Farah was sobbing. Choking. Blood pouring down the side of her face, pooling on the table, dripping onto the floor.
I released her head. She collapsed, sliding off the table, curling into a fetal position on the concrete.
“PRIME—PRIME PLEASE—OH GOD—OH GOD IT HURTS?—”
I crouched down. Grabbed her by the throat. Lifted her until her feet barely touched the ground.
She stared at me with wide, terrified eyes. The delusion was gone now. Finally gone. Replaced by the understanding that I was not her savior. Not her lover. Not her anything.
I was her nightmare.
“Your father crossed a line,” I said quietly. Calmly. Like I was discussing the weather. “He came to my grandmother’s house. Threatened her. Tried to use her against me.”
“I didn’t—I didn’t know?—”
“I know you didn’t.” I tightened my grip slightly. “But you’re the only leverage I have. And your father needs to understand that there are consequences for his actions.”
I dropped her. She crumpled to the floor, clutching the bloody hole where her ear used to be.
“Thad. Bandage her up. Don’t want her bleeding out before this is over.”
“Got it.”
I pulled out my phone. Snapped a picture of the ear—the diamond earring catching the light, blood still wet and glistening.
Then I opened my messages. Found Rashid’s contact. Attached the photo.
I typed four words.
Your move, old nigga.
Hit send.
Then I pocketed the phone, stepped over Farah’s sobbing body, and walked out into the night.
The war had officially escalated.
And I was just getting started.
38
ZAINAB
“So.” Serenity glanced at me from the driver’s seat. “How y’all holding up? For real.”
I didn’t know how to answer that. How do you sum up everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours? My nephew was still missing. My man was at war. And my sister—the one who was alive—was sitting in the backseat looking more relaxed than I’d ever seen her.
Mehar was wearing tight jeans and a fitted top from our mall trip. Gold hoops in her ears. A delicate chain around her neck. A little mascara and lip gloss—nothing dramatic, but enough to highlight the features Ahmad had kept hidden for years. No hijab. No abaya. No layers of modesty he had demanded she hide beneath.
Just Mehar. Looking like a regular woman in her mid-twenties instead of a ghost wrapped in black fabric.
It should’ve made me happy. And it did. But it also made me nervous.
Because the woman who had shot Ahmad five times and smiled about it was also the woman who now looked like she could walk into any club in DC and blend right in. And I wasn’t sure what she planned to do with that freedom.
“Honestly?” I finally said. “I don’t even know anymore. Every time I think things can’t get crazier, they do.”
“That’s life with the Banks men.” Serenity laughed, but there was understanding beneath it. “They attract chaos like magnets. But they also handle it. Prime especially. That man would walk through fire for the people he loves.”
