I pulled away from the curb, phone tucked between my shoulder and ear. “Don’t need to. I told you when I got back, I’m not looking to get tied down to anything right now.”
“This isn’t just anything, Prime. This is family. Legacy.” Quest’s voice dropped lower, more serious. “Just meet me at the Banks Reserve distillery right now. One hour of your precious time. That’s all I’m asking.”
Banks Reserve. The name alone carried weight—generations of it. Our grandfather, Alexander Banks Sr., had built that brand from nothing back in the seventies. Started with a dream and a recipe he’d been perfecting in his basement for years. Black-owned luxury whiskey and cognac when nobody thought that shit was possible.
But it wasn’t just Granddad’s vision. It was Grandma Rita who’d made it real.
Rita Proctor-Banks. The woman whose eyes I’d inherited—these blue-green ones that made people do double-takes when they saw my face. She came from Southern Maryland, from the Proctors, one of those old families that had been mixing for generations to keep their skin light, their features “fine.” Colorism dressed up as legacy. They’d been doing it so long they had their own set of rules, their own little world where paper bag tests were still a thing well into the eighties.
Then Rita met my grandfather. Dark-skinned, handsome, ambitious Alexander Banks Sr., and she fell hard. Her family told her to choose—them or him. She chose him, and they cut her off completely. No inheritance. No family name. Nothing.
Most women would’ve regretted it. Not Grandma Rita. She believed in Granddad when nobody else did. Put her education to work, helped him navigate the business side of things, made connections with distributors who wouldn’t have given a dark-skinned man the time of day but would listen to a light-skinned woman with good diction and better manners.
Together, they built Banks Reserve into a billion-dollar empire. Luxury spirits that competed with the best European brands. When Granddad got older, my father—Alexander Banks Jr.—took over operations. He was supposed to expand the brand even further, take it international. He had the vision, the drive, the charisma.
Then he died in that car accident when I was two. The one that wasn’t really an accident—orchestrated by Silas King because my father was fucking his wife, which resulted in our baby brother Cannon.
After that, Grandma Rita stepped back in to keep the business running until my brothers were old enough to take over. She raised me when Vivica couldn’t be bothered. Fed me, loved me, protected me. Told me stories about how she and Granddad built something from nothing, how love and loyalty were worth more than any family name.
“Prime? You still there?” Quest’s voice pulled me back.
“Fine,” I said finally. “One hour.”
I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, trying to ignore the weight that settled in my chest. Family. The word itself was a loaded gun.
The Banks Reserve distillery sat on the outskirts of the city, a sprawling complex of brick buildings that had been renovated and modernized over the years. At night, it was lit up like a monument, which I guess it was—a monument to what Black excellence could build when given the chance.
I pulled into the executive parking lot and killed the engine. Through the windows, I could see the main production floor, massive copper stills gleaming under industrial lights. The tour area where they brought in groups to see how the magic happened. The tasting room where bottles that cost more than most people’s rent got sampled by people who knew the difference.
This was supposed to be my birthright too. Me, Quest, Justice—we were all supposed to run this together. But I’d chosen a different path. One that involved bodies instead of bottles.
Quest was waiting for me in the executive office on the third floor, feet up on our father’s old desk like he owned the place. Which, technically, he did. He and Justice split the majority shares, with smaller pieces divided among the rest of us.
“You showed,” Quest said, not bothering to hide his surprise.
“Said I would.”
“Yeah, but you also said you’d think about the casino proposal, and I’m still waiting on that too.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit. We need to talk.”
I stayed standing, arms crossed. “I’m here. Talk.”
Quest studied me for a long moment, then sighed. “You remember what Grandma Rita used to say? About legacy?”
“Which part? She said a lot.”
“That legacy isn’t just about what you build. It’s about what you leave behind for the next generation to build on.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Granddad and Grandma built Banks Reserve from nothing. Made it mean something. Dad was taking it to the next level before he died. Now it’s our turn. The casino, the hotel with Cannon—that’s us building on what they started.”
“Sounds like you and Justice got it handled.”
“We do. But it’s not complete without you.” Quest’s voice softened. “You’re a Banks, Prime. This is your legacy, too. Don’t you want to be part of something that matters?”
I thought about what mattered. Bodies dropping. Money stacking. Survival.
“I matter just fine on my own.”
Quest stood up, frustration clear on his face. “You think that’s what Grandma Rita raised you to be? Some lone wolf with blood on his hands?”
My jaw tightened. “Don’t bring her into this.”
