Page 8 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

I moved fast—black T-shirt, jeans, and cold water on my face. Grabbed my phone, my keys, and my Glock.

The drive to the warehouse district was silent. My mind ran through the agenda: the clinic cleanup, Priest’s disappearance, the leverage Winston held over me, and the fact that Rahsaan Boudreaux had been too quiet for too long. Quiet from Rahsaan was never a good sign.

I pulled into the lot at 8:59.

Teal, DeShawn, and Trey were already inside. The warehouse was industrial—concrete floors, exposed beams, the long metal table in the center that served as our boardroom. No windows. One entrance. Cameras on every angle.

“You good?” Teal asked when I walked in.

“I’m here,” I said, pulling out a chair.

DeShawn nodded at me from across the table. “Brandon’s calling in. Says he’s handling something.”

My phone buzzed before I could ask what.

I picked up. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Money houses,” Brandon said, clipped and professional. “Got word Rahsaan’s planning to hit us. I’ve got soldiers on rotation at each location. So far, it’s quiet, but I’m not taking chances.”

“Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Because I was handling it.” A pause. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”

I exhaled. “Good looking. Keep me updated.”

I ended the call and set the phone on the table.

“Rahsaan?” Teal asked.

“Brandon’s got eyes on all the money houses.” I leaned back. “If he moves, we’ll know.”

“He’s been too quiet,” DeShawn said. “That’s never a good sign.”

“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”

But even as I said it, something twisted in my gut. The kind of instinct that had kept me alive this long—telling me something was wrong before I could name what.

Brandon was covering all the money houses. Those locations were known to enough people in the organization that Rahsaan could’ve gotten intel on them if he had someone inside. But there was one place Brandon didn’t know about. One place only four people in the world knew existed.

Me. Winston. Kaisen. Priest.

An out-of-commission bank on the edge of the Bywater. Closed for years, foreclosed, and left to rot. But the vault was still intact, and we’d been using it for over a decade. Millions of dollars, off the books, untraceable. Secure.

Priest was locked up. Kaisen had been underground until recently. Winston wouldn’t compromise his own vault.

Which meant it was safe.

The instinct said otherwise.

I stood up, the chair scraping against concrete. “Keep your phones on,” I said, already moving toward the door. “I’ll call if I need you.”

The drive to the Bywater took twenty minutes.

The building looked the same as always—crumbling brick facade, boarded-up windows, rusted chain-link fence. First Commerce Bank of New Orleans, the sign read, faded and peeling.

I used the key I kept on a separate ring. The lock turned. The door opened without a sound.

Inside was stale air, thick dust, and dim light through cracked boards. The lobby was empty. The administrative offices in the back.