“You’re right,” she said quietly. “You’re absolutely right.”
“I know I am.” I reached into my clutch and pulled out a card. “Call me tomorrow. I have resources. We can help each other.”
Farah took the card like it was made of gold. “Thank you, Mayor Banks. Really. Thank you.”
“Us women have to stick together.” I smiled, and it almost felt genuine. “Now go clean yourself up. Don’t let anyone see you like this.”
She nodded, disappearing into a stall to fix her face. I turned back to India, who had been watching the whole exchange with carefully blank eyes.
“I need you to do a background check on Zahara,” I said quietly. “Whatever her last name is. Find out everything. Where she came from. What she’s hiding. I want to know every secret she’s ever kept.”
India nodded. Then paused. “That’s going to cost extra. Deep digs take time. Resources. Favors I’ll have to call in.”
Of course it would. Everything with India cost extra these days. What started as a mutually beneficial arrangement had slowly become a drain on my private accounts. The girl was getting greedy.
But she was also useful. And discreet. And I needed both right now.
“Fine,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”
India smiled a smile that used to make my heart flutter, but now just made my wallet ache. “I’ll get started tonight.”
She slipped out of the bathroom, already tapping on her phone, and I turned back to the mirror.
My reflection stared back at me. Composed. Controlled. Every hair in place despite the chaos of the evening.
But underneath the mask, something was stirring. A feeling I couldn’t quite name. Like standing on train tracks and feeling the vibration before you see the light.
Something was coming.
Something I couldn’t see yet.
20
RASHID
The boy wouldn’t stop crying.
I stood over him, arms folded across my chest, watching the tears stream down his face with a mixture of disgust and disappointment. This was my blood. My nephew. A continuation of my legacy. And here he sat, sniveling like an infant, snot running from his nose, shoulders heaving with sobs that belonged to a child half his age.
Pathetic.
“Enough.” My voice cut through his whimpering like a blade. “Dry your face. Compose yourself. You are a man, not a toddler.”
Yusef looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes magnified by those thick glasses. “I want to go home.”
“You are home.”
“No.” He shook his head, fresh tears spilling. “I want to go back to Auntie Zai. I want to go back to Prime. Please, just let me?—”
“What you want is irrelevant.” I adjusted my bowtie, a habit I’d developed over decades of maintaining composure in the face of incompetence. “You are with family now. Your real family. Your father will be here tomorrow, and you will begin your life as it should have been from the start.”
“I don’t WANT my father!” The boy’s voice cracked, rising to a pitch that made my jaw tighten. “I don’t even KNOW him! Prime is?—”
“Prime is nothing to you.” I let the words land heavy. Final. “He is not your blood. He has no claim to you. He is merely a man who inserted himself into a situation that was never his concern.”
“He loves me!”
“Love.” I nearly laughed. The naivety of children. “Love is a weakness that men exploit and women weaponize. What you need is discipline. Structure. A father who will teach you how to move through this world as a man, not coddled and softened by a woman who doesn’t even have the sense to know her place.”
