I stood there, breathing hard, covered in his blood. My knuckles split open, bone showing through. My shirt ruined. My heart pounding, but my mind was clear as Caribbean waters.
I didn’t feel weak anymore.
I didn’t feel scared.
I felt powerful.
Tre died three hours later. Never woke up. The doctors said even if he had, there wouldn’t have been much left of him. Traumatic brain injury. Multiple skull fractures. Massive hemorrhaging.
I’d beaten him to death with my bare hands.
And when they told me, all I felt was satisfaction.
The memory satin my chest like an old friend. I’d replayed it a thousand times, sometimes with regret, sometimes with pride, mostly with cold acceptance.
Tre had pushed me. Vivica had pushed me harder. And I’d finally pushed back.
The trial had been a circus. My mother stood in that courtroom dressed in all black, looking like the grieving widow she’d been playing for years, and told the judge I needed to learn consequences.
“Your Honor,” she’d said, her voice steady and strong, “I’ve taught my children the difference between right and wrong. I’ve instilled values in them. And Prentice chose violence. Chose brutality. Being my son doesn’t mean he deserves special treatment. Justice must be blind, even when it breaks a mother’s heart.”
The courtroom had eaten it up. The media ran with it for weeks. “Mayor Sacrifices Son for Justice.” “Vivica Banks: When Duty Comes Before Family.”
It was all performance. All bullshit.
She wasn’t sacrificing anything. She was getting rid of an embarrassment. The fat kid who’d killed someone. The reminder of her dead husband. The stain on her perfect political image.
I got triedand sentenced as an adult at thirteen. Fifteen years for manslaughter, but I was released early on parole, which Rashid helped me with. Vivica’s approval ratings jumped thirty-two points overnight.
She never visited me. Grandma Rita came every week, but Vivica? She was too busy with her re-election campaign.
But Rashid saved me. Met him my second week inside, and he saw something in me that no one else did. Not a broken kid. Not a monster. Just someone who needed direction. Purpose.
He taught me discipline. Control. How to turn rage into precision. How to make violence an art form instead of a reaction.
By the time I got out at twenty, I wasn’t that fat kid anymore. I was something else entirely.
Something Vivica had created and then tried to destroy.
On the TV, she was still talking, shaking hands, playing her role. America’s mayor. The devoted public servant. The woman who’d made the hard choices.
“She’s something else, isn’t she?”
Rashid’s voice pulled me back. I looked up to find him standing beside my table, dressed immaculate as always—three-piece suit, bow tie perfect, beard trimmed sharp.
He glanced at the TV, then back at me with knowing eyes. “Your mother.”
“My egg donor.” I corrected. “I don’t claim her.”
“Hmm.” Rashid settled into his chair, his Hennessy appearing without him asking. “Bitterness doesn’t suit you, young blood.”
“Neither does fake concern for at-risk youth.” I nodded at the screen. “She’s up there talking about saving kids when she’s the one who made sure I got tried as an adult. Used my case to win an election.”
“And look what you became anyway.” Rashid’s voice was gentle. “Strong. Wealthy. Disciplined. Everything she tried to break, you made better.”
I took another drink.
“Tell me about Saturday,” he said smoothly. “Everything arranged?”
