Page 30 of Vega

She looked away, working her jaw angrily. Muffin stood and pressed his huge head against her thigh. She scratched behind his ear without looking down.

“They took my brother from me,” she said.

For one moment, I almost saw Donovan as a child again. Running through this house, following me around, asking too many questions, watching me with those hungry eyes because he wanted my seat before he understood what it cost to sit in it.

Then I remembered his face that night; the entitlement in his expression and the belief that I would look the other way while he tried to take over my empire.

Promise looked at me. “Promise me they’re gonna suffer.”

I met my daughter’s eyes and gave her the kind of answer she needed from her father. “They’ll suffer, baby girl.”

She nodded, believing me because she assumed I was still the loving father that would never lie to her. But I had; I had lied to my wife and daughter, and every soldier who answered to me.

And I didn’t regret it.

Blaming the Bellamys had given me reason to rally my people and move against enemies who had been breathing too comfortably for too long. Donovan’s death was a wound to everyone in this room. To me, it was leverage.

Promise stood, grabbing her gun from the table. Princess and Muffin rose with her immediately.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To the range.”

“It’s late.”

“I don’t care.”

I almost smiled. “Take two cars. One car in front, one behind you. If somebody follows, they spot it. If somebody blocks you in, the second car hits from the back.”

“I have my gun. I don’t need security. I am security.”

“And you’re grieving and emotional, which means you aren’t thinking clearly.” I held her stare. “Take two cars, Promise.”

She stared at me, wanting to argue, but then she nodded. “Fine.”

Before she walked away, she bent and kissed my forehead. “I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too.”

She left with both dogs at her sides.

I watched her go and felt nothing but certainty. Donovan’s death would burn the city down and Promise would control the flames, as long as she never learned I was the match.

VEGARRO “VEGA” MORETTI

Roman had given me Sonnet’s routine, but I didn’t trust information I hadn’t gathered myself. Clients left out details when the truth made them look guilty, desperate, or stupid. Roman had already given me enough reasons to question this assignment. So, I started following Sonnet on Sunday evening to make my own assessment.

That morning, I followed her as she got coffee and then went to the grocery store. Her life was painfully ordinary. She didn’t meet anyone connected to the police. She didn’t visit a lawyer or pass information to a journalist. She didn’t make contact with anyone tied to the Bellamy crew.

Outside the train station, she stopped beside a homeless man sitting beneath a blanket. Sonnet opened one of her grocery bags and gave him a few pieces of fruit and a pastry. She spoke to him for a minute, smiled, and continued walking.

She took her groceries home and then went to Da Book Joint. I sat across from the bookstore inside my truck with the windows tinted dark enough to hide me from anyone. A surveillance lens rested against my eye, bringing the inside of the shop close enough for me to follow Sonnet around the store.

Da Book Joint was a Black-owned bookstore on the South Side with colorful artwork in the windows, shelves packed with books by Black authors, and handwritten staff recommendations beneath certain books. Sonnet moved through the store like she had nowhere else she would rather be.

The dress she was wearing kept my attention. It was a long, flowing sundress with thin straps, a low neckline, and bright coral and orange flowers scattered across pale blue fabric. The material gathered beneath her breasts before falling loosely over her hips and legs. A slit opened near the front whenever she stepped, showing enough thigh to keep my eyes following the movement.

I doubted she had chosen it to be sexy. On another woman, the dress might have looked light, comfortable, and appropriate for a warm, May, Sunday afternoon. On Sonnet, it became something else. She had curves that the loose fabric couldn’t hide; full breasts, rounded hips, thick thighs, and a waist that narrowed enough to make the rest of her shape impossible to ignore. The dress moved around her body every time she walked, brushing against her legs and briefly settling over her ass before floating loose again.