Page 10 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

I’d been here exactly three times in my life.

Once for Victor’s sixtieth birthday party—Winston dragging me along like a show pony to prove the Landry name still meant something.

Once for Yahmaria’s and my wedding reception—a spectacle I’d endured with my jaw clenched and bourbon burning in my throat.

And once a year ago when I’d tried to convince Victor to talk sense into his daughter about signing the divorce papers.

That conversation had ended with Victor laughing in my face and telling me I’d made my bed.

Now I was about to burn the whole fucking house down.

I pulled up to the gate doing sixty and came to a stop. I was about to put this custom build on my car to the test. I was fully aware of how wicked shit could get in this life, so all my cars and trucks had reinforced steel in the body and a lot of other upgrades to insulate me when my temper got the best of me.

The guard stuck his head out of his booth, hand already raised in that universal gesture ofstop.

“Mr. Landry—” His voice crackled through the intercom. “Sir, you need to?—”

I rolled down my window.

“Open the gate.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Baptiste didn’t authorize?—”

“I don’t give a fuck what he authorized.” My voice was flat. Cold. “Open the gate, or I’m coming through it.”

The guard’s face shifted—uncertainty flickering across his features as he processed whether I was serious.

I was always serious.

“Sir, I can’t?—”

I rolled up the window.

Put the car in reverse.

Backed up fifty feet down the long driveway while the guard scrambled back into his booth, probably calling the main house, probably warning them that Amai Landry had lost his goddamn mind.

He wasn’t wrong.

I pulled out my phone and called Priest.

He answered on the first ring. “What’s up, boss man?”

“Send a tow truck to Victor Baptiste’s house and have another one of my cars dropped off.”

“Should I ask?”

“No.”

“Aight. I’ll get everything in place.”

I ended the call and shifted into drive.

Pressed the accelerator to the floor.

The engine roared.

The gate loomed ahead—wrought iron, expensive, designed to keep people like me out.