CHAPTER NINE
CASH
Cash’s parents’ estate sat deep in Abington…
Tucked behind gates tall enough to block out the world but the gates were only the first layer.
The place was guarded like a fortress. Multiple security checkpoints stood between the outside and the circular drive.
Black SUVs idled near the entrance, windows tinted, engines low, with men trained to move at a moment’s notice.
And the men stationed there? They weren’t rent-a-cops.
They were his father’s men. Brother Amin’s militia.
All Black. Disciplined. Suits pressed sharp enough to cut, white shirts starched crisp, loafers polished to a mirror shine.
They moved with that Fruit of Islam energy.
Only deadlier and more efficient. Brother Amin owned and operated one of the largest private security firms in the state, and his estate was his crown jewel.
Every camera, every light, every inch of the property fed into an invisible system that caught anything moving out of place.
Cash had grown up knowing nothing happened in the city without his father’s approval…
coming second only to the florist. Once you cleared the last checkpoint, the estate came into full view.
The circular driveway was paved in black stone, the landscape was sculpted to precision.
The porch lit just enough to show the estates perfection.
Quiet money. Money that didn’t need to flex.
It just existed. Self-assured and uninterrupted.
Cash stepped out of the car, already knowing what waited for him inside the house.
If his father ran the house like a fortress, then his mother ran it like an art gallery.
Twice a month, she staged what the family called world tour dinners.
Every second Thursday, his mother brought in a rotating spread of international cuisine, catered by some of the best chefs in the city.
It was her way of softening the edges of all that power and violence, reminding the family there was more to life than strategy and survival.
Tonight’s destination? Japan. But not just any Japanese food.
She had the executive chef from Dawa of Fishtown slicing bluefin in her kitchen like it was a hibachi demo.
There was nigiri, sashimi, hand rolls, yakitori, mizutaki, edamame dusted in truffle salt.
Even the damn wasabi was sculpted into crescent moons.
Cash hated these dinners. All of it felt performative and wasteful.
A complete contradiction to the principles his father drilled into him about discipline, sacrifice, and longevity.
But if he didn’t show up, he’d never hear the end of it.
So he came, stayed long enough to be seen.
Then slipped out before the night dragged too far into politics.
But tonight, his mood was already shot. Zambia had insisted on riding with him tonight.
Made up some excuse about her G-Wagon being in the shop and being too terrified to catch an Uber.
From the moment Zambia slid into his passenger seat, the girl had been in full performance mode.
She had not stopped talking once. About napkin folds.
Wedding venues, and some influencer she wanted to fly in from Dubai to document the ceremony.
This confused Cash because this wasn’t their agreement.
Years ago, they made a pact, that if they had to get married, it would be in name only.
No love. Lately, though, it was like she had forgotten all that.
She was calling more, texting him mood boards in the middle of the night.
Sending him links to florists and cocktail recipes like they were some couple on Pinterest. She had even tried to pop up at his condo a few nights ago, and Cash left her ass right at the front desk.
Now here she was, sitting beside him at his parents’ expansive glass dining table. Laughing too loud and showing his mother clips from a Parisian Garden wedding reel like this was about to be a fairy tale. Cash sipped his sparkling water, jaw tight, and watched her work the room.
Zambia was a master manipulator with the gift of gab.
Nobody could spin a narrative quite like her.
She should’ve been a politician because education was never her calling.
Zambia had no business in a classroom with children, she belonged in a war room with CEOs and heads of state orchestrating coups.
Not nurturing and molding young minds. The girl was a strategist through and through.
But Cash wasn’t stupid, and he didn’t care how much she tried to rewrite history.
He wasn’t letting her deviate from their agreement. He planned to remind her. And soon.
Just then the front door opened, and Najee stepped in like he had his own key.
Which he probably did. Tonight, he was clean-cut as usual.
Light gray slacks, button-up open at the collar, gold-rimmed glasses catching the chandelier light.
In one hand, he carried a bouquet of white orchids, in the other, a bottle of Yuzu Sake.
“As-salamu alaykum,” he said evenly, voice carrying just enough to reach the whole table.
A chorus of “Wa alaykum salaam” rose back at him, some voices warmer than others.
His mother’s eyes lit up. “There go my favorite nephew-son.”
Cash raised a brow because it never failed.
His mother always went out her way to show the room who her favorite was.
The table chuckled as Najee made his way around, greeting everyone with daps and warm nods.
Even Zambia forced a tight-lipped smile.
She couldn’t stand Najee. And after things went south with him and Fatima, she outright hated him.
Najee slid into the seat across from Cash and started assembling a plate like he hadn’t just floated in with main-character energy. His mother, always ready for updates, turned toward him and got straight to it. “So, how’d it go? The intake with Max Brown’s mother?”
Najee didn’t look up from his sushi. “Went well,” he said casually. “She’s cautious.
“Guarded, which is to be expected. Especially with all the stigma and misinformation that still exists in our community surrounding therapy and mental health.”
He picked up another piece, unhurried. “But she’s open. And that matters.”
Then a slight pause, like he was choosing his words carefully.
“Jackie clearly loves her son, deeply…” His eyes lifted briefly, before landing on Cash’s mother, then Zambia. “And, contrary to popular belief, she is committed to getting her son the help he needs.” His gaze held just long enough to be felt, then dropped back to his plate.
Cash’s mother nodded, satisfied. Cash watched him instead.
The pause. The phrasing. The look. That wasn’t for the room, that was correction.
Subtle and tactful. And Najee ain’t correct nobody unless he cared.
Cash leaned back in his chair, slow, eyes still on him.
Najee didn’t look up, until Cash’s mother spoke.
“That’s why I trust you with our boys.” Najee smiled politely, then his eyes flicked to Cash and held.
“As a matter of fact….” he said, dragging it just enough, “she just texted me back.”
Cash’s irritation flared, quick and contained.
Why the fuck were they texting this late? What I miss?
Najee typed out a few words. The corner of his mouth lifted before he placed the phone face down on the table. Of course, that got attention. Which led to Zambia saying what everybody at the table was thinking. Just nastier. “Oop,” Zambia chirped, spearing a tempura roll.
“This late? Let me find out you got a thing for hood rats.” Cash’s mother chuckled, already standing. “Y’all be nice now,” she said, heading toward the kitchen.
The second she disappeared, Zambia’s tone shifted, sweet on the surface, sharp underneath.
“Spill the tea, Najee. Was she super ghetto?” She smirked.
“I looked her up. You know her IG has the audacity to be private, @MissJackieifyanasty.” She laughed.
“Can’t see nothing, but I bet it’s just crab legs, Cutwaters, and bonnet rants about child support. ” The table went quiet.
“Geez laweeze, guys,” she added, waving a hand.
“I promise I’m not being mean. She’s just…
so fucking ratchet, it’s unreal. The woman literally picks her son up every afternoon blasting Trap or Die like it’s 2006.
” She turned to Cash. “Cash, am I lying?” He didn’t answer.
Just looked at her, annoyed and disgusted.
Najee didn’t flinch. He poured himself a glass of sake, unbothered, then tilted his head slightly until his eyes met hers.
“Well,” he said coolly, “I imagine those yacht trips in the south of France get a little ratchet too. Especially after the old white men who own them fall asleep.” Zambia’s mouth fell open. Cash’s lips curved, just barely.
“Fuck you, Najee,” she snapped, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite land.
Najee raised his glass, calm as ever. “Well, who’s being ratchet now?
” Their eyes locked, long and loaded just as Cash pushed back from the table.
“Nah, c’mon,” he said, cutting through the tension, already on his feet. “We out.”