Page 42 of Omar

Don't worry about it.

O. Did you do something?

I had a conversation with two men who won't be coming back to your block. That's all you need to know.

A pause. Then: Respect.

I put the phone down. James was watching the road, his hands relaxed on the wheel, the city sliding past the windows. The adrenaline was already fading from my arms and hands, replaced by something steadier.

Nobody was going to touch Rashid. Not Kyran's people, not Supreme's people, not anyone. He was my little brother. Five years between us but I'd been looking out for him since we were kids running the block together. That wasn't gonna stop now.

The message would travel through Flatbush by morning. By the end of the week every crew in Brooklyn would know that following Rashid Baptiste was a decision with consequences attached to it. Kyran could sit wherever he was nursing the injuries Rashid had given him and think about whether sending hired muscle after a Baptiste was worth what came back.

I already knew the answer. But Kyran would have to learn it himself.

James dropped me at my building. I went upstairs, showered, sat on the edge of my bed with my phone in my hand. I thought about calling Kadeem to tell him what happened but decided against it. Kadeem would want details, would want to know if there was a bigger play behind Kyran's move, would want to assess whether this connected to the TK situation. Right now it was just a street-level grudge and two men who'd picked the wrong family to threaten.

I texted Devon instead: Keep eyes on Rashid's block for the next week. If anyone shows up who shouldn't be there, I want to know before they park.

Devon replied: Already on it.

I put my phone on the nightstand, lay back on the bed, and let my eyes close. Somewhere in Brooklyn, Darren Yates was cleaning rice off the floor of a barbershop back room and trying to figure out how to explain to Kyran that the Baptiste family had just shortened the conversation permanently.

Good. Let him figure it out.

Chapter 16

Asha

The text came through on a quiet afternoon between clients. Unknown number, no name, just four words: You good out there?

I stared at it sitting in the salon bathroom with the door locked and the tap running. Nobody had this number except clients, Nene, and the booking page. The booking page. I almost laughed.

Who is this? I typed back, even though I already knew.

You know who it is.

I closed my eyes and leaned against the counter. I'd promised myself. I'd literally promised myself lying in Supreme's bed with his arm across my body, that I was done thinking about Omar Baptiste. The kiss in the park was a mistake, the feelings were a complication, the plan was still the plan. The plan didn't include a man who could get me killed.

And now he was texting me from a number he'd pulled off my Instagram like a teenager with a crush and I was standing in this bathroom smiling at my phone like I didn't have a whole man at home who'd ordered someone's throat slit over dinner.

I'm good, I typed. You shouldn't be texting me.

I know. You want me to stop?

I stared at that for a full minute. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. The smart answer was yes. The safe answer was yes. The answer that kept me alive and kept my plan intact and kept everything moving in the right direction was yes.

No, I typed. Don't stop.

I saved his number under "Crown Heights Color Correction" and went back to my client.

We texted for the rest of the day. Short messages, never more than a few words, always deleted immediately after reading. He never asked where I was or what I was doing. He never mentioned Supreme. Just You good? and Thinking about you when I was lying in bed next to Supreme who was snoring with his mouth open.

I didn't reply to that one. I just held my phone against my chest and closed my eyes and let myself have it for a second before I deleted it.

I started paying attention to Cee's routine after that. He dropped me at the salon and parked outside, stayed in the car unless I texted him that I was done. He didn't come inside, didn't check on me, didn't walk the block. He just sat there with his phone and waited.

I had a gap between my second and third client. Forty minutes where Cee sat outside the building assuming I was with a client. Forty minutes that Supreme's schedule had no awareness of. Forty minutes that belonged to nobody but me.