaline that hadn’t burned off yet.
I braced my hands against the tile and let the water pound against the back of my neck.
I should’ve been thinking about Rahsaan.
About the docks.
About the shipment Priest said was two days late and the fact that Rahsaan’s people were getting bold enough to test boundaries I’d drawn in blood years ago.
But I wasn’t thinking about any of that.
I was thinking about Truth.
The way she’d looked at me in the car—eyes wide, strawberry Fanta dripping down her face, humiliated and furious and trying so hard not to cry.
The way she’d stood beside me in the street and beat Destiny’s ass without hesitation.
No fear.
No judgment.
Just raw, unfiltered loyalty to herself and—whether she knew it yet or not—to me.
I ran my hands through my hair, water streaming over my face.
Most women I knew would’ve run.
Would’ve seen what I did to Phillip and understood exactly what kind of man I was.
Would’ve gotten scared.
But Truth didn’t run.
She fought.
And when it was over, when Delphine was laughing on the porch with her shotgun and the whole block was watching, Truth had looked at me like I’d just done the most normal thing in the world.
Like beating a man half to death in the middle of the street was just another day.
I smiled despite myself.
She had no idea who I really was.
What I really did.
The things I’d done to build the empire that paid for the contract she’d signed, the car she’d ridden in, the Black card I’d handed her like it was nothing.
But maybe?—
Maybe when she found out, she wouldn’t be afraid.
Maybe she’d look at me the same way she had tonight.
Like I was just a man.
Not a demon.
Not a monster.
Just Amai.
The thought settled in my chest, warm and dangerous.
I turned off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel.
My phone was buzzing on the counter.
I picked it up.
Mom.
I stared at the screen for a moment, then answered.
“Mama.”
“Amai.” Her voice was warm, familiar, laced with that particular tone that meant she wanted something. “You forget about dinner tomorrow?”
I hadn’t forgotten.
I’d been actively avoiding thinking about it.
“No, Mama. I didn’t forget.”
“Good. Because I already told Alexis you’d be there.”
I closed my eyes.
“Mama.”
“She’s a lovely girl, Amai. Professor at Loyola. Smart, beautiful, goes to church with me every Sunday. You’d like her.”
I dried off slowly, the towel rough against my skin.
“I’m sure she’s great.”
“Then why do you sound like I just asked you to attend your own funeral?”
“Because you’re setting me up, Mama. Again.”
“I’m not setting you up.” Her voice sharpened slightly. “I’m reminding you that you have a family. That you work too much. That you need to make time for the people who love you.”
I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and walked into my bedroom.
“You can thank Dad for that.”
Silence.
I knew that silence.
It was the silence that came whenever I mentioned Winston Landry and the empire he’d built—the one I’d inherited, expanded, and turned into something he never could.
The silence that said we don’t talk about that.
“Just be on time,” she said finally. “Six o’clock. Don’t make me look bad.”
“I won’t.”
“And Amai?”
“Yeah?”
“Wear something nice. Not those jeans you think pass for business casual.”
I almost smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hung up.
I stood there in the quiet of my bedroom, phone still in my hand, staring at nothing.
Alexis St. John.
Professor. Beautiful. Slim thick, pixie cut, deep mahogany skin, hazel eyes, curvy in all the ways men noticed and appreciated.
She went to church.
She was respectable.
She was exactly the kind of woman my mother wanted me to end up with.
The kind of woman who wouldn’t ask questions.
Who wouldn’t dig.
Who would smile at charity galas and look perfect in photographs and never, ever know what I really did when the sun went down.
I sat on the edge of my bed and rubbed my face.
This was good.
This was necessary.
Because Truth Renois was my surrogate.
Not my woman.
She was carrying my child because I was paying her $250,000 to do it.
That was the arrangement.
That was the contract.
And I needed to keep that boundary clear—for her sake and mine.
Because if I didn’t, this was going to get messy.
Messier than it already was.
I thought about the way she’d looked at me in the car.
The way her voice had cracked when she said I belong to myself.
The way she’d smiled when I handed her the Black card.
The way she’d fought beside me like she’d been doing it her whole life.
I thought about Delphine on that porch, shotgun in hand, telling me she liked me.
That’s a real man.
I thought about the contract in Raymond’s office.
The medical appointments that would start soon.
The hormone injections.
The embryo transfer.
The nine months that would follow.
And I thought about Alexis St. John, sitting at my mother’s dining room table tomorrow night, smiling at me over wine and whatever expensive meal Mama had spent all day preparing.
A woman who didn’t know me.
Who would never know me.
Who was safe.
I stood and walked to the window.
The city stretched out below me—lights glittering like scattered diamonds, streets I owned, territory I’d bled for, an empire built on violence and fear, and the kind of loyalty money couldn’t buy.
This was my world.
And Truth was stepping into it whether she knew it or not.
But she didn’t have to stay.
She could take the money, carry the baby, and walk away clean when it was over.
That was the deal.
That was what I’d promised her.
And I kept my promises.
Even when it cost me.
I pulled my phone out again and stared at the screen.
No messages.
No missed calls.
Nothing from Truth.
I told myself that was good.
Told myself she was probably at one of her sisters’ houses right now, laughing, talking, being normal.
Told myself I didn’t need to check on her.
But my thumb hovered over her name in my contacts anyway.
I could call.
Just to make sure she got home safe.
Just to make sure Phillip didn’t come back.
Just to?—
I locked the phone and set it on the nightstand.
No.
I wasn’t doing this.
I wasn’t crossing that line.
Tomorrow, I’d go to my mother’s house.
I’d meet Alexis St. John.
I’d be charming and polite and exactly the kind of son Odette Landry wanted me to be.
And I’d remember that Truth Renois was my surrogate.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
I climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling.
But even as I closed my eyes, I could still see her.
Standing in the street.
Covered in Fanta.
Looking at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
And I knew—deep in the part of me I didn’t let anyone see—that this was already messy.
It had been messy from the moment she walked into my office and asked me if I wanted a child or just an heir.
It had been messy from the moment I chose her.
And it was only going to get messier.
But tomorrow, I’d pretend it wasn’t.
Tomorrow, I’d be the man my mother wanted me to be.
Tonight, I’d let myself think about Truth.
Just for tonight.
The next evening came faster than I wanted.
Priest called at noon with an update on the docks—Rahsaan’s people had finally backed off. No static. No pushback. They’d gotten the message.
Good.
I had enough to deal with without territorial bullshit bleeding into my week.
Vicki called twenty minutes later, still fussing about the robbery attempt at the jewelry shop.
“You could’ve been killed, Amai,” she said, her voice sharp with worry. “Two men with guns, and you didn’t even call the police!”
“Vicki.”
“Don’t Vicki me. I’ve worked for you for six years, and you never told me?—”
“Because it’s handled,” I said, cutting her off. “It’s done. Move on.”
Silence.
Then, “You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
She hung up.
I set the phone down and stared at my closet.
Dinner at my parents’ house.
I should’ve canceled.
Should’ve told Mama I had business to handle, territory to secure, anything that would get me out of sitting at that table pretending everything was fine.
But I didn’t.
Because Odette Landry didn’t ask for much.
And when she did, you showed up.
I pulled a black button-down from the hanger—nothing flashy, nothing that screamed money. Just clean, simple, and expensive in a way that only people who knew fabric could recognize.
I didn’t overthink it.
Not like I had with Truth.
Slacks. Belt. Watch.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
The man staring back was composed. The kind of man who sat at a dinner tables and made polite conversation and never let anyone see the violence simmering beneath his skin.
I could do this.
I’d done it a thousand times before.
I grabbed my keys and headed out.
My parents lived in a sprawling estate in Lakeview—old money architecture, manicured lawn, the kind of house that said we’ve been here longer than you, and we’ll be here long after you’re gone.
Winston had bought it twenty years ago with money he’d made in ways he’d never admit in polite company. I moved to the lower ninth out of spite and stayed there until I could buy my house in the Garden District on my own.
Now he played the part of the respectable businessman.
And everyone pretended to believe him.
I pulled into the circular driveway and saw a silver Lexus already parked near the entrance.
Alexis.
Of course she was already here.
Mama didn’t believe in letting people arrive at the same time—she wanted control of the narrative, wanted to set the tone before I walked in.
I sat in the car for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring at the front door.
I could still leave.
Turn the car around.
Text Mama that something came up.
But I didn’t.
I got out, locked the door, and walked up the stone steps.
The door opened before I could knock.