“We trust you’ll make the best and appropriate decision,” Malcolm says, also standing and striding over, arm outstretched. I clasp his hand, and he gives it a firm squeeze. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
The other ol’ head soldiers approach to shake my hand and they, too, exit, leaving just me, Eli, and Makeda. They held their own counsel the whole meeting, but now I look toward them for any advice.
Eli crosses his arms over his chest. “Your mother screwed you.”
I slam a fist down on the conference table.
“Fuck.”
“You sure about this?”
I glance at Makeda before the elevator doors open on a softhiss and step inside, she and Eli following me. Once the doors close, I lean forward and stare into a concealed retina scanner. It flashes green, and only then do I remove my keys and insert one into a slot below the numbers panel. The elevator gives a tiny, soft jerk and then starts to descend toward the basement.
“I’m sure I don’t have much of a choice,” I reply to Makeda’s question.
“I just don’t like it.” She hikes an eyebrow. “Okay, we know the video is legit because Ro verified it. But Michelle doesn’t, and she doesn’t give a fuck. And I really would like to find out how she came by the video in the first place. How long has she had it? And why is she showing it to you just now? Nope.” She shakes her head. “Something in the milk ain’t clean on this one.”
“You think I haven’t asked myself the same questions?” I stare at the sealed elevator doors. “But none of those answers matter now, and even if we had them, it won’t change what needs to be done.”
Eli glances at Makeda with a shake of his head.
“No one here believes Michelle gives a fuck about avenging Marcus’s death or that she even has any real love for him. This whole thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth because it feels like we’re being used as puppets and she’s the fucking puppeteer. But the truth is, none of that shit matters. Ember’s crime isn’t killing Marcus, it’s Michelle finding out. Now there’s no other course of action. If Prince doesn’t go forward with this, he appears weak and disloyal in front of not just all Cross members but the criminal underworld. No one would trust him as a leader. And that invites chaos and instability. Is one person’s life bigger than the good of the entire organization or all those in it?” Eli shakes his head. “Nah. Ember’s left him with no choice, just like he said.”
I don’t say anything after Eli, and neither does Makeda. We continue the ride to the basement in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
Anger, grief, and a sickening, heavy resolve sit on my chest like an albatross, and I can barely breathe past it. It’s been hourssince Michelle ambushed me in that conference room, and I haven’t inhaled a deep breath since. As much as I tried to figure out how to not end up here, there was no escape. Everything Eli said is true. No one person is bigger than the family, just as Michelle depended on. I’m cornered like a rat and feeling as dirty and fucked as one, too.
My personal desires and feelings didn’t matter when I made the calls to Don Amato, Naoki, Malcolm, and the others earlier this afternoon.
And they don’t fucking matter now as I’m about to step off this elevator and head to kill Ember.
Slamming a fist against the wall, I embrace the ripple of pain. Savor it. Better this physical ache than the one tearing at me with greedy, bloody hands. For the first time since my father died, I started to hope. I began to believe that I could have something unspoiled. That maybe, just maybe, I could have something—someone—just for me. Only for me.
But my need, my obsession, blinded me to the truth I’ve never been able to escape.
Hope is a figment of imagination for saints, children, and idiots.
I ain’t none of those.
The elevator stops, and the doors slide open. We step off onto the floor very few people are aware of. The subterranean basement is located several feet below Ember’s lab, completely soundproof and secret. The first room, with its cement floor and walls, runs the length of the building. It stands empty except for a folding chair next to a reinforced steel door. In seconds, I’m in front of it, submitting to another retina scan and pulling open the door.
Several people turn to look at me as I enter. Corey, Crystal, Murk, and several other top soldiers. Kareem, posted up against the back wall, arms crossed, hooks his chin up in greeting. Unlike the first room, this one looks exactly like what it is—a torture chamber. Plastic sheets cover half of the floor. Steel beamsrun along the ceiling, and hooks extend down from them. Steel wheeled trays line one wall, an array of tools neatly laid across the tops. A long coil of hose lies in the far back corner, ready to be turned on to wash away blood from the cement floor.
The room is set up, ready and prepped for a guest of honor.
And, as I step farther into the room, my current one sits on a chair, arms and feet bound.
Ember raises her head.
Irrational fury consumes me in a murderous, crimson haze as I meet her steady, calm gaze and blank expression. As I note the damage done to her face. That rage washes over me, and for a moment, my body trembles with the effort to not pull my gun and empty the clip into every person in this room. I close my eyes. Inhale. Hold the breath, desperately attempting to regain any scraps of control. Only after I’ve counted to ten twice do I lift my lids. But the moment my gaze lands on Ember again, the thin, tenuous reins on my rage quickly unravel and snap.
“Who did it?” I ask, voice calm. Deadly fucking calm. When no answers me, I tear my focus from her and scan the room. The only people safe in this room are Makeda and Eli since they’ve been with me. Everyone else, including my brother, is fair game. “Who put their hands on her?”
No one speaks up, and I stalk closer to Ember, studying the busted lip crusted with blood at the corner of her mouth and the bruise already darkening her cheek. My palm itches with the need to cup her face, tilt her head back to see if any other injuries mar her skin. But derision suddenly riding her mouth warns me I’d end up missing some digits if I tried it. She’s bound to the chair, but her stiff frame and taut shoulders scream with the same bloody rage that runs through me.
“Who. The. Fuck. Hit. Her?” I grind out.
After several more moments of a tense, weighted silence, I slowly pivot, reaching for my Glock at the small of my back. Everybody can get it.
