Zahara’s kitchen was organized chaos.
The commercial space I’d secured for her was finally being put to work. Stainless steel counters covered with trays of cinnamon rolls—red velvet, peach cobbler, bourbon pecan—all lined up and ready to be loaded into carriers.
Tonight was the night. The mayor’s gala. My girl’s big break.
“Careful with those,” Zahara ordered, moving through the space like the queen she was. “They need to stay level or the icing gonna smear.”
She looked good as fuck. Professional. Black dress shirt tucked into black pants, her natural hair pulled back with deep waves showing through, all business. Made me want to bend her over one of these counters and mess up that perfect little bun.
But that would have to wait.
Yusef and Nigel were there too, dressed the same—black shirts, black pants. Little soldiers helping box up rolls, label containers, stack carriers.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Yusef work.
Lil man looked better. The new glasses I’d copped him sat right on his face. He’d filled out some too—arms and shouldersthickening up from eating more and working out. We’d only had three sessions at Pharaoh’s gym and I could see the difference. His stance was tighter. Reflexes quicker. He wasn’t flinching as much when someone came at him.
I’d even paid for that music camp he’d been stressing about. The one that got him closer to that Kennedy Center opportunity. Wasn’t shit to me, but the way his face lit up when Zahara told him? That hit different.
But something was still off with him.
Nigga moved through the kitchen like he didn’t want to be there. Did what he was told. Didn’t talk much. Kept his head down.
That heaviness I’d noticed weeks ago? It hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had gotten worse.
Something wasn’t right. And it had to do with more than just some random bullies at school.
I was gonna have to pull him aside soon. Get in his head. Figure out what the fuck was going on.
Because that boy was carrying something heavy. I knew because that used to be me. I remember what it felt like to not feel like I could talk to anyone about what the fuck I was going through. Vivica was so abusive and then my school situation was painful. I felt like a bitch for complaining to my brothers, so I kept it all bottled up.
“Prime, grab that last tray from the rack,” Zahara called out.
“I got you.”
I pushed off the counter and moved to help. But my eyes stayed on Yusef.
On the way he avoided everyone’s gaze. On the tension locked in his shoulders.
On whatever secret he was keeping that had him walking around like a kid with the weight of the world on his back.
I was gonna find out what it was.
Wasn’t a question of if.
Just when.
We loaded up the van and I drove them all to the Mayflower Hotel.
DC traffic was light for once, the city settling into that Saturday night rhythm where everybody who mattered was already where they needed to be. The streetlights cast orange glows across the windshield as I navigated through downtown, past the monuments lit up like beacons, past the restaurants spilling fancy people onto sidewalks.
Zahara sat in the passenger seat, quiet but wired. I could feel the nervous energy radiating off her. She kept smoothing her pants. Checking her phone. Turning around to make sure the carriers were still stacked right in the back.
“You good?” I asked, glancing over at her.
“Yeah. Just…” She exhaled slowly. “This is big, Prime. These are important people. Politicians. Donors. If I mess this up?—”
“You won’t.”
