As if they were waiting for that cue, the servers enter the room once more. Instead of dessert and coffee, they carry a huge plastic roll and a chair. Within seconds, the plastic is spread across the floor like a tarp, and the large, heavy armchair is set right in the middle of it.
He sheds his suit jacket and loosens his tie. “Eli, guide Carter over to the place of honor, will you?”
“The fuck? Prince, what’s going on, man?” Carter shouts, twisting in his seat, alarm raising his voice.
Demarcus jacks to his feet, moving in front of his younger brother’s chair, blocking him from Eli, who advances on them.
“Wait.” The street boss holds up his hands, palms out, traces of panic edging his even tone. “Prince. The hell is happening here?” Demarcus scans the long table, but no one jumps to his side. None of the Mafia heads, and none of the other Cross street bosses seated there. “Ain’t no way…”
Asad jerks his tie over his head and casually rolls up his shirt sleeves, as if relaxing after a long day at the office. I scoot closer to the edge of my chair, riveted. Out of my peripheral vision, I catch a flash of movement. Kareem rises out of his seat and stands at the end of the table, his face void of emotion.
“I’ll explain in just a minute what your brother has been up to, D. But first…” His face and voice harden to the consistency of flint, and even though his cold fury isn’t directed at me, a tremble still trips down my spine. “Eli, get his overgrown bitch ass up like I said.”
Shoving Demarcus out of the way, Eli snatches Carter up out of his seat and drags him over to the armchair. Carter’s not a small guy, but even struggling and yelling, he’s no competition for Eli’s size and weight. His forearms and ankles are swiftly bound to the chair by zip ties. Demarcus yells, charging forward to helphis brother, but a wall of Cross armed soldiers circle around him, caging him.
A soft but firm tap on my shoulder momentarily distracts my attention from the scene in front of me, and Asad dips his chin. I nod, correctly interpreting his order to remain sitting. The last thing I want is to be in any proximity to Michelle, who reclaimed her own seat to my right, but I’m also wise enough to pick my battles. And challenging him here, in front of Mafia bosses—Cross allies—and their wives, is the very definition ofunwise.
I’m not afraid of anyone in this room, but I’m also not itching to be the next person occupying the chair on the tarp.
“Carter.” Asad strolls over to the street boss, sliding his hands in his suit pockets. The Glock cradled against his lower back gleams and appears bigger and more threatening against his stark white shirt. “Yesterday, someone took shots at me while I was headed toward downtown. Well, a few someones, to be specific, in cars and on motorcycles. I’m guessing they didn’t expect my car to be bulletproof or for Eli and me to bust back. Or whoever paid them didn’t warn them about who they were coming after. Either way, they’re some dead muthafuckas, and I’m left wondering who sent their roadkill asses after me.” He stops in front of Carter and bends down, cocking his head. “Or, Iwaswondering.”
“Prince, man—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Asad quietly says to Demarcus without looking away from his brother. Demarcus stacks his hands on top of his head, his feet doing a little shuffle, going side to side. But he does shut up. Carter mugs Asad, but his fear seeps into the air, saturating it like a cloying perfume. “Carter, do you know why I’m no longer wondering who sent them after me?”
“Nah, man, I don’t,” he grinds out.
“No?”
“No,” Carter snaps. “D, bruh, this is bullshit.” He looks in his brother’s direction.
The crack of Asad’s open hand across Carter’s face is loud and hard enough to swing the other man’s head back the other way.
No one makes a sound. We are all spectators in this dark show. Even the soldiers lined against the wall don’t move, glued to the play Asad orchestrates.
“I’m talking to you, muthafucka. Didn’t yo mama ever teach you it’s rude to not look at someone when they’re talking to your bitch ass?” Asad asks, his calm voice contradicting the violence of his assault. “Now, I’ma give you one more chance to nut up and tell me the truth. What do you know about those hittas coming after me?”
A quick glance around the room reveals varying reactions to the display unraveling before us—excitement and satisfaction from the dons, unease and distaste from their wives, anger, apprehension, and fierce pride on the faces of the Cross family members. I don’t peek over my shoulder at Michelle, but I can practically feel the bloodlust and pride emanating from her. This ruthless, intimidating, heartless monster… This is who she created, who she raised.
Disgust should swim in my chest. Horror should churn in my stomach. The itching, clawing need to be far, far away from this chilling tableau should be crawling through me, have me inching toward the door to escape.
Instead…
Instead, a twisted, perverted anticipation—no, eagerness snakes through my veins, lighting up nerve endings and carving out a craving in my belly that can only be filled by pain, screams, blood.
I briefly close my eyes. But only for a second, lest I miss anything.
And there’s my secret, the one I’ve buried so far deep that I have a hard time wiping off the grime and admitting it to myself.
I survived the monsters of my childhood by becoming one.
“I don’t know nothin’,” Carter spits. “And even if I did, I’m no snitch.”
“Okay, okay. I get it. I can almost even admire that kind of loyalty,” Asad says, straightening to his full height. “Almost, if you hadn’t taken an oath of fidelity and allegiance to me rather than the people you’re protecting. That’s some shit.”
“I gave that to Marcus, not you,” he shoots back, and that boomerangs around the room like a ricocheting bullet.
From my position, I can only see Asad’s profile, but with his long, dark hair weaved into beautiful and intricate stitch braids, nothing hinders my view of the arch of a thick eyebrow and slow curl of his lips.
