Chapter 1 #2
“It’s not just a purse, Imanio; it’s a statement piece !” she countered, furiously, blotting it gently with a silk scarf like it was a newborn. “She wouldn’t understand! She’s still out here rocking Fashion Nova like it’s high couture! Tragic!”
“Are we done?” I asked growing impatient. “Or should I stand here another hour while my mother emotionally recovers from a coffee homicide? I got other business waiting.”
The photographer gave a nervous, tight nod. “Just one more shot… maybe three.”
“Make it one,” I replied sternly, already loosening my tie.
“But we still need?—”
“I said one , not one and a suggestion. Take it or leave it,” I stated firmly.
The photographer raised the camera quick and snapped one.
Click.
Then, slid a second on in like I wouldn’t notice.
Click.
I stared straight into the lens on the second one and said, “That’s it.”
He lowered the camera like it got heavy all of a sudden.
“Y-Yeah! Got what I need! A-All good!”
“Good! I’ve done my part. Y’all wanted the face? You got it. Everything else is above my tax bracket and below my level of interest.”
Behind me, I heard Giselle gasp. “Imanio Zaire Kors, if you walk off this set?—”
“Then I’ll finally be free,” I cut in.
I took off the tie, ripped open the top buttons of the shirt, and walked away from the camera setup.
I heard one of the assistants whisper, “Did he really just leave?”
Giselle trailed behind me as I headed to my whip, stilettos clicking against the marble sidewalk like an angry metronome.
“Imanio, how dare you embarrass me?—”
“I told you not to schedule this,” I interrupted coolly, not even breaking stride.
“Every time it's time to represent this brand, you get difficult! Do you even realize how important these shoots are?! I think you tend to forget that you’re the face of Kors Luxe Development—not some street-level hoodlum running around like image doesn’t matter!
” she fussed, the word tasting foreign in her mouth like it wasn’t exactly where she came from.
I smirked and came to a full stop, making her nearly bump into me. Then I turned slightly, just enough to sting her pride.
Giselle had a bad habit of rewriting history—turning struggles into fairy tales and skipping over the parts where it got ugly.
Me? I stayed ten toes down and never forgot where I came from.
Yeah, my father put me on to the business, but he didn’t hand me respect; I had to grind for that.
I had to work twice as hard to get people to take me seriously—to believe in me the way they trusted him.
And even with the money and the name, I never looked down on people with less, especially not other Black folks… most importantly, not family.
That was Mama’s specialty, not mine.
Giselle was one of those Black women who acted like she came with a ‘seasonal pass to whiteness’.
And since my father was white, she took it as confirmation that her internal application had been approved.
But I made it my business to always remind her that she couldn’t outrun her roots in red bottoms.
“You forget where you came from again?” I asked.
Taken aback, she lifted her brows and crossed her arms.
“Excuse me?”
“Giselle, you weren’t born in a penthouse, which means you wasn’t always Saint Laurent, private jets, and boardroom brunches.
Before Pop’s business took off, you were Gigi from the Gardens—fighting folks in Dollar Tree slides, rocking them knockoff Baby Phat coats in the middle of July, and braiding hair on the porch just to scrape up gas money. Don’t act brand new.”
Her mouth parted slightly.
“Oh, and what about when you threw a shoe at the repo man ‘cause he tried to tow the Cutlass while your laundry was still in the trunk? Or how you used to walk to work at night in them Payless shoes, while carrying pepper spray in one hand and a razor in the other. And… how you used to steal pink rollers and Blue Magic from the beauty supply store, then pull up to church on Sunday like you didn’t just commit petty theft.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, Grandma and Auntie Renee told me everything .”
Her nostrils flared—just barely, but I caught it. I was almost certain her eyes rolled internally at the mention of my aunt, the one she barely tolerated on a good day.
“Hmph! I’m sure they did!” She paused like the words tasted sour. “Especially that… ghetto ass sister of mine.”
I smirked. “Auntie Renee might be loud, nosy, and yeah… maybe a lil’ messy, but one thing she’s not is fake .
Giselle, you came out the same dirt some of us still trying to wash off and heal from.
So stop with the act like you don’t know what it feels like to split one meal between three people, heat the house with the oven door open, stand in food stamp lines, use candles when the lights got cut off, listen to yo’ stomach growl while saying “I already ate” so your kids could eat first, sell personal stuff just to cover rent, or boil water on the stove just to take a bath . I could go on.”
Giselle stepped forward; her voice low but seething.
“Imanio, don’t get it twisted—I haven’t forgotten where I come from.
But I didn’t crawl my way out of the damn trenches just to watch you stand here scowling at your father’s legacy like it’s filth under your shoe!
So excuse me if I refuse to sit back and watch you piss it all away just because your suit feels tight and your smile’s too tired to fake it! ”
“I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Well, lucky for you, legacy doesn’t require permission!
” she quipped. “I swear, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.
You used to cooperate with these shoots!
But these last few… you’ve been slacking!
This one was carefully planned! Months of branding, PR, and marketing!
For God’s sake, you’re a Kors, Imanio! This is your birthright! Why can’t you take joy in that?!”
“Because this is a lie,” I said plainly, while eyeing her intently. “At least for me.”
“And what exactly do you mean by that?”
“This suit is a lie. These buildings are a lie. The smiles? Fake as hell. The clients? Dumb as rich toddlers. And this whole empire you worship is built on debt, desperation, and delusion. I’m just starting to realize this ain’t me.”
She pointed her finger at me. “Now you listen here?—”
“No, you listen,” I cut her off, my voice low and lethal. “I hate this shit, and you know that.”
Giselle’s eyes stretched, but she straightened up, slipping her poise back on like it was part of her outfit.
“But you love money,” she countered, smoothing her tone out like she was negotiating a business deal. “And you owe everything you have to this business, Imanio! So smile! Fake it… the way I do! Hell, the way your father did!”
I shook my head. “Been doing it, but it’s getting harder by the photoshoot . I gotta go. I got other work to do.”
“Other work?! Like what?! Oh, let me guess… going off to do God-knows-what with Chi!” she snapped, her voice climbing an octave.
Chicago, better known as Chi, was my day one nigga.
The funny thing is, Giselle didn’t have one negative thing to say about him when we were younger—when he would help us carry laundry and groceries up five flights or willingly ride his bike across town to bring us dollar-store necessities.
When we were still living in the Gardens, Chi was this wild, loyal, yet respectful little dude. He would show up at our door, voice loud and full of energy, drenched in sweat from running, always asking if I could come outside to play or hang out.
Chi was just thirteen when I left the neighborhood—a young teenager still trying to find his place in the world.
But after we made our escape to a better life, and he started to stand on his own two feet, suddenly, he wasn’t the same kid anymore in my mama’s eyes.
Chi stopped biting his tongue around her, and that’s when things changed.
To her, he became beneath us—a thug, disrespectful, and someone I needed to keep an eye on.
It was always like that with Giselle. Once somebody outgrew her control, she labeled them dangerous.
The truth was, Chi never switched on me, betrayed me, or tried to take advantage of our friendship.
He never even asked for anything unreasonable.
Chi was just a real and blunt ass nigga, who expected honesty and didn’t tolerate bullshit—like me.
He was one of the few who wasn’t scared to tell me when I was trippin’ or to confront my mama when she was overstepping her boundaries.
And that’s exactly what she couldn’t stand about him.
“Imanio, I’ve told you about that boy?—”
“Look, I don’t need one of your weekly sermons about Chi, aight? He’s been more loyal to me than half the folks with our last name. So you should know by now that no matter what you say, I’m not gon’ stop hanging ‘round him just because you want me to.”
I stepped up to her.
“Do you not remember he’s the same Chi who almost took a bullet for me at the age of thirteen? You don't remember that, huh?”
Or maybe she chose not to want to.
Some people seem to have selective memory when money and status start whispering in their ears.
I scoffed, shaking my head at her silence, unable to reconcile the mama I once knew with the woman standing in front of me.
“Bye, Giselle,” I dismissed her, without a glance back.
I yanked open the door of my Bentley and dropped into the driver’s seat like the whole damn day was strapped to my shoulders.
“Imanio!” she yelled, pounding on the window with the fury of a woman who’d just been publicly betrayed. “Open this door and let’s finish this conversation!”
Respectfully… I ignored her.
I stripped off the jacket—too tight, too fake, too damn heavy—and chucked it into the back seat like it was part of the problem. Then I hit start.
Engine humming. AC blowing. Noise gone.
Giselle kept knocking, but I was already gone in my head.
When I got home, I dressed in all black—hoodie, jeans, sneakers. In under thirty minutes, I switched from Real Estate Prince to Underworld Reaper. My entire energy had shifted. I was now in Gatez mode.
No more luxury listing; just last warnings.
Gatez emerged the moment I mentally clocked out from being Imanio, the polished real estate mogul, who I had to be for business—strictly professional, suited up, articulate… well, when I felt like it.
Gatez didn’t do apologies, explanations, or pleasantries.
He also didn’t talk feelings, didn’t take meetings, play nice to make people comfortable, believe in mercy, and damn sure didn’t give zero fucks about being liked—just respected.
He moved like smoke—quiet, suffocating, and impossible to trace until it was already too late.
Honestly, that’s who I wanted the world to see. Maybe not the full-blown savage version, but something closer to the truth—not as polished as Imanio…. not as raw as Gatez… just a man who didn’t have to pretend to be softer than he was.
Many people didn’t know who Gatez was, and I preferred it that way. Yeah, there were rumors here and there, but the streets knew better than to question a man like me. If people feared Imanio, they refused to even whisper about Gatez around me.
Aside from Chi, my father and sister, anyone else who knew me by that name either had serious business with me or a debt that was long past due.
Gatez wasn’t just a ghost in the system; he was the consequence. He didn’t knock; he appeared. And he didn’t collect favors; he collected fear . And then, if necessary… the body.