I should’ve waited until Nai was awake. This was her father’s shit. But I couldn’t. Not only because I didn’t know what I’d find, but because this thing between us was too new, too fragile, and I didn’t want to risk unraveling the peace itseemed we’d found. She’d been running for so long, I wasn’t trying to trigger her back into flight mode.
The first few files were what I expected— a ledger from the Order’s high roller games, client debt, shell corps, and donation trails that led to politicians and big tech CEOs. These motherfuckers were involved in everything that moved.
One folder caught my eye:Active Accounts
I scrolled line by line and stopped when I saw the name.
Sterling Crawford.
I pursed my lips. His name showed up twice. Two six-figure wires tied to a firm in Tokyo. I let out a low whistle—I was already dreading telling Nai. She was still coming to terms with learning that her father had a gambling addiction, and this would only add to her resentment.
On another screen I spotted a folder labeledPending Retainers.I was tempted to ignore it because it was probably junk, but I knew that most times labels were just cover for something else.
I was right.
Inside were images ranging from grainy to high-def of men and women in expensive suits toasting in boardrooms.
Each photo had names hovering above their heads. This had to be Bruno’s insurance policy if shit went left.
I didn’t recognize anyone, but one person caught my eye.
She was sitting at the head of the table, eyeing the room like she ran the place. She had light brown skin, high cheekbones, and jet-black hair that fell in soft waves around her face.
I zoomed in and peeped the black oleander tattoo on her wrist.
Something about her was familiar. The shape of her mouth, dark brown eyes with the same sharpness and intensity as Nai. She wasn’t Nai, but the resemblance was enough to make my chest tighten.
The name above her head read: Hana Furukawa.
I scribbled it down on a sticky note and sat back in my chair, staring at the screen.
“What the fuck?” I muttered.
“What are you doing?”
I quickly closed the screens as Nairobi’s footsteps hit the stairs.
“You should be sleeping,” I said, spinning my chair around to look at her.
She rubbed her eyes and crawled into my lap. “I woke up and you were gone.”
“Hmm,” I hummed, wrapping my arms around her waist. “Just checking an email.”
“Something about Sterling?”
“A bunch of files Bruno sent over, I ain’t really get a good chance to look through it.” I picked her up bridal style. “Let’s go back to bed.”
No use in telling her now. Sterling’s fuckery could be held off for another day.
A big-ass white tent stretched across Ms. Sydney’s backyard, complete with heaters buzzing on low to fight off the fall chill. Jasmine was sitting in one of those oversized wicker thrones under a blush and cream balloon arch, glowing like royalty in a dress that matched the decor around her. She looked serene surrounded by her friends and family, sipping on sparkling cider.
If you would’ve told me two years ago that Cash “Money” Banks—the same nigga who ran Atlanta’s drug trade for over a decade—would end up somebody’s husband and soon-to-be-father, I would’ve called your bullshit. Not ‘cause I didn’t think he hadit in him…but the fact that he did such a 180 over a woman he’d only known for a few short months?
This man chartered a private jet, stormed a New York City Councilman’s gala all to save this woman after her nut-ass ex kidnapped her. Then turned around, reversed his vasectomy, and married her. Wild fucking work.
Cash and Jas pulled out all the stops. A bar was set up with two bartenders keeping the drinks flowing, and tables were lined with food in chafing dishes with staff ready to serve guests. Off to the side was a table stacked with gifts. The Frankie Beverly & Maze mix that the DJ was playing had the function feeling like a summertime cookout instead of the middle of October. Somebody’s uncle was line dancing with a plate in hand, unbothered, and very off-beat.
“I still can’t believe this nigga went and got a Burberry set,” Slim said, laughing low as he sipped his beer.
