Page 68 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

Priest pushed off the wall and moved to the table, spreading out a hand-drawn map of the warehouse district.

“Victor chose this location for a reason,” Priest said, tapping the paper. “Multiple exits. High ceilings. Plenty of cover. If this goes sideways, it’s going to be a killbox.”

“It’s going sideways,” I said flatly. “Victor’s not handing over fifty million dollars because we asked nicely.”

“Agreed.” Winston’s voice was ice. “Which is why Kaisen and Priest stay hidden with the soldiers. If shooting starts, you move in fast, extract us, and take as many of them muthafuckas out as you can along the way.”

Kaisen’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “And if you’re already dead?”

“Then you burn the whole fuckin’ place down and make sure Victor and Rahsaan don’t walk out either.”

Priest’s eyes flicked to me. “You good with that?”

I met his gaze. “I’m good with whatever it takes.”

“Even if it means not making it back to Truth?”

The room went silent.

I smiled—cold, humorless. “I’m making it back. That’s not up for debate.”

Kaisen finally looked up, his expression unreadable. “You really love her, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” I didn’t hesitate. “I do.”

“Then don’t do anything stupid tonight,” Priest said quietly. “Because if you die, Winston’s going to use that contract to take everything from her. You know that, right?”

I did know that.

And it was one more reason I couldn’t afford to lose.

“We ain’t got time for all that bullshit right now! That’s y’all fucking problem now. That woman must got crack in her pussy the way you two act behind her,” Winston’s eyes bounced between me and Kaisen. “Head in the game and on a swivel. Y’all can argue over y’all baby mama later, hell. And for the record, I don’t give a fuck about none of that shit now that I’m not in business with Victor no more. The shit was never personal. Y’all just made it that way.”

“Let’s move,” I said, checking my watch. “We’ve got thirty minutes.”

The warehouse district was a graveyard of rusted metal and broken concrete.

Abandoned buildings loomed on either side of the street, their windows shattered, their walls covered in graffiti. The only light came from a few flickering streetlamps that barely cut through the darkness.

I parked two blocks away and killed the engine.

Winston checked his weapon—a .45 caliber with a custom grip—and slid it into the holster at his back.

“Remember,” he said, his voice low. “We go in calm. We talk first. But the second they make a move⁠—”

“We end them.”

“Exactly.”

We climbed out of the truck and walked toward the warehouse in silence.

The building was massive—three stories of corrugated steel and exposed beams. The main entrance was a rusted roll-up door that had been propped open just enough for a man to slip through.

Victor was waiting inside.

He stood in the center of the empty space, hands in his pockets, his expression calm. Almost bored.

And then I saw him.