“One day,” Zahara would say, flour in her hair and Yusef tugging at her apron, “we’re gonna have our own bakery. Zainab and Zahara’s Zinnamon Rolls. The Z’s.”
“Sweet Zin,” I’d counter, because I thought it sounded better.
“Sweet Zin,” she’d agree, smiling that smile that made everything feel possible.
One day. That was always the promise. One day, when we had enough money. One day, when we had our lives together. One day, when the world stopped being so goddamn hard.
Zahara decided to get her GED first. Studied every night after Yusef went to sleep, borrowed books from the library, took practice tests until her eyes crossed. She passed on her first try—because of course she did, my sister was smart as hell when she applied herself—and enrolled in community college to study business.
“Someone’s gotta know how to run this bakery,” she said, grinning. “And we both know numbers ain’t your thing.”
She wasn’t wrong. I had hustle and talent. But she was far more analytical than I was. Together we made one fully functional adult.
To make sure she could focus on school, I took on more work. Found a gig at an underground gambling club in Koreatown, a spot run by a gang called Brick City Crew. Cash games, high stakes poker, sports betting—all very illegal, all very lucrative.
I worked the floor most nights. Serving drinks. Running chips. Keeping the high rollers happy and the low rollers spending. The money was good—way better than waitressing—and they paid in cash, no questions asked. No need for a GED when you were pouring whiskey for men who had more money than sense.
I never told Zahara the full truth about what went on in that place. She knew I worked at a “private club.” She didn’t know about the drugs that changed hands in the back rooms. The guns that certain members carried. The way disputes got settled in the alley behind the building.
I wasn’t naive. I knew I was playing with fire. But the money let Zahara focus on school. Let us put a little aside each month for Sweet Zin. Let Yusef have new shoes when he needed them instead of hand-me-downs from Goodwill.
It was worth the risk.
Or so I thought.
The night everythingchanged started like any other.
It was a summer Tuesday. Slow night at the club—just a few regulars playing blackjack and one high-stakes poker game in the back room. I’d been on my feet for six hours, and my dogs were barking, so when the manager asked someone to take out the trash, I volunteered. Any excuse to get some fresh air.
The alley behind the club was narrow and dark, lit by a single flickering bulb above the back door. It always smelled like piss and garbage, and I usually held my breath while I tossed the bags in the dumpster.
But that night, I heard something.
Voices. Low and tense. Coming from deeper in the alley, past the dumpster, where the shadows swallowed everything.
I should have turned around. Should have gone back inside and minded my own business. That’s what smart people did in situations like this. That’s what survivors did.
But I was curious. And stupid. And tired enough to make bad decisions.
I crept closer, keeping to the wall, my sneakers silent on the concrete. The voices got clearer. Two men. One begging. One calm.
“Please, man, I’ll get you the money. I swear. Just give me another week?—”
“You said that last week.”
I recognized that second voice. Had heard it dozens of times across the poker table, ordering drinks, laughing too loud at his own jokes. One of the big spenders. A regular. A high roller who threw money around like it was nothing and tipped well enough that all the girls fought to serve his table.
I peeked around the corner of the dumpster.
He had the other man—someone I didn’t recognize—pinned against the wall. There was a gun in his hand. Pressed right under the guy’s chin.
“I’m tired of waiting,” he said calmly. So calmly. Like he was discussing the weather.
And then he pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening. The man’s body dropped like a puppet with cut strings. Blood sprayed across the brick wall behind him, black in the dim light.
I must have made a sound. A gasp. A whimper. Something, because his head snapped in my direction.
