We slapped hands quickly before I pulled away from the curb.
Unknown to Knox, we were heading to pay Dr. Fairchild and his little ‘underground’ doctor friend a visit.
After Zonnique left my house that day, instead of simply texting me the doctor’s information like I told her to, she called later and confessed to the real story. Turns out, she fucked Dr. Fairchild after asking him if there was a “quieter” way to handle the surrogate situation without all the official clinic procedures, screenings, legal contracts, waiting lists, and oversight. Apparently, Dr. Fairchild mentioned he knewsomeone who could facilitate everything—on the down-low, off the record.
Of course, such a connection came with its own set of strings attached. That thirsty-ass nigga wanted pussy in exchange for the referral.
Desperate people make desperate decisions, and Zonnique fit that mold perfectly.
After she slept with him, he connected her to some underground, black market doctor who conducted borderline illegal procedures away from the prying eyes of authorities and clinical eyes of standard medicine.
Every new detail somehow made the situation feel more reckless, more illegal, and way more expensive than it ever needed to be.
As we drove toward our destination, we kept the discussion light, avoiding the elephant in the ‘car.’ That was how it typically went for men like us. Lengthy conversations before violence felt unnecessary. Instead, Knox talked about his anniversary trip, and how his wife almost cursed him out for checking business emails during dinner. Somewhere between that, we touched on business matters concerning money, shipments, and a random issue involving one of the clubs downtown. Before we realized it, twenty minutes had flown by and we had arrived.
I punched the security code into the keypad beside the gate, and seconds later, the massive steel gates to one of our riverfront properties slowly creaked open.
The building itself looked abandoned from the outside. Rusted loading docks lined the perimeter, broken windows stared emptily like hollow eyes and old shipping signage clung desperately to the brick walls. The weathered letters were barely legible.
Perfect camouflage.
But underneath the surface was one of the places where my family handled problems too sensitive for the public eye. In those hidden spaces, we were shielded from all prying eyes: no cameras recording our every move, no paper trails left behind to unravel our activities, and certainly no witnesses whose testimonies could alter the outcome.
As soon as we crossed the threshold, Knox took a brief glance around, his eyes flicking over the cold surroundings before settling on me.
“Now this definitely feels like somebody finna die,” he joked.
I just chuckled.
The smell of blood already lingered in the air.
We walked deeper into the heart of the place until the steel doors swung wide open, revealing the lower level.
Both men were already there, restrained in separate metal chairs, beneath hanging industrial lights. They were bloodied and bruised, barely recognizable under the brutal effects of whatever torment had been enacted upon them.
The moment Dr. Fairchild caught sight of me, panic exploded across his face.
“Mr. Belvior—” he began, his voice trembling.
I interrupted him with an abrupt raise of my hand, signaling him to stop.
“Save it. Whatever weak excuse you got prepared ain’t worth the oxygen it’s about to waste. You already look like somebody used your face to test the durability of a brick wall. Don’t make this worse by crying too. You got enough swelling going on without adding tears.”
Knox let out a quiet chuckle behind me, adding a layer of tension to an already charged situation.
Dr. Fairchild gulped, his throat visibly constricting. “I can explain!”
I stared at his swollen, disfigured face for a heartbeat longer than necessary before a laugh escaped my lips, lowly and mockingly.
“Oh, I know you can. In fact, let’s explain ittogether.”
I began to pace deliberately in front of him, forcing him to maintain eye contact.
“So, from what I gathered, Zonnique approached you seeking an alternative path around the very legitimate fertility clinics she should’ve been consulting.”
His breathing turned jagged, each inhale a struggle.
“She wanted privacy,” he muttered quickly. “No paper trails, no waiting lists, no legal complications—”
