CHAPTER THIRTY
NAJEE
A few hours before…
Back when it was a thriving business district. The Deuce served as a full-blown ecosystem of Black commerce, with each business contributing to the cultural fabric of the community. That was until the city let it go to hell. And at the very heart of it stood the Toussaint family.
More specifically, Newdy’s grandfather, Lucien Toussaint Sr., The florist.
Lucien Toussaint’s name was worth its weight in gold. While Philadelphia had a long history of organized crime, from the Italians in South Philly, the Russians in the Northeast, the Triad’s in Chinatown, and the various sects of Muslims that controlled the northside.
The truth was simpler. There weren’t four families, there were five. The Toussaint’s were the fifth family in arguably the most powerful. The actual black Mafia.
Lucien ran the streets, the way surgeons ran operating rooms, clean, exact and with practiced discipline.
He was a pillar of the community, an award-winning florist, and a feared boss.
Toussaint’s Flowers was more than a flower shop.
It was a headquarters. Neutral ground for the city’s heavy hitters.
The florist didn’t just arrange bouquets.
He presided over conflicts, and his word was final.
Toussaint’s was the place where street beefs went to live or die.
If two rival crews were at war, it got brought to the florist. If a play needed to be greenlit or shut down indefinitely, the florist, and only the florist, made that call.
So when Lucien passed, the checks-and-balances system he had strategically put in place passed right alongside him.
For nearly ten years, the streets operated with no florist.
No florist meant no order, and in the absence of order, certain entities were able to rise to power.
There should have been a change of guard immediately.
But no one could really fill his shoes. Paris, Lucien’s grandson and Newdy’s identical twin, didn’t have a governing bone in his body.
He was overexposed and entirely too enthralled with the mix to be trusted with such an undertaking.
Lucien’s brother Christoph tried to serve as the interim florist but quickly found out he didn’t have the stomach for the deadlier aspects of the job.
That left Newdy. The quiet twin. The reluctant boss.
The one who had no interest in power or politics but actually had the stomach to govern and carry out every aspect of the role.
Newdy had done a few years in the feds for some shit Paris did.
He knew his brother wasn’t built like that, So Newdy did the time for him.
Only to come home from serving his time, to his brother being dead and the weight of the position waiting on him.
Najee had known the twins his whole life.
The Toussaint’s and Amin-Rashid’s ran thick back in the day.
Najee’s Mother and Newdy’s were close, and both went to Karmella’s religiously every Friday to get their hair and nails done.
Karmella’s was one of the only salon’s his mother and other women in their community were able to patronize.
Karmella didn’t allow men in the shop, which appealed to a lot of Muslim women in those days and served as a safe space.
Najee’s earliest memories took place on 52nd Street.
So, watching it descend into this waste land of smoke shops, Chinese restaurants, drugs, and vacant businesses fucked him up.
He knew Newdy had his work cut out for him, and now he understood why his friend spent damn near every waking moment on the Deuce.
Newdy was quietly retaking the reins, restoring, and revitalizing the community his grandfather spent his whole life cultivating.
And when he wasn’t on the Deuce? He was in Wyncote, taking care of his mother while she battled breast cancer.
Which was exactly why Najee was here, on 52nd Street, at four-thirty in the morning.
He knew Toussaint’s didn’t open for business this early.
But he also knew Newdy started his day before most people opened their eyes and was probably already inside working.
Najee needed a bouquet, but not just any bouquet.
He needed one from Newdy. What Newdy did with flowers wasn’t just arranging.
It was high art. His creations were breathtaking and highly sought after, and that was exactly what Najee needed if he wanted to speak to Jackie in a language she would understand.
Najee tried to get one of his assistants to commission the bouquet a few days ago.
Newdy declined and Najee knew why. The last conversation they had was the night of Jamil’s birthday party, and Najee had been admittedly evasive— and Newdy didn’t do evasive.
He was like a human bullshit detector, so when Najee tried to skate around why he was spending time with Jackie after the party, Newdy cut straight to the point and said the quiet part out loud.
“Respectfully, bro… you playing with fire.” Najee heard that warning on loop the entire time he was away.
And he was. Professional fire. Personal fire.
Ethical fire. But honestly? He was ready to burn behind her if necessary.
He thought those few weeks away would give him clarity or at least put shit in perspective.
It did the opposite. If anything, he wanted her more now than he did before.
But he had to be strategic because he had a duty to Max first. That was why he moved heaven and earth to hire Ish.
He knew his moves looked questionable, but Najee played chess, not checkers.
The lights flicked on in the shop around five.
Najee was surprised when the door automatically unlocked the moment he reached for the handle.
The second he stepped inside, he had to stop.
This was far from the shop he remembered from childhood.
This wasn’t Lucien Toussaint’s Floral Parlor.
Newdy had given this place a makeover and dragged it straight into the twenty-first century.
The inside of the renovated Toussaint’s didn’t look like any flower shop Najee had ever stepped in.
Which said a lot, because he had lived in Paris for two years.
He knew Newdy had an eye for design, but this was different.
The shop looked more like an urban art gallery.
Matte-black shelving. Dark concrete walls.
Gold track lighting angled with precision, spotlighting each arrangement like it was sculpture instead of flowers.
A full wall of floral coolers sat so seamlessly into the space Najee couldn’t even tell how to access them.
Every vase was modern and sharp-lined. Every stem was trimmed crisp and positioned perfectly.
In that moment, Najee realized this wasn’t décor.
It was curation. High art with a street undertone.
Minimalist, yet still bold. The energy was masculine, but still soft.
Which made perfect sense. Newdy had always had vision, even as a kid.
While Najee kept his head in the books, and Cash, Monty, Koi, and Paris caught wreck in different hoods, Newdy rarely left his grandfather’s flower shop.
And even then, Newdy only came outside to save Paris from getting his ass beat or pull him out of some street shit.
Other than that, he studied under his grandfather like an apprentice.
Everybody thought he was quiet. Or mature for his age.
Now Najee understood. Even then, he had been getting groomed to take over.
The shop smelled clean in a way that felt almost clinical, faint eucalyptus, cedar, sandalwood.
The space was beautiful, but not soft, and that was all by design.
Every detail suggested the man who created it had a steady hand and an even darker skill set behind it.
That was when Najee spotted him. One Air Pod in.
Back turned. Standing at his workstation.
Newdy faced a glass wall that Najee was almost certain was a two-way mirror, giving him a perfect view of the block.
Right next door sat Jackie’s loud-ass cousin’s nail salon.
Newdy turned around the second Najee stepped forward. “Oh, good. I was about to think yo’ ass was slipping.” Newdy gave a half smirk, then went right back to trimming stems.
“I got the alert ya nut-ass pulled up an hour ago.”
“Right,” Najee said. “So, if you got that alert, I know you got the text Sister Daaiyah sent you about commissioning the bouquet.”
“Got that one too,” Newdy said without looking up. Then he turned to face him.
“But I knew if I said yes, I’d be talking to one of your staff and not you.”
Silence dropped between them, heavy and familiar. Najee finally exhaled.
“Look… I know the last conversation we had, I was being vague on purpose. And that’s because I wasn’t trying to hear my shit. You were trying to tell me something, and I should’ve—”
“Not necessary,” Newdy cut in. “You heard what I said.”
His voice stayed quiet, but Najee felt the weight in it.
“I told Cash the same thing. Neither one of y’all wanted to listen, so I’m out of it. But if this turn street and I gotta preside over the situation, both y’all niggas gonna be mad.” Najee nodded slowly. He heard him. Loud and clear. He leaned against the counter and dropped his voice.
“Bro, I tried to leave her alone. I know what this shit look like. It’s a conflict of interest, literally. Cash crazy ass ain’t gonna chill, and if my aunt get wind of any of this, shit really gonna be up.
I know the cons. I did a whole SWOT analysis on the shit.
” He paused. “But bro… I see her everywhere. Even when I close my eyes. Newdy kept working, but there was the slightest shift, the kind you only caught if you’d known a man most your life.
“You ever felt like that? Like your heart and your head both telling you to chill, but your spirit won’t allow it?
” Najee swallowed. Newdy didn’t answer. Something outside caught his eye.
Najee followed his line of sight. and blinked. Kormia.
There she stood, half asleep in the cold morning air, bonnet half-on, slippers on the wrong feet. She had on fuzzy pajama pants tucked into thick sweat socks, with a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth and a bath towel draped over one arm as she stood at the trunk of her car.
“What the hell is that about?” Najee asked, unsure what he was looking at.
“You don’t think she living in her car or something?”
Newdy’s jaw flexed, barely noticeable unless you knew him. And Najee knew.
Low key, he was pissed. “I’m not sure,” Newdy said, voice flat.
“But trust… I’m gon get to the bottom of it.
” Before Najee could continue the conversation, Newdy tapped a button under the counter.
The glass wall darkened instantly until the street outside disappeared like it had never existed.
Then he went back to the bouquet he was working on.
It was massive, layered in shades of blush and purple, tied with the signature Toussaint’s red ribbon.
Newdy grabbed a blank card and a pen. “Who am I making this out to?” he asked without looking up.
“Jackie or Jackie Brown?”
“Jack,” Najee said quietly. Parrish wrote in the card without asking for confirmation, his pen moving with the same surgical precision he used on the arrangements. “Any message?”
Najee hesitated. Then spoke. “Forgive me.” That was when Newdy finally lifted his eyes.
“What you need forgiveness for?” he asked, tone low.
Najee shook his head and remained silent instead.
Newdy held the silence for a second, then nodded like he understood more than Najee was ready to say.
He slipped the card into the arrangement, tightened the ribbon, then pushed the bouquet across the counter. “Bet, this should do it then.”