She could hear me. I know she could.
Five months of almost believing a nigga like me could have this.
I sat in my Bentayga outside Rashid’s compound, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles hurt. Gates were already open—cameras caught me coming up the drive. Old man might be dying but his security was still tight.
My mind kept going back to how we got here.
Sweet Zin was supposed to be our forever. The flagship opened six weeks ago, and Cannon already had her cinnamon rolls in three of his hotels. Three. Not some corner bodega bullshit—major resorts. Bougie spots where rich folks paidfifteen dollars for pastries like it wasn’t nothing. We had investors hitting us up about franchising. Mehar was trained up and ready to hold it down while Zainab went on maternity leave.
Everything was falling into place.
And me? I was out. Done. No more contracts. No more bodies. No more 3 AM calls from Rashid talking about “I need you to handle something.” I buried that nigga—the killer, the weapon, the monster Rashid created—so deep I thought he was gone for good.
I was about to be a father.
A whole girl dad.
Every night after Zainab got out the shower, I’d lay her down on her side and warm the shea butter between my palms. Work it into her belly, her hips, her thighs. Everywhere my daughter was stretching her mama out.
“Aye, princess,” I’d say against her stomach, my lips brushing her skin. “It’s Daddy. You hear me in there?”
Zainab would laugh, fingers in my locs. “You so damn silly.”
“I’m dead serious. They say babies hear voices in the womb. I want her to know mine before she even get here.”
“She will.”
“I want her to know she safe. That Daddy got her. That ain’t nothing and nobody in this world gon’ touch her ’cause I’ll set this whole bitch on fire first.”
“Prime…”
“I mean that.” I’d look up at her, palm still pressed to her belly, feeling my daughter move under my hand. “Both of y’all. You everything to me. Everything.”
And I meant that shit. On my life.
Now my baby girl was in a jail cell. Growing inside a woman who was scared, alone, and locked up for some shit she ain’t even do. My daughter’s first sounds was gon’ be metal doors slamming and CO boots on concrete.
Nah.
Not if I could help it.
I killed the engine and stepped out.
The compound looked the same—big ass colonial mansion, landscaping done up like something out of a magazine. Old money vibes that Rashid always kept up even though his money was new and dirty as hell. But something was off. The energy. Usually this place was moving—soldiers in and out, whips in the driveway, that quiet hum of business being handled.
Today it felt like a funeral home.
Two of his people met me at the door. Young. I ain’t recognize either of them, which told me everything about how shit had changed since our last conversation. The old guard was gone. Scattered. BCC dispersed like roaches when you flip the light on, everybody scrambling to find new positions now that Shadow was fading.
“East wing,” one of them said. “He been asking about you.”
Asking about me. Interesting.
I walked through the foyer, past the study where Rashid used to hold court like some kind of don, past the dining room where I’d eaten more meals with him than I ever did with Vivica. The house smelled wrong. Like a hospital. Like chemicals trying to cover up something worse.
Death. That’s what it smelled like.
The east wing was unrecognizable. Where there used to be leather furniture and bookshelves, now there was a whole hospice setup. Monitors beeping. IV drips. Oxygen tanks. A hospital bed in the middle of the room surrounded by equipment that said “this nigga ain’t got long.”
