Bahati hadn’t told me much about Shya, but she did mention that she was potty-trained along with some other shit, and I was impressed. At her age, she shouldn’t be in fucking diapers anyway, but still, there were plenty of babies who needed extra time to get the shit right. Outside of the constant crying, Shya was independent.
Instead of the sound of the toilet flushing, I heard bare feet on the wood floors. Scooping Shya back up, I led us to the sink.
“When you handle your business, you gotta make sure you wash all the germs off your hands.” Holding her over the sink by hooking my forearm around her belly, I soaped her hands and placed them under the water. “See? This is how you get the germs off.”
She didn’t reply as she watched the water rinse her stubby fingers. I placed her on the counter, patted her hands dry, wiped her face with the same paper towel, and then disposed of it.
“You good now?” I stood back, waiting for her reply. As I knew she would, she simply blinked at me. “What do you want to eat? Pancakes?”
Blink. Blink.
“You gotta speak up… Cryin’ ain’t the way to communicate. You cry to express your emotions or to release your frustrations. But if you have somethin’ to say, if it’s somethin’ you feel, you gotta let it be known.”
Blink. Blink.
I had noticed by day three that she simply wasn’t a talker. If it weren’t for her crying day in and out, I would have thought the fucking Rodríguezes had done something to her vocal cords.
Shutting the fridge with more force than necessary, I had to take a moment to calm myself. Those fucking Rodríguezes were known to cause chaos in Mexico City but had gone ghost underground. We hadn’t seen any more missing persons reports, or at least their loved ones hadn’t reported them yet, according to Don’s police contact. I was a patient man and had somewhat agreed to Don’s plan of action, but my thoughts were plaguing me about wanting them motherfuckers dead by tomorrow.
Solana’s phone buzzed in my pocket, switching my thoughts from Felipe to her bitch-ass brother. I’d just gotten her phone back yesterday after it was with my tech guy for two days. He was trying to trace her brother’s phone number but came up completely empty. I was hoping to at least find his location because I’d feel better knowing where they were hiding than just letting them coast in Mexico.
Shya’s little chest was heaving as she watched me. I was beginning to feel sorry for my little baby. It couldn’t feel good to constantly cry all day. The more she cried, the more I wanted to introduce her to my mother. First Lady Washington was a fucking baby whisperer. Solana must’ve had that same damn gene because Shya hadn’t cried with her either. I’d even called the fucking doctor again, the one who had examined her, and he assured me she was fine. His professional opinion was thatshe was just homesick, spoiled, and traumatized from being in a fucking shootout. The same shit Bahati had been saying.
Pulling the phone out, I read the two text messages displayed across the screen.
Solana
Shio.
Solana
Can we talk?
I couldn’t letSolana get in my fucking head. Her texting me wouldn’t help the buried thoughts, and I had to let her simmer for a bit if I wanted her to get off that shit. Since I was off her, I had been attempting to focus on Bahati and seeing if she and I would fit together if married. Every thought, however, caused me to stay further away from the house instead of trying to be in her space. It was just something about her that had me questioning Bahati rather than trying to build some type of trust.
She spent most of her time cooking, so I’d made sure to have groceries delivered with the things I thought she needed. She would order things but hadn’t been as generous with her spending on food as she’d been with clothes. Bahati had run up some commas on the designer websites. I didn’t mind because I’d given her the card to begin with. Where the fuck was she going in Prada dresses when she never left the house was a mystery to me, but fuck it—I didn’t stress over money anymore.
Grabbing one of the sippy cups left drying on the island, I filled it about halfway with orange juice, screwed on the top, and handed it to Shya. Last time I made Shya a cup with milk, she wasn’t fucking with it, so I figured juice would be safe. I placedthe cup beside her because I figured she wouldn’t take it from me. It didn’t take long before she was tipping her head back and chugging it down.
Shya was one of the prettiest little girls I’d ever seen. Though she spent most of her day dehydrated from crying, she was a good toddler. From what I could tell, she didn’t wander off; she ate her food when fed, and when Bahati fell asleep on her, she didn’t climb out of bed or do the silly stuff toddlers do, like sticking shit in wall sockets. That fact didn’t stop me from getting the housekeepers to plug all of the outlets just in case.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
Adding a pinch of salt to the second round of scrambled eggs I’d made in the last five minutes, I lifted my head to see Bahati entering the kitchen. As always, her smooth skin was as shiny as black marble. I didn’t know whether it was her skincare routine or her natural glow, but she always looked ready to grace somebody’s magazine cover, even back when she was just my language tutor. Her braids hung over each shoulder, and I wondered when she’d step out to get them redone. She complained that she wanted to take her hair down, but the broken arm made it impossible for her to do so. She’d swapped out the oversized shirt for Gucci shorts and a Gucci T-shirt, tying the T-shirt at the waist. Her feet were bare, showing the hot pink polish on her toes. The last time we’d encountered each other, more than three years ago, she’d been wearing the same color polish.
“With the way she was screaming, I don’t think waking you would have worked if her lungs didn’t.”
Shya and I had been in the kitchen for more than half an hour, her watching me while I made chicken sausage, pancakes, and now the eggs. She was on the island, working on the pancakes since she’d already downed the meat.Removing the eggs from the skillet, I opened the freezer and stuck the egg-covered spatula inside. I’d seen Ezio do the same shit for his junior not long ago. It didn’t take eggs long to cool, so I removed them from the spatula onto Shya’s syrupy plate. She only had a few pieces of the triangular-shaped pieces of sliced pancake left. Her round, watery eyes rested on my face for a beat, then she dropped her gaze to the eggs and scooped them into her hand. She hadn’t attempted to use the spoon I’d given her; I guess it was easier to go straight caveman-style.
“You not eating?” Bahati’s sultry tenor broke my stare from Shya.
It was clear that designer brands weren’t made for black bodies, especially ones like Bahati’s. The shorts were too big at the top, so she’d folded them at the waist, leaving a gap around her stomach, while the canvas material barely covered her ass cheeks because it was too tight at the bottom. To fit her properly, she would need to get them tailored. If I’d known she was going designer, I would’ve just given her the name and number of the many reps who were always calling and texting me about pieces they swore I needed. I was an easy mark for them because I rarely, if ever, declined a sale.
“I had my breakfast earlier.”
I’d had a protein shake and avocado toast on sourdough before my workout, and I already had my lunch and dinner ready. The owner of the company I used for housekeeping had a daughter who was a chef. She sold meal preps, and I’d used her services a few times before. I liked to prepare my own food when I wasn’t eating out so that I knew exactly how many calories I was consuming, but her meals were good. I bit the bullet and decided to order for this week and asked the housekeepers to bring them when they came yesterday. Everything had been so hectic between the two women, Hobo, the mob, and the actual work runs that I’d fallen off the wagon. I’d been consuming bullshit while avoiding the house. It was bad enough I hadtripled my marijuana and alcohol intake, so I needed to shake back and get on my routine again. Weed was one of the only things keeping a nigga sane, though, so the heavy food and emptying bottles had to go.
“So I’ll assume this is for me?” Bahati pointed to the plate of cheese eggs with some extra chicken sausage I’d made.
