Chapter Six. Eshe
CHAPTER SIX
Eshe
The wind rushes past me as I bend low over my ’Busa, the motorcycle hugging the curve in the road bordered by the towering trees, their leaves changing colors with the advent of fall.
Though the family’s main headquarters for business is downtown Boston, the obodo—or the Mwuaji compound—is located in the quiet, picturesque suburb of Needham.
Close enough to Boston where the city is easily accessible, but far enough away where the sprawled, mansion-like multipurpose complex is secluded and secure and surrounded by acres of land.
In minutes, I pull up to the tall iron gates with the elegant M embossed in the middle of each wide door.
Leaning forward, I punch in a code and then place my palm on the scanner.
Seconds later, the gates slowly open, and once they’re just wide enough for me to fit through, I pull in, traveling up the long drive at a speed that’s probably too fast and unwise.
But I don’t care. Every time I arrive here, ephemeral yet adamantium-strong shackles wrap around me, chaining me to this place.
Stripping me of my freedom, of my choice.
Of my voice. More and more I lose memory of when I was happy here, when I was carefree and … safe here.
In too short a time, the elaborate, expansive building that’s the real heart of the Mwuaji family comes into view.
In spite of my antipathy toward it, there’s no denying its beauty.
Marble white, it glistens like a huge jewel under the late-afternoon sun.
Tall, proud columns line the front of the structure, black diamonds embedded like tears.
The family coat of arms decorates each mammoth arched door—four squares with a panther, an ichthys, the baobab tree, and an apple.
Ferocity, feminine power, family, and wisdom.
The tenets we hold as sacred. Diamond-encrusted black shutters bracket the many windows adorning the front and sides of the walls.
It’s a testimony to the wealth of our family, the pride of it.
I park my motorcycle in front of the short marble flight of steps, even though Abena forbids vehicles barring the front of the building. She, of all people, don’t get to tell me what to do. And I dare anyone to touch my shit. They not crazy.
Unlike me.
Just as I slip my phone from the pocket of my motorcycle jacket to send off a quick message to the Seven to let them know I’m here, the doors open, and they file out.
I don’t wonder how they knew I arrived. Given Nef’s affinity for all things tech, she no doubt hit them up as soon as I drove through the gate.
Ol’ girl’s been hacking into the obodo’s security system since she was fifteen.
Tera, Penn, Tyeesha, Kenya, Maura, Nef, and Sienna descend the steps and form a circle around my bike.
Without me having to say a word, they show up for me.
It isn’t about them being my personal guard.
At least not all about that. It’s about love, sisterhood, loyalty.
The kind of loyalty Abena has never experienced and will never know from the people she surrounds herself with.
“You about to go up in here and start some shit. I can see it all over your face,” Tera mutters. Yeah, she might sound like she’s complaining, but that gleam in her eyes tells a different story. My girl would welcome some shit popping off.
I grin, neither confirming nor denying her accusation. C’mon though. I definitely plan to go in there and cut the fuck up.
I tilt my head, squinting at them. Stepping forward, I reach out and touch the necklace hanging around Penn’s neck. A gold and diamond-encrusted pendant in the shape of an apple rests just between her breasts. All of them wear identical pieces.
“This is new.”
Penn sucks her teeth. “Yeah, it is. A few days ago, Abena gifted all the kapteni these necklaces. We’re supposed to wear them at all times.”
“Seriously?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Seriously,” all seven say like a chorus.
That’s some shit. Abena isn’t known for her generosity. Knowing her, the necklaces probably have bombs embedded in them.
“Hey, Tera told us about your run-in with the Huntsman at the cabin,” Nef says in that even, damn-near-flat tone that gives nothing away.
And unlike Tera, her eyes don’t either. If we were going on a moonlit bike ride through the countryside or about to commit mass murder, she wouldn’t show emotion one way or the other about either activity.
We’re all sociopaths here should be our motto. Ooh. Maybe I could get us matching T-shirts and Glocks with that printed and engraved on them for Christmas.
Before answering Nef, I arch an eyebrow, and she flips her hand over down by her hip, revealing the tiny scrambler. Talking here isn’t safe. Abena has cameras everywhere, and I wouldn’t discuss what I wanted for dinner in these walls or on these grounds without some kind of protection.
“Yeah.” I smile. “It was … memorable.”
Tyeesha snorts. “Only you would call an attempted hit ‘memorable.’”
“And hot.” Kenya holds up a church finger. “Let’s not pretend it ain’t incredibly hot, too.”
Tera sighs, while Maura and Penn cosign Kenya. Sienna gives her a high five.
“Something’s wrong with you bitches.” Tera shakes her head, lip curled. “Anyway, what’s the plan with us walking up in here? Anything we should be aware of other than having your back and front?”
“Yeah. This is a game of chess with Abena. She knows as well as I do that the Huntsman isn’t dead.
But admitting that means she sent him after me in the first place.
So I’m going in here to fuck with her and let her know that shit didn’t work out the way she wanted it to.
Since her focus will be on me and mine on her, I need all of you to keep an eye on everyone in that room.
Study the faces. Take note of the expressions, the body language.
Of who they’re standing with. Our number of defectors is steadily growing, but we need more.
And knowing who to watch and follow to see if we should approach is key.
Step to the wrong person and all our asses are fucked. ”
“No doubt.” Penn nods. “We got that.”
“When we leave, Nef, stay behind.”
I don’t say any more than that, but I don’t need to; she understands. When she wants to, Nef can be a ghost. She can move through a room and disappear, not be seen. The bitch makes Mata Hari look like an amateur. Any whispers, conversations, or possible plots, Nef would catch it all.
“A’ight.” I crack my neck. “Let’s get it.”
After climbing the steps two at a time, I gain the porch and pull the doors open, walking through like my boy Aragorn popping up in Helm’s Deep after being ridden hard and put away wet by some orcs.
As soon as I step into the vast entryway with its crystal chandelier, black-and-white jeweled floor, and array of framed weapons mounted on the walls, I school my features into a blank mask and nod at the soldiers flanking the doors and standing at the entrance to the throne room.
Large AR-15s and the triple-pointed crown branded into the side of their necks set them apart as the oba’s special guard, and though I’m their olori, my fingers still itch with the need to reach for my gun.
Wait here until either I get back or Zuri comes for you. Me or Zuri, baby girl. No one else. And do not go back to the obodo. You understand me?
One of my mother’s last orders whispers through my head as I scan the opulence of the place that should be the safest for me. That should feel like home. Instead that tingle in my hand gets stronger, and by sheer will do I not shift my hand behind me.
I never did find out why she didn’t want me to return to the compound.
And Zuri never did return for me. Matter of fact, Zuri didn’t return, period.
She disappeared. Which meant someone—Abena—had her taken out before Ma, or she had a hand in taking out my mother and went ghost afterward.
Either way, I never saw Ma’s right hand again, and my question will always go unanswered.
Leaving me distrustful of this place, of the people I call family, because there had to be a reason Ma warned me not to go back …
Shaking my head to clear it of the memories, of the useless thoughts, I focus. Going into this den of snakes without a laser-sharp mind, even with my Seven at my back, would be like playing thumb wars with a fucking black widow. Dumb as fuck and deadly.
The sad part? Not sad as in boo-the-fuck-hoo but sad as in bitch-ass pathetic.
Most of the people here in Abena’s “court” aren’t bad people.
Damn sure not lazy or dumb as a bag of wet hair.
Nah, most are earners or worked their way up to where they are now—kapteni over their own thriving crews, bringing in millions for the family.
Most are charming, funny, and smart as hell.
Or they’re like me and have no choice but to be here, caged until they find some way to fight free.
No, it’s the sycophants I despise. Those who all turned a blind eye to Abena assassinating my mother, pledging their loyalty to her and looking me dead in my fucking face as they offered me condolences for my mother’s death even as they profited from it.
That kind of weakness, that kind of snake shit, is unforgivable.
And unforgettable.
And I got a memory like a gotdamn elephant.
The familiar rage and bitterness embed themselves in my chest like wire spikes, and giving the soldiers on guard a nod, I cross the foyer, my boots thudding on the marble.
As I approach the throne room, the atmosphere shifts.
It’s small, the subtlest of ripples, like a tiny pebble thrown into a smooth, shallow pond, but I feel it.
Tension invades my body, but years of discipline and Bitch-I’m–Viola Davis–level acting prevent me from betraying it to the rubberneckers crowded in the room.