“He needs to eat that,” Demetrius said, pointing his fork at Yusef’s plate. “Build up some strength. He’s skinny as hell.”
“He’s been informed.” I sipped my tea. “If he doesn’t finish, he receives nothing else until tomorrow morning. And then he’ll be served the same meal.”
“That’s smart. That’s real smart.” Demetrius was nodding eagerly. “Gotta break them down before you build them up, right?”
“Indeed.”
“And you’re gonna train him? Like you trained Prime and ’em?” There was something almost wistful in his voice. Envy, perhaps. “Turn him into a real one?”
“I will train him properly,” I said. “Mold him into a man of discipline and purpose.”
“I wish you could’ve done that for me.” Demetrius shook his head, chewing his turkey bacon. “Maybe I wouldn’t have ended up in that cell for twelve years.”
“Perhaps.” I set my tea down. “But your mother—may Allah grant her peace—refused my guidance. She thought she could raise a man on her own. Thought the streets would teach you what she couldn’t.” I fixed him with a hard stare. “And look what it cost you. Look what it cost this boy.”
Demetrius’s face fell. “You right. You right, I know.”
My hand connected with the back of his head before he could say more. Not hard enough to injure, but hard enough to remind him of his place.
“Do not make the same mistakes with him.” I nodded toward Yusef. “He has potential. I’ve seen glimpses of it. But it must be cultivated correctly. No coddling. No negotiations. No weakness.”
“Yes sir.”
Yusef had stopped eating. His fork was frozen halfway to his mouth, his eyes fixed on his plate, but I could see his mind working. Processing. Trying to understand the dynamic between the two men who now controlled his fate.
“Finish your food,” I commanded. “And then we train.”
The courtyard behind my mansion was designed for exactly this purpose.
Stone pathways. Manicured hedges. A reflection pool at the center. And along the eastern wall, the training equipment I’d accumulated over decades of shaping young men into soldiers.
Today, we would start simply.
“This is called the yoke.” I held up the wooden pole, approximately four feet long, with notches carved at each end for the bucket handles. “You will place this across your shoulders. You will carry these buckets—filled with water—from one end of the courtyard to the other. You will not spill a single drop.”
Yusef stared at the apparatus with undisguised dread. He was still in his sweatpants and t-shirt, his feet bare against the cold stone. The December air was crisp but not unbearable. Discomfort was part of the lesson.
“This is how men are built,” I continued. “Through labor. Through discipline. Through the understanding that every action has consequences.” I picked up the thin wooden switch I’d selected for this exercise. “If you spill water, you will be corrected. Do you understand?”
He didn’t answer.
“I asked you a question, boy.”
“Yes.” The word came out hoarse. Barely audible.
“Yes what?”
A long pause. I could see him wrestling with it. The submission. The acknowledgment of my authority.
“Yes sir.”
“Better.” I positioned the yoke across his shoulders, adjusting it until the weight was balanced. Then I attached the buckets—each filled three-quarters of the way with water—to the notches at either end.
He buckled slightly under the weight. The buckets swayed. Water sloshed but didn’t spill.
“Walk,” I commanded. “Slowly. Steadily. Control your movements.”
Yusef took his first step. Then another. His thin arms gripped the pole, his knuckles white with effort, his face contorted in concentration.
