Nothing.
He was gone. Retreated somewhere inside himself where I could not reach him. Where no one could reach him.
I had broken him.
Not molded him. Not strengthened him. Not forged him into something better.
Broken him.
The way my father had broken my mother. The way the streets had broken countless young men I had watched rise and fall over the decades. The way this life broke everyone eventually.
I had told myself I was saving him. Training him. Preparing him for a world that would show him no mercy.
But looking at this hollow shell of a child—this twelve-year-old boy who had been forced to kill his own father just hours ago—I saw the truth.
I had destroyed him. The same way I destroyed everything I touched.
I reached out to touch his shoulder.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all. Just kept staring at that wall like I wasn’t even there.
“Yusef…”
My voice cracked. Actually cracked, like I was the child and he was the elder.
What had I done?
I pulled my hand back. Stood slowly. Looked down at this boy—this broken, empty boy—and felt something I had not felt in fifty years.
Shame.
I left the room without another word. Locked the door behind me. Leaned against the wall in the hallway and closed my eyes.
This had to end.
All of it. The war. The posturing. The pride.
I was dying. Weeks, maybe. A month or two if I was fortunate. And I was spending my final days torturing children and waging war against the closest thing I had ever had to a son.
For what?
Legacy? My legacy was ashes. Kasim would inherit what remained when he was released from Panama, and he would rebuild in his own image. He was disciplined. Patient. Strategic. He would wait until the time was right, and then he would take his vengeance on Prentice for what had been done to his father and sister.
But that was Kasim’s war to fight. Not mine. Not anymore.
I just wanted to see my daughter again. Hold her one more time before this disease finished what Prentice had started.
I pulled out my phone. Found Prentice’s contact. Hit call.
He answered on the second ring.
“Rashid.” His voice was flat. Cold. The voice of a man who had crossed a line and felt nothing about it.
“You made your point.” I kept my voice steady. Controlled. Even now, I would not let him hear weakness. “Let us end this.”
“End it?” A dry laugh. “We’re just getting started, old man. How’d you like the picture? I was thinking about sending the other ear next. Maybe a finger or two after that.”
“Prentice—”
