Page 132 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

I looked at Trumai’s empty crib.

I looked at the pink fleece blanket hanging over the railing.

I looked at the small silver frame on the nightstand where Truth had left a snapshot of herself laughing on the deck of my yacht, her curls blowing wildly in the river breeze, her smile wide and completely unprotected.

“Amai?” Winston pressed, his voice weaker now. “Did you hear what I said? The organization⁠—”

“I don’t have an organization,” I said, every word cold as frozen steel. “I have a woman and a daughter.”

I tapped the red button.

The line went dead.

I kicked the phone across the floorboards until it slammed against the baseboard and sat in the quiet room, breathing in the scent of baby powder and ghosts.

Priest came back into the room twenty minutes later, but this time, he wasn’t alone.

Behind him stood Terrance—Honor’s husband.

Terrance looked wildly out of place in my house. He was dressed in his work gear: heavy steel-toed Red Wing boots caked with yellow industrial clay, worn Carhartt carpenter pants, and a faded navy-blue work shirt with an embroidery patch over his chest that read CRESCENT BULK LOGISTICS. He held his canvas work cap in his hands, his fingers twisting the brim nervously, his eyes darting from the empty crib to the Glock on the floor, and finally to my face.

When his eyes landed on me, he actually recoiled a half-step.

“Amai,” Priest said quietly from the doorway. “You need to hear this.”

I didn’t stand up. I stayed seated on the floor, my back against the wall, my gaze locking onto Terrance with the dead, predatory intensity of a man who had nothing left to lose.

“Talk,” I rasped.

Terrance cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one boot to the other. He glanced at Priest, who gave him a brief, encouraging nod, then he looked back down at me.

“Look, man… Honor told me not to come over here and get your hopes up if it was nothing,” Terrance began, his voice deep, cautious, grounded in the blunt reality of a working-class man who knew damn well what kind of violence lived in my bloodline. “I know how high the stakes are. I know how tore up Saroya and the rest of the sisters are. Truth is family to me too. So, I’m not bringing you street rumors or third-hand bullshit.”

“Terrance,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, vibrating with lethal impatience. “Get to the point before I lose my mind.”

“Alright,” Terrance said, holding up a calloused palm. “Two days ago, my company brought on three new guys for the night shift at the bulk freight depot down in Belle Chasse. Day labor. Off-the-books cash pay. One of ’em is a Mexican dude named Hector. Short guy, late thirties, got a scar through his left eyebrow.”

My spine went rigid. The fog in my brain burned away in an instant, replaced by a searing, electrical focus.

“Go on,” I whispered.

“Hector works the forklift on the dry docks near the industrial slip,” Terrance said, measuring every word carefully. “Yesterday, during the three a.m. lunch break, he was out behind the generator shed, smoking a cigarette, shaking like a dog shitting razor blades. He was talking to another guy on the crew—a guy named Luis who’s been there for five years. Luis translates for him sometimes when the supervisor gets on him.”

Terrance stepped closer, his brow furrowing as he recalled the details.

“Hector didn’t know I was sitting on the other side of the pallets, eating my sandwich,” Terrance explained. “He was rambling in broken English and fast Spanish, telling Luis he had to get out of the state by the weekend because he was terrified the cartel or the feds were gonna catch up with him.”

“Why?” I leaned forward, my palms flat against the hardwood.

“Because of a job he just walked away from,” Terrance said. “Now, look—I’m telling you exactly what Hector told Luis, not what I think it means. Hector said a month ago, he was hired down at an old commercial pier off Ptolemy Street by a tall, rich, Black guy. Hector said the guy was polite, soft-spoken, paid in clean hundred-dollar bands, but had crazy eyes and a fresh surgical scar across his left ribcage.”

Kaisen.

The spleen. The bullet I had put through his side on Mimosa Court.

My heart slammed against my ribs like a battering ram. The breath caught in my throat, hot and sharp.

“What did Hector do for him?” I demanded, my hands curling into fists so tight my knuckles popped.