Before answering Nef, I arch an eyebrow, and she flips her hand over down by her hip, revealing the tiny scrambler. Talking here isn’t safe. Abena has cameras everywhere, and I wouldn’t discuss what I wanted for dinner in these walls or on these grounds without some kind of protection.
“Yeah.” I smile. “It was… memorable.”
Tyeesha snorts. “Only you would call an attempted hit ‘memorable.’”
“And hot.” Kenya holds up a church finger. “Let’s not pretend it ain’t incredibly hot, too.”
Tera sighs, while Maura and Penn cosign Kenya. Sienna gives her a high five.
“Something’s wrong with you bitches.” Tera shakes her head, lip curled. “Anyway, what’s the plan with us walking up in here? Anything we should be aware of other than having your back and front?”
“Yeah. This is a game of chess with Abena. She knows as well as I do that the Huntsman isn’t dead. But admitting that meansshe sent him after me in the first place. So I’m going in here to fuck with her and let her know that shit didn’t work out the way she wanted it to. Since her focus will be on me and mine on her, I need all of you to keep an eye on everyone in that room. Study the faces. Take note of the expressions, the body language. Of who they’re standing with. Our number of defectors is steadily growing, but we need more. And knowing who to watch and follow to see if we should approach is key. Step to the wrong person and all our asses are fucked.”
“No doubt.” Penn nods. “We got that.”
“When we leave, Nef, stay behind.”
I don’t say any more than that, but I don’t need to; she understands. When she wants to, Nef can be a ghost. She can move through a room and disappear, not be seen. The bitch makes Mata Hari look like an amateur. Any whispers, conversations, or possible plots, Nef would catch it all.
“A’ight.” I crack my neck. “Let’s get it.”
After climbing the steps two at a time, I gain the porch and pull the doors open, walking through like my boy Aragorn popping up in Helm’s Deep after being ridden hard and put away wet by some orcs. As soon as I step into the vast entryway with its crystal chandelier, black-and-white jeweled floor, and array of framed weapons mounted on the walls, I school my features into a blank mask and nod at the soldiers flanking the doors and standing at the entrance to the throne room. Large AR-15s and the triple-pointed crown branded into the side of their necks set them apart as the oba’s special guard, and though I’m their olori, my fingers still itch with the need to reach for my gun.
Wait here until either I get back or Zuri comes for you. Me or Zuri, baby girl. No one else. And do not go back to the obodo. You understand me?
One of my mother’s last orders whispers through my head as I scan the opulence of the place that should be the safest for me. That should feel like home. Instead that tingle in my hand gets stronger, and by sheer will do I not shift my hand behind me.
I never did find out why she didn’t want me to return to the compound. And Zuri never did return for me. Matter of fact, Zuri didn’t return, period. She disappeared. Which meant someone—Abena—had her taken out before Ma, or she had a hand in taking out my mother and went ghost afterward. Either way, I never saw Ma’s right hand again, and my question will always go unanswered. Leaving me distrustful of this place, of the people I call family, because there had to be a reason Ma warned me not to go back…
Shaking my head to clear it of the memories, of the useless thoughts, I focus. Going into this den of snakes without a laser-sharp mind, even with my Seven at my back, would be like playing thumb wars with a fucking black widow. Dumb as fuck and deadly.
The sad part? Not sad as inboo-the-fuck-hoobut sad as inbitch-ass pathetic. Most of the people here in Abena’s “court” aren’t bad people. Damn sure not lazy or dumb as a bag of wet hair. Nah, most are earners or worked their way up to where they are now—kapteni over their own thriving crews, bringing in millions for the family. Most are charming, funny, and smart as hell. Or they’re like me and have no choice but to be here, caged until they find some way to fight free.
No, it’s the sycophants I despise. Those who all turned a blind eye to Abena assassinating my mother, pledging their loyalty to her and looking me dead in my fucking face as they offered me condolences for my mother’s death even as they profited from it.
That kind of weakness, that kind of snake shit, is unforgivable.
And unforgettable.
And I got a memory like a gotdamn elephant.
The familiar rage and bitterness embed themselves in my chest like wire spikes, and giving the soldiers on guard a nod, I cross the foyer, my boots thudding on the marble. As I approach the throne room, the atmosphere shifts. It’s small, the subtlest of ripples, like a tiny pebble thrown into a smooth, shallow pond, but I feel it. Tension invades my body, but years of discipline andBitch-I’m–Viola Davis–level acting prevent me from betraying it to the rubberneckers crowded in the room.
Fixing a smirk on my face, I slowly saunter past Abena’s guard, meeting the gazes fixed on me, arching an eyebrow until some of those slide away, unable to hold my stare. Others smile while more give me cautious, wary stares, afraid to incur the wrath of Abena by appearing too friendly to her niece but not wanting to be out-and-out disrespectful because, well… dying ‘n’ shit.
“Hey, Auntie.” Ah, RIP Erik Killmonger. He was the gift that kept on giving. I pause just in front of the steps leading up to that ridiculous-ass black chair, dais, and mirror. My mother and grandmother didn’t need all this bullshit to remind people of their rank—their manner, their carriage, how they fucking ruled did all that, not some weak-ass relics. “You summoned.” I dip into a deep, sweeping bow that is so courtly, it belongs in Versailles—and no one with a working brain cell would consider it respectful.
If petty had a face, that pretty-faced bitch would be moi.
“Eshe,” Abena grits out. As she rises, I note her ringed fingers gripping the arms of her chair so tight, her light brown knuckles are damn near white. My smirk widens until I’m showing all thirty-two teeth. “Yes, I called you here. Two days ago.”
I shrug, lifting my hands and pulling off my gloves. In my peripheral vision, I catch my Seven taking silent posts on either side of me. Abena doesn’t miss them either, her full lips thinning and shoulders stiffening. But short of ordering them out of the room, there’s nothing she can do about it. And if she demands they leave, then she would have to send everyone else out, too. The throne room is full of Mwuaji kapteni, not just mine.
Not my fault mine would air this muthafucka out and play hopscotch in the blood before the rest of them could even reach for their weapons.
“Sorry,” I say, my tone allmmm, not sorry. “But I had a little unexpected, uh, business come up that I had to handle before I could come here. You know how it is.”
I look her dead in the eye as I stuff my gloves in my jacket pocket. Because she getsexactlywhat I mean.
