Page 127 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

“Yahmaria better give me something I can use,” he said quietly. “Information about Victor. About the money. About the war. Something.”

He stepped closer, and his voice dropped to a whisper.

“Because if she doesn’t, she’s dead. And you can see her in the afterlife.”

“No!” I thrashed against the guards, but they held me tight. “You can’t—she’s not⁠—”

“Get him out of here,” Amai said, turning away.

The guards dragged me toward the door, and I fought them every step of the way.

“Amai, please—please⁠—”

“Yaya!” I screamed as they pulled me into the hallway. “Yaya, I’m sorry⁠—”

The door slammed shut behind us.

And the last thing I heard was the sound of the lock engaging.

Leaving Yahmaria with the man who had no reason to let her live.

Chapter 12

VICTOR

The gates to Rahsaan’s mansion opened slowly, and I felt my stomach roll into knots as I waited for the iron bars to part wide enough for my car to pass through.

Security cameras tracked my movement from every angle. Armed guards stood at intervals along the perimeter wall, their weapons visible and ready. Motion sensors, floodlights, reinforced steel—Rahsaan had turned his estate into a fortress.

Smart.

Especially now.

I pulled through the gates and followed the curved driveway to the front entrance, my hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles ache.

The warehouse was still fresh in my mind—the gunfire, the blood, Winston’s voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. And Rahsaan’s confession.

That fucking confession.

I parked and got out, slamming the door harder than necessary. One of Rahsaan’s men stepped forward, his hand resting on his sidearm.

“Mr. Baptiste. He’s expecting you.”

“Good.”

I followed him through the front doors and into the marble-floored foyer. The mansion was excessive—high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, art that cost more than most people made in a year. Rahsaan had always been flashy, but tonight the opulence felt like arrogance.

Like he thought he was untouchable.

We moved through the house, past more guards, more cameras, until we reached the study at the back. The man knocked once, then opened the door.

Rahsaan sat behind a massive mahogany desk, a glass of bourbon in his hand, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. There was a graze on his neck—shallow, red, still bleeding slightly—and a bruise forming along his jaw.

He looked up when I entered, and he smiled.

Smiled.

“Victor. I was wondering when you’d show up.”