“I’m good,” I said.
“Aight. But yo, if you need backup on the Dante thing, holler at me. I’m bored anyway.”
“I will.”
He got in his car, bass already thumping before he even pulled out.
I got in my car and headed home.
But my mind wasn’t on Serenity. Wasn’t on Vivica or Dante or the blackmail.
It was on Zahara. On her lips. On that sound she’d made when I bit her neck. On tomorrow when I’d pick up Yusef and then come back for her.
On finishing what we’d started.
Because for the first time in my life, I wanted something beyond the violence and the empire and the survival.
I wanted her.
And I was done fighting it.
25
PRIME
Serenity still wasn’t answering my calls.
I’d texted her twice this morning. Called three times. Nothing. Not even a “leave me alone” or “still mad.” Just silence, which was somehow worse than her anger.
I knew she needed space. Knew we’d fucked up by not including her in the Julius situation. But the silence was pissing me off in a way I didn’t expect. We did her a favor by handling that simp-ass nigga.
I pulled up to Zahara’s building just after three, killing the engine and shooting her a text: Picking up Yusef. We’ll be at the gym for a couple hours.
Her response came quick: Thank you. Be safe.
I smiled despite the worry about Serenity gnawing at my gut. Two words shouldn’t make me feel this much, but they did.
I headed upstairs and knocked. Yusef answered immediately, backpack already on, face lit up like Christmas morning.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Been ready since lunch.” He locked the door behind him, double-checking it like Zahara had trained him to. Smart kid. “She finally said I could stay home alone after school. She said I’m responsible enough.”
“That’s big.”
“Yeah. Especially since Nigel’s dad’s been picking him up lately. Used to be just me and him hanging after school, but…” He trailed off, something flickering across his face. “It’s whatever. I got piano practice anyway.”
I filed that away. Something about how he said it felt off. But I didn’t push. Not yet.
We got in my car and headed across town to Pharaoh’s gym. The Drive Elite Boxing Club sat in an industrial part of Northeast, the kind of neighborhood that was still rough around the edges despite all the gentrification pushing in from every direction. The building itself was a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and high ceilings, with a massive painted mural of Muhammad Ali on the front wall.
Inside was controlled chaos. The sound of gloves hitting heavy bags, jump ropes slapping concrete, trainers shouting combinations. The smell of sweat and leather and determination. This was where real fighters trained. Not the bougie fitness boxing places where lawyers and doctors came to pretend they were tough. This was the real thing.
Pharaoh spotted us the moment we walked in. He was in the ring, holding mitts for someone, but he waved us over as soon as the round ended.
“Prime!” He hopped down from the ring, all six-foot-four of solid muscle and tattooed skin. His locs were tied back, his face split in a wide grin. “About time you brought your ass through here.”
We dapped each other up, pulling into a quick shoulder bump.
