Chapter 1
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.
