“I believe in the power and comfort of Allah, too, Amir, but I still think talking to someone can help you, too, hence my profession. It hasn't been much time since your brother’s and father were murdered, and I know that is taking a toll on you. You didn’t sleep last night at all. I can tell that your body just can’t seem to rest.”
“I rested fine.”
“As fine as a homeless man under the Manhattan Bridge. I’m telling you that lack of sleep is why you are so cranky these days. I notice your mood swings even through text messages. You are on and off like a flame, Amir.”
“Delilah, just let that shit go. I’m not talking to a therapist. I handle shit with Allah and how I see fit, and there is nothing you or anyone else can say to convince me otherwise.”
I grabbed my toothbrush from the counter, started my morning routine, and Delilah joined me. Once we were both done at the sink, we went into the closet in my restroom, and I grabbed a fit to put on today while she took clothes out of the bag that she’d brought to my house late last night and let herself in with the keys I gave her. I only trusted her with access to my apartment. No other woman would have that same access to my safe spot.
“So, what time do you think your business will end? I have one client this morning, and then I have a 2-hour downtime period before my next one. Maybe you and I can go enjoy lunch during that time if you are on that side of town.”
“I’m not sure what time I’ll be done. I can let you know, though. I should be on that side of town around that time, and I know I'll be hungry.” I replied, stepping into my pants. Once I turned to grab my glasses from a nearby case, Delilah came behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist. She reached her hand up to my head and stroked my hair with her long, natural nails. My usual style was stitch braids that I get done at this shop in the Bronx filled with Latinas who know how to handle fine hair like mine. Right now, I was, however, letting it breathe. I thought it would help me sleep better, but that shit didn’t work.
“Amir, I just want to say I know you feel like this mask and armor you have up has to stay on forever, but I’m here to help you take it off layer by layer. I love you, and I know you may feel like Allah slighted you with everything in life up to now.”
She turned my body around.
“But trust me, it is only up from here as long as you remember your worth. You are a king, Amir. The last Quatar man standing for a reason. And Allah didn’t completely slight you. He gave you something a lot of men could only hope for. Confidence, resilience, a handsome face, and something that I will never ever get over.”
She smirked, placing one hand on my cheek, kissing me, before rubbing her hand down to my dick. Delilah was into her faith, but she was just as into how I made her feel. The contradictions she didn’t like to address out loud, but I know she felt that shit every time she left here, slutted out by the man that she hadn’t married.
We finished getting dressed, and then I left and got into my car. Today I decided to ride in my old school, and once I cranked it up, the engine roared so loud, I’m sure it woke up everyone on the block. I only drove my 1972 Mustang when I wasn’t handling street business. This car was way too loud and way too distinct to pull any hits in and get away. Any time I’m on one of those missions, I usually hot-wire a car and steal it, or ride one of the bikes Crew has in a hidden warehouse in the Bronx.
I drove from my spot to Harlem to the office of Lane Bishelli, the family lawyer handling my father's estate. There had been a long legal battle about his funds because of the way he was murdered, and the investigation into his death. Given Mecca's wealth, the state was reluctant to release his funds because the case was unsolved at the time. I wasn’t fighting for anything because I wanted the case unsolved forever, and fighting for money could’ve opened up a can of worms I wasn’t ready for.
So, since the murder, I was letting my lawyer do what he had to do with no opinion from me, neither here nor there. Now, Amelia, my stepmother, was more worried about the fundsthan I was. She was running around town claiming houses and property that I didn’t care about. I can tell her entire life was in shambles since Mecca and her sons were killed. I, however, lived life more peacefully and meaningfully after them niggas demise. The only shit that bothered me now was my own demons, which were the ones I created myself.
I parked my car on the curb a few yards down from Bishelli’s office doors and stepped out of the car, checking to my left and my right first. Moving around New York never felt too safe because there was always someone out there who wanted wealth and didn't want to work for it.
When my father and brothers first died, I told myself I would get away from here to save myself, but then I thought about how there are niggas in every city that will come after me for what I have. So I figured, why not stay home, be close to my grandmother in her final days, and the few people I did fuck with in the city.
When I walked through the front door, there was wailing so loud in the hallway that I felt like I was at my father’s funeral all over again. I knew Amelia’s cry because I’d heard it so loudly over the phone when she called me about the massacre.
“He’s dead, they are all dead.” I remember she yelled in my ear, as I laid on my back unmoved by her tears.
The reason they didn’t blame me for the massacre was that Mecca often kept his street life away from Amelia, and she was pretty much in the dark about a lot of shit going on. Mecca was good at separating business from family, all while getting his sons entangled in a world his wife couldn’t even know about. His payback on Crew and Hov probably never reached her ears, so me letting Pernelle go and becoming an opp went unnoticed. To them, it was a hit done by someone outside the family, and I wasin California, working out west. Mecca had spread that rumor to throw people off once I was dead and gone so no one would find my absence unusual.
When Amelia looked down the hallway and spotted me coming, she walked up to me fast, Hijab flowing behind her. Amelia was in her fifties but didn’t look a day over thirty-five. She took care of herself more than she did the household or her kids. It was always about her appearance and never about morals, which is why she never paid attention to the monster she was married to. My father probably thought otherwise, but I knew even if Amelia knew all he was into, she still wouldn’t go anywhere. Women like her marry monsters for purses, and houses, and shit. Then lie beside the boogieman while children are scared of the ones under their beds.
“This is not right, Amir; you need to tell them this is not right! I deserve way more!”
“Amelia, what are you talking about?”
She was so upset that her lips folded into her mouth.
“Don’t act like you don’t know Amir! You probably fought for this, but know it is not over. Not over by a long shot! All of it belongs to me!”
Amelia, her sisters, and the rest of the aunties with her stormed away from me and down the hallway. Seconds later, Lane Bishelli peeked into the hallway and exhaled like he was relieved to see it was only me standing out here.
“Amir Quatar?”
“Yes?”
“You may come in now.”
I followed him into the room and sat down at the desk across from him.
“Mr. Quatar, I hope all is well with you.”
