"Finish? You took yo ass to Fort Worth, to a niggas home without authorization? Without a plan? Without backup that we coordinated? And this was to get back at South Dallas niggas.” Her voice wasn't loud but it was sharp as a knife. She was already reaching for the phone on the nightstand.
"Zuri," my father said quietly, but she waved him off.
"Don't 'Zuri' me, Kadeem. Our son just went to war without telling us." She was dialing now, her fingers moving fast. "Who do we need to call? Who needs to know about this right now?"
I watched her. Watched her shift into operation mode the way she always did. This was Zuri Carter in her element —calculating, decisive, dangerous. She was already making moves before I'd even finished talking.
"I got Mars securing the message," I said. "I got street soldiers spreading word about Elijah moving independent. By sunrise—"
"By sunrise won't matter if Brick Boyz retaliates before we're ready. We not talking about business men on our level! You talking about reckless niggas with nothing to lose!” she snapped. She was already on the phone. "Get me everyone in the south end. I want teams on every block Brick Boyz might move through. If they come at us again, I want them met before they reach the gate."
My father was watching her. Watching her run his operation like she had for over twenty years. Watching her move pieces on a board that wasn't hers to move anymore.
I stood up.
"Ma," I said.
She held up one finger. Still on the phone. "I don't care what you're doing right now, I need you at the warehouse in thirty minutes. Full inventory. I want to know what we have, what we can move, and what we're protecting."
"Ma."
"And get word to the Rivera’s—" she was still talking, still moving, still in complete control.
"MA."
She stopped. Looked at me. The phone was still at her ear but her eyes were on mine.
"Hang up the phone," I said. Firm and direct
My mother didn't hang up the phone. Zuri Carter didn't take orders from anybody, including her son. But something in the way I said it made her pause. She finished her thought with whoever was on the other end in three clipped sentences and hung up.
"What?" she said, and there was an edge in her voice that said she didn't appreciate being checked.
"I handled it," I said. "You don't need to make those calls right now. And no disrespect, but those are no longer your calls to make.”
My father sat up slowly, watching the two of us.
"We absolutely need to make those calls—" my mother started, but I cut her off.
"No," I said. "We don't. I went to Fort Worth. I handled that issue. I've already got the message out through the streets. I've already got Mars handling cleanup. I've already got the shipment location and time." I paused and let that sink in. "You taught me how to do this. So now I'm doing it. You mad because I moved without you, but you forgetting that a threat was sent to our front door! You would have done way worse than I just did. You are only mad because I didn’t let you make that call. You forcing this marriage and a kid on me just so I can prove I’m ready. Now, you gotta learn to sit back and let me show you that I am.”
My mother's jaw tightened. She looked at my father, then back at me.
"You're stepping into something that—"
"I know what I'm stepping into," I said. And my voice was cold now. Cold in a way that made even my mother sit back slightly. "You and Pops spent years preparing me for this. For exactly this. For a situation like this. So I'm not going to sit here and explain every move I made to you like I'm still a boy asking permission."
Kadeem was watching me now. Really watching me. Like he was seeing something he'd been waiting to see.
"The shipment comes in four days," I continued. "I'm going to intercept it and handle whoever comes with it. Same way I handled Elijah. After that, I'm coming back here and we're going to talk about the next move. But I'm making the calls now. Not you. Not yet."
My mother opened her mouth. Closed it. The phone was still in her hand like she wanted to pick it back up.
"Zuri," my father said quietly. Just her name.
She looked at him. Something passed between them — years of understanding, of her running things, of knowing when to push and when to hold back.
She set the phone down on the nightstand.
