“Yeah. She’ll bring him.”
“Good.” That warm smile. “I knew I could count on you. Meech will be grateful. Family is everything, Prime.”
I nodded, but that uncomfortable feeling in my gut twisted tighter.
Family.
Right.
Saturday was right around the corner.
And for the first time, I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing.
8
ZAHARA
I stood in Yusef’s doorway, watching him sit at his keyboard, fingers moving over the keys with a grace that always surprised me. He was playing something classical—Beethoven, maybe. Something sad and beautiful that filled our tiny apartment with a richness it didn’t normally have.
But all I could see was the bruise.
It had darkened overnight, spreading across his cheek in shades of purple and yellow. My baby’s face, marked by cruelty. By boys who saw his gentleness as weakness. By a world that punished kids for being different.
Yusef was my heart and I swore to protect him, but I felt like I was failing at that. He was a beautiful kid, despite looking exactly like his ain’t-shit daddy. He had mahogany skin, a short high-top with tapered sides and coils at the top. A haircut he pressed me to maintain every week. And I didn’t mind because a fucked-up lineup would be bait for bullies.
He wore black-rimmed glasses and had braces that cost me a fortune on a credit card that I was currently getting sued for not paying. But Yusef was worth it.
He was soft-spoken and nerdy. I didn’t think these were bad qualities, but he was being raised around boys who came from harsh households. Boys who lived by the sword, so to speak.
Violence pulsed in their veins as a means of survival. And these insecure nigglets didn’t have a light of their own, so when they saw one, they tried to stomp it out. I wished I could afford to send him to a better school. Or at least to self-defense classes to help make him more well-rounded. But shit was tight right now. I needed my baking business to take off so that I could give him more resources.
My chest tightened.
“Yu,” I said softly.
He stopped playing, looking up at me. “Yeah?”
“I have to go to the restaurant. Do some prep work for tomorrow. I’ll be back in a few hours. You gonna be okay?”
“I’m good.” He gestured to his keyboard. “I’m gonna keep practicing.”
“Don’t let anyone in the apartment. Nobody. You understand?”
“I know.” A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. “I’m twelve, not five.”
“I know. I just…” I trailed off. What could I say? That I was terrified every second he was out of my sight? That I felt like a failure for not being able to protect him? That seeing that bruise made me want to burn the whole world down?
“I’ll be fine,” he said again, softer this time. “Go. Do what you gotta do.”
I kissed his forehead, careful to avoid the bruise, and grabbed my bag.
Grits was dark and silent when I let myself in through the back door. Larry had given me a key months ago—not out of trust, but because he was too lazy to open up for deliveries himself. The alarm code was taped to the wall behind theregister. Smart. Larry was such a genius. Anyone could access it. I rolled my eyes.
I flipped on the kitchen lights and got to work.
Three dozen red velvet Zinnamon rolls. Cookie wanted them by morning, and I wasn’t about to disappoint the one person at this job who actually gave a damn about me.
I’d prepped the dough at home, let it rise in my fridge. Now I just needed to roll it out, spread the filling, cut and bake. Simple. Routine. The kind of work that let my mind wander.
