And me? I was just passing through, trying to figure out where I fit in a legacy built on love and loyalty when all I knew was violence and isolation.
Grandma Rita was still alive, still in that house she’d raised me in, still probably sitting in her favorite chair by the window even though she couldn’t see the view anymore. Still asking about me. Still believing I had light left in me.
I hadn’t been to see her since I got back to DC. Couldn’t bear the thought of those blind eyes trying to see me, her hands reaching out to touch my face to know if I was okay. She’d feel the hardness there. The coldness. She’d know what I’d become.
The fat kid with the stutter who’d learned that violence was the answer. Who’d traded Grandma Rita’s gentleness for Vivica’s cruelty. Who’d let one moment of rage when he was thirteen define the next nineteen years of his life.
My phone buzzed. A reminder I’d set:Saturday. 7 AM. Pick up Zahara and Yusef.
6
ZAHARA
I stood at the kitchen window, waiting for Cookie to finish plating table nine’s order, but my mind was a thousand miles away. Or rather, a hundred miles north at whatever prison was holding Meech.
Saturday. Three days away.
My stomach churned at the thought. Prime showing up at my door at 7 AM with those unsettling eyes, expecting me to just hand over my kid like Yusef was some package to be delivered. Like Meech had any right to see him after a decade of nothing.
Yusef didn’t even remember Meech. How could he? Yusef had been about two when Meech got locked up. Now he was twelve, brilliant, talented, everything his father would never be. What was I supposed to say? “Hey, baby, remember that deadbeat I never talk about? Time to go meet him in prison!”
The whole thing made my skin crawl.
I’d decided already—I wasn’t going inside. Prime could force me to bring Yusef to the prison, but he couldn’t make me sit across from Meech and pretend everything was fine. Yusef could go in. He could have his little father-son visit or whatever Meech thought this was going to be. But me? I’d wait in the car. In the parking lot. Anywhere but across a table from the man who’d…
“Order up!” Cookie’s voice cut through my spiral.
I blinked, refocusing on the steaming plates in the window. Catfish, collards, mac and cheese. The usual.
And then, uninvited, another image pushed its way into my head. Prime pressed against my back, his breath hot on my neck, his massive hand pinning both my wrists. The solid weight of him, the heat, the way my body had betrayed me with that shiver?—
Stop it.
I hated him. That’s what I needed to remember. He’d broken into my apartment, threatened me, stalked me for a week like some kind of psychopath. The fact that he was fine as hell with those copper-toned muscles and that criminally perfect face didn’t change the fact that he was working for Meech.
He was the enemy. Period.
Even if my traiterous body didn’t seem to get the memo.
“Zahara!” Asia’s voice snapped me back to reality. She was standing next to me, one hand on her hip, looking annoyed. “Girl, what is wrong with you today? You’ve been standing there staring at those plates for a full minute.”
“Sorry, I?—”
“Don’t be sorry, be fast. Take your plates to the mayor’s table before Larry comes out here with his sweaty self and starts yelling.”
My stomach dropped. “The mayor?”
“Yeah, girl. Vivica Banks herself, posted up at table six with some suits. Acting like the Queen of fuckin’ England.” Asia rolled her eyes. “And you know she tips like shit, but Larry’s treating her like royalty. So move. Now.”
I grabbed the plates, my hands suddenly unsteady. Vivica Banks. The mayor of DC. Beloved by half the city, tolerated by the other half. And from what I’d heard from the other servers,she was a nightmare to wait on—demanding, condescending, and cheap with tips.
Just what I needed today.
I balanced the plates and made my way across the dining room, keeping my face neutral. Table six was in the corner, the “VIP” section that Larry reserved for people he thought were important. Vivica sat at the center like a queen holding court, her hair perfectly styled, her suit expensive and sharp. Two men in equally expensive suits flanked her, both of them looking at tablets and talking in low voices.
“Good afternoon,” I said, setting the first plate down carefully. “Catfish for you, ma’am.”
Vivica didn’t even look up. She was scrolling through her phone, her manicured nails clicking against the screen.
