“You should tellyour friend Fontaine to stop sniffing around,” said the man who’d introduced himself as Jack. His polished British accent oozed privilege, the kind that boasted boarding schools and summer homes in the countryside.
I didn’t usually dabble in milk, but I had to admit that he was fine. Dark buzz cut, with eyes the color of the sky on a perfect summer day, and a suit so perfectly tailored that looked like it was stitched by the gods themselves.
The Centaur Lounge looked like the kind of place built for blackmail and agreements sealed in blood. I was surrounded by rich mahogany paneling, deep burgundy accents, and plush leather booths that curved around candlelit tables. This was anif-you-know-you-knowkind of establishment. Their security took my purse when I arrived and there were biometric scans at every point. I’m sure on a normal day, this place would’ve fallen silent the second I crossed the threshold—like the help had taken a wrong turn. But today, it was just me and Jack.
Still, I was glad with the outfit I’d settled on—black leather pants, fitted black turtleneck, with a fox fur vest, and my chunky black boots. Cute, but functional just in case someone tried to get froggy with me.
Right before I left my condo, I’d gotten a text from an unknown number changing the meeting location. I wasn’t sure who or what I was expecting, but a forty-something-year-old white guy who looked like he split his times between the boardrooms and members-only sex clubs wasn’t it.
We’d been sitting here for over an hour. And every time I brought up Sterling, Jack sidestepped like we were doing some kind of dance. He kept steering the conversation back to me—my background, my habits, things I knew he already had information on. He eyed me the way most white men do when they’ve either been with one Black woman and never recovered… or haven’t and are trying to see what the hype’s about.
Not my ministry. I wasn’t a fucking experiment and damn sure wasn’t about to be part of a man’s weird racial fetish bucket list.
“Oh, trust me. I’ve tried,” I sighed, crossing my legs. “Look, Jack, if that’s even your real name. What the fuck do you want? And if you dodge the question again, I’m leaving. I don’t like having my time wasted.”
Jack sipped his scotch, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. “Did you know your father was a gambler?”
A gambler. It was still hard to accept that Sterling would lose himself to something as reckless—and honestly, pathetic—as gambling.
“You know I wasn’t close to that man,” I rolled my eyes, trying to sound unimpressed, but inside my pulse had quickened. I could tell where this was headed—I just didn’t know at what cost.
Jack gave me a predatory smile that showed off his perfect white teeth. “Sterling loved the poker table—he was quite good actually. But the last two high-stakes games we had? He lost terribly.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head.
“So you drained his accounts and collected what you were owed?”
“We’re not pressed for money,” he scoffed. “Your father was in over his head. He almost put the house up as collateral. But then he remembered something far more valuable.”
I lifted my chin. “Which is?”
He tilted his head. “You, Nairobi.”
A lump formed in my throat as he raised a hand and snapped his fingers. A tall, hulking man appeared from the shadows and handed Jack a manila folder. Jack slid it across the table.
“What’s this?” I asked, eyeing the folder.
He tipped his chin. “Open it.”
My blood was boiling, but I kept my face neutral and did as he said. I couldn’t even be relieved that Sterling was dead—he still had me wrapped up in his shit from the grave. I wanted to flush his ashes down the toilet.
Inside were clear high-res pics from jobs I’d done, including the one in Miami two years ago. Then there were pictures of Fontaine with his sister and nephew. Pictures of everyone in the Banks Crew that I had any kind of connection to—Money, Jasmine, Jelani, and Slim.
These were the closest thing to real relationships that I had, even if I’d kept every one of them at arm’s length.
“We know what you’ve done,” Jack said calmly. “Who you care about. The man who’s in love with you. And we could take it all away in an instant.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
I closed the folder and pushed it back across the table.
“So what is this? A job interview? Or you want to sell me off to the highest bidder?”
Jack let out a hearty laugh. “Neither. We’re offering you a job. We could put yourskills to good use.”
“You want me to work off his debt like some kind of indentured servant?”
“In exchange, we’ll restore the money to the accounts. Your mother gets to continue living the life she’s always lived, and you continue doing your work, but for us.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “You think I’m dumb enough to believe it’s that simple? People like you are never satisfied, you’ll keep finding some other way to keep me locked in with y’all.”
“What you believe is irrelevant,” he shrugged. “You don’t have twenty million to settle his debt, and you’d be working until you’re old and gray, to fund your mother’s lifestyle. Think of it as a way to improve your future.”
