Even more important, how do I take care ofthe Dragon?
Hiroko’s voice echoed in my head again:
“A room full of powerful men is just a room full of little boys who were never properly loved.”
Now that I was finally in the belly of the beast—this war room full of weapons, testosterone, and wounded pride—I finally understood what Hiroko meant.
I didn’t need to walk in here with battle plans.
I didn’t need to understand all the dragon/fox heads, the black X’s on the 3D buildings, or movement of his men.
Mafia strategy wasn’tmyweapon.
I had other tools.
Things every Black woman I knew carried in her arsenal—sometimes in her purse, sometimes in her eyes, sometimes in her voice.
Weapons of softness.
Tools of healing.
Magic born in kitchens and braided into childhood hair.
So I continued forward through this ball room of testosterone, war strategy, and killers. . .and I thought about what I would do if these men were mine. What would go down if I was their boss.
First? Feed them.
Not just food—but nourishment. Soul food. The kind that coated the belly and told the body and mind that it was safe to exhale. Greens with smoked turkey. Mac and cheese with five cheeses and that crispy top. Candied yams that melted in the mouth. Honey cornbread with a soft middle and crunchy edges.
That was how my grandmother fought the world—one pot at a time.
Oh yeah. I can do that with no problem.
From me they wouldn’t get blueprints.
They would get biscuits.
What else could I do? Hmmm.
If I continued with Hiroko’s theory about powerful men, then it would make sense that these men needed touch. Not sex. Not seduction. Just presence. Softness in the middle of steel.
A calm hand on a shoulder.
A warm towel wiped over a bruised face.
Fingers threading through thick hair and saying,you’re still human. You’re still here.
My mother used to do that when my father came home from court.
She never said, “How was that case or is everything okay?”
She would just rub his back, sit beside him, and say nothing.
As a little girl, I had learned that sometimes the deepest healing came from silence.
That’s it.
I imagined pressing a warm cloth to Kenji’s temple, wiping the blood-slick edge of his jaw. My fingers would graze the spot below his ear where tension always hid most. I wouldn’t speak. I would just be there—still, grounded. And he would lean into me like the war went quiet for us.
