“Zainab? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I forced a smile. “Just thinking about someone.”
“The boy? Yusef?” Mehar had heard enough over the past twenty-four hours to piece things together. “Prime will get him back. You said so yourself.”
“I know.” I stared out at the gray water, wondering where Prime was right now. What he was doing. Whether he was any closer to bringing Yusef home. “I know he will.”
I just hoped it would be soon.
Before there was nothing left of my nephew to save.
25
PRIME
Growing up without a father left a hollow void inside of me.
So when Rashid stepped in to mold me, I didn’t resist. He gave me discipline. Grit. Street smarts. He turned me into a killer. Showed me how to make money and move like smoke; there one second, gone the next, no trace left behind. He carved me into the ruthless nigga I am today.
But it left a dark hole inside of me. One I couldn’t fill no matter how much money I stacked or how many bodies I caught.
Until her.
Ever since Zainab walked into my life, that hole started closing. Her beautiful dark skin. That bright smile. Her sense of humor that caught me off guard every time. She had a fire in her, and I wasn’t like some niggas who wanted to extinguish a woman’s flame. I wanted her to burn. Wanted her to light up the whole world while I stood in the shadows keeping her safe.
Rashid gave me life. But Zainab gave me a reason to live it.
As much as I respected him—revered him, even—my love for her took precedence. And if he couldn’t understand that, we had a problem.
The cigar bar was quiet when I walked in.
Low jazz playing from hidden speakers. Leather booths. The smell of expensive tobacco and older money. This was Rashid’s domain—one of many—and he sat in his usual spot near the back, a glass of bourbon in front of him and a Cuban cigar smoldering between his fingers.
He looked… different. The charcoal suit was still perfectly tailored, the burgundy bowtie still immaculate, those Malcolm X glasses still giving him that professor-instead-of-killer look. But something was off. He was thinner than the last time I’d seen him. The suit that usually fit him like armor seemed to hang slightly at the shoulders. And there were hollows beneath his cheekbones that hadn’t been there before.
Fifty-seven years old. For the first time, he actually looked it.
I filed that observation away and said nothing.
“Prentice.” He gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit.”
I sat. Not because he told me to, but because I needed to see his face when we had this conversation.
A waiter appeared. I ordered a Banks Reserve whiskey, neat. Neither of us spoke until it arrived and the waiter disappeared again.
“You wanted to meet,” Rashid said finally. “So meet. Say what you came to say.”
I took a sip of my whiskey. Let the burn settle in my chest before I spoke.
“I want the boy back.”
“No.”
“I’m not finished.” I set the glass down carefully. “I understand your position. Yusef is your blood. Meech is his father. You feel entitled to him.”
“I don’t feel entitled. Iamentitled.” Rashid drew on his cigar, the ember glowing orange in the dim light. “That boy carries my sister’s bloodline. He belongs with his family. His real family. Not some woman playing house with my nephew’s son.”
“Zainab raised him for twelve years. She’s the only mother he’s ever known.”
