I pulled up to Onyx a little past midnight, the club just hitting its stride. The parking lot was packed—luxury cars lined up like a dealership, valets jogging back and forth. Bass so heavy I could feel it in my chest before I even cut the engine, purple and blue lights cutting through the tinted windows, strobing against the night. Onyx was one of Uncle Levi’s spots, been in the family for years. He’d built it up from nothing back in the nineties, turned it into one of the premier spots in DC. Three levels, top-shelf everything, the kind of place where politicians rubbed elbows with street niggas, and everybody acted right because Levi didn’t play about his establishment.
Which is why the idea of somebody trying to shake it down confused me. Did these niggas know who they were fuckin’ with?
I parked in the back like Quest told me to, already running scenarios. Some young boys probably, testing the waters, thinking they could extort the old heads. Maybe trying to testthe Banks, to see if we still went hard. Uncle Levi had enough muscle on payroll to handle small-time threats, but if Quest was calling me, it meant they wanted to send a message. The kind of message I specialized in.
I was mentally preparing to hurt somebody when security waved me through without even checking me.
That should’ve been my first clue.
I moved through the main floor which was packed wall to wall. Bodies everywhere, girls in dresses that barely qualified as clothing, niggas in designer everything trying to stunt. The DJ was going crazy, and the bar was crowded with people waving bills trying to get the bartender’s attention.
I headed for the VIP stairs, the ones that led to the private rooms on the third floor. That’s where the real money got spent. Where niggas bought bottles that cost more than rent and conducted business that couldn’t be discussed in the open.
The bass faded as I climbed, replaced by that muffled thump that let you know the party was still going, but you were above it now. Literally and figuratively.
The hallway was too quiet. Plush carpet, dim lighting, doors to private rooms on either side. No commotion. No voices. No sound of niggas getting checked.
Second clue.
My hand went to my waistband instinctively, fingers brushing the grip of my nine. The door to the main VIP suite was cracked open, the biggest one, the one Uncle Levi reserved for family or high rollers dropping serious bread.
I pushed it open, already annoyed.
“SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
The lights flippedon and I swear to God my soul left my body for a second.
Balloons—black and gold ones—everywhere. A whole-ass banner that said “HAPPY 32ND BIRTHDAY PRIME” in glittery letters. And every single person I knew in DC packed into this room, grinning at me like this shit was cute.
“Nah.” I turned on my heel immediately. “Nah, fuck this.”
“Prime!” Serenity’s voice cut through the laughter. “Don’t you dare!”
“Ren, I just drove four hours thinking I was about to put hands on somebody?—”
“Because Quest lied to you, I know. And it worked.” She was already moving toward me, that smile on her face that she knew I couldn’t say no to. My baby sister. Twenty-seven now, but still thought she could bat her eyes and get whatever she wanted.
She was right.
“Y’all got me fucked up,” I said, but I wasn’t moving toward the door anymore. “I thought somebody was up here fuckin’ with Uncle Levi’s spot, like they ain’t know who he roll with.”
“Only person getting got is you,” Justice called out, holding up a drink. “For emotional damages. Nigga really thought he could dodge his birthday party?”
Quest was leaning against the bar, because of course this VIP room had its own bar, marble countertop, top-shelf bottles lined up like soldiers, and that smug-ass smile was plastered on his face. “You should’ve heard yourself on the phone. ‘What kind of situation, Quest?’” He mimicked my serious voice, making everybody laugh.
“I don’t do birthdays,” I said flatly.
“We know,” Serenity said, grabbing my arm. “You haven’t celebrated your birthday in like fifteen years. But you’re home now, and we’re celebrating whether you like it or not.”
“That’s because Scorpios are allergic to joy,” Ivy called out from across the room, raising her glass. Serenity’s best friend was always talking shit.
“Nah, Scorpios just don’t do performative bullshit,” I shot back.
“See?” Serenity laughed, tugging me further into the room. “Classic Scorpio response. Mysterious, brooding, acts like he’s too deep for celebrations.”
Justice raised his glass. “Happy birthday, little brother. Whether you want it or not.”
I scanned the room. My brothers: Quest, Justice, even Cannon. Serenity and her husband Julius, who gave me one of them stiff-ass nods like we was cool. We wasn’t. Never would be. Ivy was there too, looking fine as hell in something that was doing everything right, but that was a whole other situation I wasn’t touching.
