Page 80 of A Don & His Doll

"It is when millions are on the table," Samson corrected, pissed that she’d ask him something like that. He didn’t give a damn about that good snatch she was carrying around, he wasn’t willing to risk it all for Macie. “I’on play games with my bag.”

"You had a daughter tied up once too," Macie reminded coldly. "Let's not forget who made sure she came home."

Samson closed his eyes because Macie had backed him up in a corner with her hands around his neck. "I ain't forgot."

"Oh, I know damn well you haven't," Macie snapped. “You have twenty-four hours to make good on your word. If you leave me hanging on this, I promise you’ll regret it for a long time,” Macie threatened.

Samson exhaled through his nose. Samson laughed. “Ain’t no bitch in me, Macie. I can give a fuck ‘bout’cha threats. A nigga like me ain’t never gon’ back down from that shit,” he let her know. “Consider it done, and lose my number after this shit.”

"If that's how you wanna play it–"

"It is," Samson spat without thinking twice about it.

Macie smiled. "After this, consider your debt paid in full."

Samson nodded to himself.

Macie lowered the burner onto the table before finishing the last of her drink. She didn’t give a damn how anyone felt as long as she got what she wanted. Everything was moving exactly as she'd planned, or at least that’s what she had believed. Macie wasn’t privy to the financial dilemma Samson was faced with, and that Samson had no intention of jeopardizing the most profitable business relationship Session 44 had entered in years. The Black Family Empire had already begun producing returns too substantial to abandon over an old debt, and while he intended to honor the favor she'd called in, he planned to do so on his own terms.

Samson grabbed another phone and scrolled to Mitch’s contact. "Time to protect my business," he muttered.

Meanwhile, Macie continued glancing at her nails, and made a mental note to set an appointment with her nail tech, Gigi. “One piece at a time. I’m bringing all this shit down,” Macie murmured, refilling her glass, and turning the music up that played through her Apple Playlist.

Two Months Later…

“Let me be patient, let me be kind. Make me unselfish, without being blind. Though I may suffer, I’ll envy it not, and endure what comes. ‘Cause he’s all that I got, and I tell him. Tell him I need him. Tell him I love him, and it’ll be alright…”

Lauren Hill’s Tell Him had been on repeat as Promise sat in her living room and completed her seventh journal entry for the day. She didn’t always get to write this much, but since it was Saturday, she deemed it was a good day to purge her emotions on paper. It had been a long two months since she’d seen or heard from Monroe, and it hurt so bad; but she held herself accountable because she’d been the one who set him free in the first place. Her decision had been birthed from a pure place, and she didn’t regret it, she just wished she’d known sooner that she was pregnant. Even then, she knew deep down that she didn’t want a baby to be the reason Monroe chose her. She wanted to be chosen because he loved her, and because he didn’t want to live without her.

Two Months.

Sixty Days.

One thousand four hundred eighty-eight hours.

That was a long time for a queen to have no contact or communication with her king. Yet, somehow Promise had drawn strength from her unborn child. She’d made a conscious decision to find joy in small moments, peace in silence, and happiness as she prepared for motherhood. The only selfish thing she’d been guilty of was keeping it to herself. It felt wrong to share her pregnancy with anyone, and Monroe didn’t know yet. He needed to know before anyone else, but she was running out of time. Promise had planned to use the excuse she’d heard other mothers use in times past, and tell her family that she wanted to get through the first trimester before telling anyone. Even though she was three months when she found out, and she’d only known for one month. Promise sighed as she reread the last words she’d written in her journal for the twentieth time.

Sometimes the purest love derived from pain and sacrifice.

A bittersweet smile touched her lips because that was the realest thing she'd written all day. Her stomach interrupted her thoughts with a low growl. Promise had been so deep into her own world that she hadn’t realized how fast time flew by. It was a few minutes after nine, and she’d been craving wood-fired pizza pie from Pasquale Jones. She’d found this restaurant a few weeks ago when she didn’t feel like cooking, and ended up hooked since then. I hope I can make it there before they close, she thought as she closed her journal. In little to no time, Promise was on her way to the elevator, after grabbing her LV bag, key fob, and phone.

“How you doing?” Promise greeted the hotel butler as she stepped off the elevator.

“I’m doing well. How are you?” He returned before stepping onto the general elevator.

“All is well,” Promise said, continuing her walk through the vestibule and to her car.

Unbeknownst to Promise, Monroe had never stopped protecting her. She was surrounded by certified shooters. From the moment she pulled away from Central Park Tower, Monroe’s hired security had strategically fallen in line, quietly shadowing her in traffic. When she moved, they moved. They remained far enough behind to blend into traffic, but close enough to intervene at a moment's notice should danger present itself. What Promise also wasn't privy to was the fact that Monroe's men weren't the only ones shadowing her every move.

Macie had dispatched gunmen with one assignment—to kill Promise the first opportunity they got. Like seasoned predators stalking unsuspecting prey, they kept their distance, patiently waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. Neither side realized the other was there, but both were unknowingly headed toward the same destination with vastly different objectives. Completely oblivious to the silent war unfolding around her, Promise simply wanted to grab dinner and head home. Pasquale Jones was roughly twenty-five minutes from her place, but she made the drive in twenty minutes after calling her order ahead while en route. Sliding into a fifteen-minute parking space, she climbed out, locked her doors, and hurried inside to grab her food. Not once had she realized that every step she took was carefully tracked from a distance.

“A’ye, you see that shit?” Cas asked his mans’, his eyes narrowing as he noticed an unmarked car with two men holding guns pointed towards Pasquale Jones' entrance.

“Hell yea, bruh. Somethin’ off like a mu’fucka,” Stimey said, his burner already in his hand before he finished speaking.

His fingers moved fast as he shot Mike and Windel a text. They were parked a few cars ahead, close enough to respond if things went left.

Aye yo’ we got company dressed in white. Get ready.