Page 220 of The Fire We Make

Glock nodded, rounding the table to take the seat that had previously been hers.

“You know I got you. I serve at the pleasure of the Princess. Always”

Joy grinned. “Queen now. Get it right nigga.”

Glock threw his head back laughing before raising his hands in mock surrender. “You’re right, Queen, my bad.”

“I’m glad you found some happiness, Princess. You deserve it,” Glock said, sincerity and warmth bleeding through his expression. “You deserve a nigga that steps for you the way that big ass nigga out there does.”

Joy smiled, her eyes drifting wistfully towards the door she knew her happiness was standing right outside of.

“You deserve happiness too, Glock,” she said.

Glock’s smile dimmed just a bit, before he put his toothpick back in his mouth.

“Shit,” he drawled. “I guess monsters like us deserve love too, huh?”

Joy smiled. “Exactly.”

Their moment was cut short by the door opening, and the board filtered in, their expressions morphing into confusion when they saw who sat at the head of the table.

The cleanup crew hadn’t completed their job yet, so one look around the room painted a picture of what had gone down there.

Joy sat at the head of the table, peering around at the men who, not even a year ago had deemed her unfit to hold her seat, let alone the one she occupied now.

The expressions on some of their faces let her know that they were still of the same opinion.

“Thank you for joining me, gentlemen,” Joy greeted them, leaning back in her father’s chair.

“What the hell is all of this, Joy? Where’s Byron?” a member of the board spat. Joy didn’t turn her head but her eyes settled on the man who’d spoken, head of their DFW operations and the man who’d written her letter of recommendation for her Rice University application.

She’d seen these men as uncles before. Family and teachers who helped mold her into the queen she was. As she looked at them now, the reverence she had before had been replaced with disdain and hate.

“There will be some changes around here. Starting with, my father is no longer in charge here. I am.”

“And who decided that?” That came from the leader of their west Texas operations and the man who’d taught her almost as much about the drug game as Byron had.

Joy looked over Glock who sat reclined in her old seat with a toothpick between his lips and his locs in his face. She gave him a slight nod and without a word, he sent a bullet in between the man’s eyes.

The silent shot whizzed through the air and the man’s head dropped to the table with a subtle thump.

Glock rested his smoking namesake on the table in front of him.

“I did,” Joy said, now for the benefit of the men around the table as opposed to the dead one who’d asked the question.

“Any more questions?” she asked, her narrowed eyes swimming around the table.

They all stared, some wide eyed and some in disgust but no one spoke.

“Good,” Joy smiled. “Glock will oversee daily operations here. You’ll answer to him, and he’ll answer to me. Any problem you have with that, now would be the time to speak up.”

No one spoke.

“And where will you be?” one of the men asked warily.

“I’ll be available for anything needed remotely and will pop in every once in a while. But I won't be staying here,” she explained. “Please make no mistake, me going back to New York doesn’t mean I’m giving up my seat. It means I don’t need to sit in this building every day for y’all to remember who it belongs to.”

They all nodded silently.