Page 89 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

And that terrified me more than any rival ever could.

I’d spent thirty-eight years building Amai into the perfect weapon. Teaching him discipline, precision, ruthlessness. Teaching him how to move and that power was the only currency that mattered.

I’d succeeded.

Too well.

My mind drifted back to the first body Amai ever caught.

He was nineteen years old. Still learning the business. Still figuring out who he was in this world.

We’d been at a restaurant in the Quarter—one of those upscale places where deals were made over expensive wine and rare steaks. Amai had excused himself to use the restroom.

A man—some tourist from Texas, drunk and loud—bumped into him in the hallway.

Didn’t apologize.

Just kept walking like Amai was invisible.

I’d seen the shift in my son’s face. The way his jaw ticked. The way his eyes went flat and cold.

“Let it go,” I’d told him when he came back to the table.

He’d nodded.

Said nothing.

But I knew.

Three hours later, I got the call.

The tourist had been found in an alley off Bourbon Street. Beaten so badly his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him. Skull fractured in seven places. Ribs shattered. Face pulverized into something that barely resembled human.

The coroner said it took at least twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes of sustained, brutal violence.

When I confronted Amai, he didn’t deny it.

Didn’t apologize.

Didn’t show an ounce of remorse.

“He disrespected me,” Amai had said simply. “Nobody disrespects me.”

But it was the look in his eyes that had stopped me cold.

Pure joy.

Satisfaction.

Like he’d finally found something that made sense in a world that never had.

He’d enjoyed it.

Not just the act itself—thepowerof it. The autonomy. The ability to erase someone from existence because they’d committed the sin of not seeing him.

That’s when I knew.