“Not the gangs either. We have an alliance with them, and they don’t want to go to war with us,” Eli adds, jerking a chair from under the table and sinking down into it.
He’s not wrong. The Cross organization and the street gangs of LA have enjoyed an understanding that was forged by me five years ago. Marcus didn’t see a need in it, same with his father and his father before him. All of ’em were shortsighted. Yeah, we were a strong-ass family. But we were still surrounded by the Russians, Italians, and Japanese crime families. Having the Black gangs who have ruled the streets of LA for decades as allies just makes sense in numbers and dollars. That’s the problem with us as a community now. Other races gon’ have each other’s backs. They gon’ share information, ensure capacity building within their own communities, network, and partnership to safeguard their power and financial success.
Fuck if I’m making that mistake on my watch. Marcus, in his arrogance, fought me on it. Didn’t see past his own house. But shit, I wasn’t asking for his permission; I was informing him. If the largest Black underworld on the West Coast was eating, the table was big enough to feedallof us.
That bred fidelity, faithfulness.
Which means I have zero doubts those hittas coming after us weren’t from the outside. They didn’t have anything to gain. No, some intuition, sixth sense, insists this originated from within.
Someone from within my own family wants me dead.
Maybe I should start listing the names alphabetically.
“Like I said, this dinner is gon’ be some shit,” Eli murmurs, then sliding me a look, laughs. “You wild as fuck, Prince.”
“No doubt.” Makeda circles the large island in the middle of the kitchen and opens one of the cabinet doors lining it. She’s been in my house so much, she doesn’t bother asking permissionas she removes the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and sets it on top of the island. “Ain’t no way I’m missing it.”
“You over here sounding like you hope some shit jump off.” I swing open the cabinet door above the stove and withdraw two bowls, and then grab the milk from the refrigerator.
“I’m notnothoping.” Makeda tugs open the silverware drawer and removes two spoons as I set one bowl down in front of her and the other before me.
Neither one of us bothers offering Eli any cereal. He refuses to eat sugar, carbs, or pussy. No wonder he’s a fucking workaholic. His life holds no joy.
Before I can reply, my cell buzzes in my pants pocket. Sliding it free, I glance down at the screen and immediately answer it.
“Ro,” I greet Rochelle Miller, my tech analyst. “You get any name recognition hits off that video?”
“So far nothing, but I’m still working on it,” she says, the clicking of tapping on a keyboard sounding off in the background. This woman works more than Eli does. “I got something else though I think you should look at. I just sent an encrypted file to your email.”
“Aight. I’ll check it out and hit you back.”
“Bet.”
When I end the call and set the phone on top of the island, Eli is already rising from his seat and making his way across the room. Makeda drops her spoon in her bowl and studies me, her body turned toward me, going still, as if bracing for action.
“Do me a favor and grab my tablet off my study desk?” I ask Eli.
With a nod, he disappears from the kitchen, and not a minute later, he’s striding back into the room, coming to stand next to me and Makeda.
“’Preciate it,” I murmur, powering the device on.
As soon the screen blinks to life, displaying a lovely but boring screen saver of ice-capped mountains, I maneuver to the email app. On either side of me, Makeda and Eli shift closer. Theydidn’t overhear my conversation with Ro, but it’s as if they sense some shit is about to go down.
They wouldn’t be wrong.
The encrypted file sits right at the top of my inbox, and I waste no time right-clicking on it. The tablet’s screen fills with a black-and-white video of what appears to be a lobby. Maybe at a hotel or office or…
“Oh shit. This is Marcus’s apartment building.”
I’ve only visited my stepfather’s Brentwood condo a handful of times, but it’s hard to forget the pretentious-ass stained glass that sits high on the wall above the revolving entrance door. Other than that one identifying factor, it’s just any other lobby in another building. Security desk lining one wall, nondescript couches, chairs, and tables creating a fair-sized sitting area, and a bank of elevators just out of shot.
“Look at the date.” Makeda taps the top corner of the screen with a jet-black painted nail.
“Yeah,” I say.
“The night Marcus was killed,” Eli murmurs, flattening a palm on the marble surface and leaning forward, his focus fixed on the device.
For at least five minutes, the lobby remains clear. Not even a guard stands on post behind the desk. Impatience scratches at me. Impatience and a… knowing. Something is coming. I can feel it sitting on my chest. I deliberately slow my breathing so it doesn’t echo in my head, but there ain’t shit I can do about the jumping of my pulse or the acrid aftertaste of trepidation coating my tongue.
