Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
IMANIO “GATEZ”
“ M s. Shirley, I’m about to head out,” I informed her, adjusting the cuffs on my sleeves as I stepped into the foyer.
“Okay! You look nice! But I thought you weren’t going into the office today?”
“I’m not. I just have a few errands to run.”
I didn’t need a boardroom to play power—just daylight. As long as the sun was up and it was the weekday, I had to move like Imanio Kors: respected, untouchable, and dressed in control.
“Gotcha.” She nodded with understanding. “Do you need me to keep an eye on the girl?”
“Nah.” I held up my phone with the live feed already pulled up. “I’ve got eyes on everything. I’m always watching. But I appreciate you, though.”
Ms. Shirley nodded, not pushing for more; she never did.
“And Ms. Shirley… you can call her by her first name. She might just be a permanent resident here soon.”
Her eyes widened just a touch—just enough to clock surprise, but not enough to comment.
That was the thing about all of my employees: they didn’t gossip, meddle, or pry into business that wasn’t theirs.
As for Ms. Shirley… yeah, we talked. She’d joke, here and there, even school me on things without raising her voice.
But she knew where the line was, and she never crossed it.
Like, she’d never asked why I kept cameras in places where most people wouldn’t—although I was sure that was something all of my employees were curious about.
However, I’m sure the NDAs they signed stopped them from prying or going to the public about my business.
Ms. Shirley just cooked, hummed her gospel songs in the kitchen, sprinkled her prayers over the food… even prayed for me, when I didn’t believe in anything but power, control, and revenge.
“Oh! How lovely,” she said with a soft smile. “But before you go, is there anything specific you’d like for dinner?”
“I’m cool with whatever you choose. As for Naji, I’ll need to find out her likes and dislikes. But I don’t think she’ll be joining us this evening.”
Ms. Shirley chuckled, already knowing why. “Probably not… not with what I gave her.”
I smirked faintly.
“Well, you be safe, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. Call me if you need me,” I said as I reached for the door.
“I always do, but I think we’ll be just fine,” she replied, her voice calm and maternal.
And just like that, I stepped out into the world, leaving one of the women in my life, who I trusted, behind in my house… baking cornbread and keeping the peace.
Ms. Shirley was the only employee I held conversations like that with.
She wasn’t just staff; she was family—the kind I chose.
I met her four years prior. I was passing through Crenshaw, hungry as hell, and she was sitting outside of a corner store selling homemade pies from a fold-up table.
Her apron was stained, her eyes were tired, and her sign was barely holding on with duct tape.
But she smiled at every single person who walked past… even the ones who didn’t stop.
When I asked how much for the whole table, she laughed like I was joking, then realized I wasn’t. I gave her five hundred for the pies. It wasn’t charity or pity. I bought every pie because I was hungry, for food, yeah, but also for the kind of energy she carried.
I took a bite of the peach cobbler, and my soul damn near left my body. That was the best damn peach cobbler I’d ever tasted.
Still the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
It was like it had been made by somebody’s great-great-grandmama in a kitchen kissed by heaven.
Wanting to try out more of her pies—and to hear her story —I surprised even myself when I pulled out a chair and sat down beside her. Everyone has a story, and hers felt like one that had been bottled up too long, sealed tight under years of sacrifice and silence and finally needing air.
I took a bite of that warm apple pie and leaned back just enough to ask, “So how’d you end up here? Doing this? Or is this just a hobby for you?”
Surprisingly, she opened up.
No hesitation. No sugarcoating.
Ms. Shirley went into depth about how life had knocked her down more times than she could count.
How grief took over when her husband passed away from a sudden stroke that came unexpectedly.
Said she woke up one day married and went to bed a widow.
Then her only child—her son—got locked up after a fight turned deadly.
It was self-defense, but the system didn’t care. Ten years. Gone.
A simple reminder that pain could visit even the kindest of people.
She also mentioned how she spent decades of her life cooking and cleaning for a wealthy white family—raising their kids, making their holidays shine, caring for them like her own. But once word got out about her son’s charges, they let her go.
No thank you. No severance. Just “We’ll call you if we need you”—but they never did.
After that, nobody would hire her. Ms. Shirley didn’t have the proof, but she was more than confident her previous bosses were behind it. Despite that, she still woke up and made food with love in her hands even when she had none left for herself.
Two years… that’s how long she struggled before our paths crossed.
That day, I didn’t just taste her cobbler; I tasted her strength. And I knew right then, if she could still show up for people after all she’d been through, she deserved someone to finally show up for her. So I hired her.
“I ain’t no beggar,” she told me. “But I was praying for a door… something to open… just a crack. And here you came.”
At first, it was simple; three days a week—just to cook. I paid her the equivalent of two weeks' salary every Friday because survival shouldn’t be a struggle for women like her. But it didn’t stop there.
The more we talked, the more I wanted her around. Her presence felt like something I didn’t know I needed—soft, solid, grounding. She didn’t flinch at my silences or try to "fix" me. She just saw me, the real me , and stayed.
Eventually, I had my team extend the guesthouse and make it hers— private kitchen, wraparound porch, full garden… everything. Not because I owed her. Not because she asked. But because she deserved peace, safety, and rest, without clocking in or sitting in traffic. I wanted her close.
Truth be told, I respected her more than I ever respected my own mama. Ms. Shirley gave me what my Giselle never did: unconditional presence .
I could be bleeding in front of Giselle, and she’d ask if I wiped my shoes before coming in.
That lady would hand me a mop before a bandage.
With her, love came with a list of requirements, respect was reserved for appearances, and pride only showed up when someone else clapped for me first. Not with Ms. Shirley, and for that, I vowed to take care of her until the day she couldn’t cook another biscuit and still after that.
When I pulled up in front of Blu Notes, the place was already drawing attention.
Two men stood outside, posted on the sidewalk like they were waiting for someone to explain what happened to their favorite after-hours spot.
The club looked lifeless. Over the kind boards were nailed across the front windows, and the neon sign had been unplugged—courtesy of some of Chi’s men who wanted to make a quick buck without asking too many questions.
The second I stepped out of the SUV, watch glinting and shoes shining, both of them clocked me.
“Ain’t that…?” one of them muttered.
“Yeah. That’s Imanio Kors,” the other whispered, not even trying to hide the awe in his voice.
I walked up slow and calm; no need to rush. I carried myself like I owned more than the building behind me—because I did. I owned my name, my silence, and the fear that followed both.
“Y’all got business here?” I asked, voice even, but with weight.
“Nah,” the older cat replied quickly. “We was just wondering what happened. One minute the place is open, next it’s gone.”
“This property is under transition,” I informed them.
“Transition?” the younger one retorted. “You mean like new management? Or is it shut down for good?”
I rolled my shoulders, slow and intentional. “Let’s just say… some things needed to be restructured. So it’s closed… permanently.”
“Ah, man.” The older cat shook his head in disappointment.
“Right,” the younger one chimed in. “This spot used to be jumpin’. So what? Blu just disappeared. No warning. No nothing. Joe said he ain’t even answering his phone. And ain’t nobody seen or heard from him since Friday night.”
I cocked my head. “Do you hear from ghosts often?”
That shut him up.
I continued. “Whatever Blu had going on, it caught up to him. You won’t find him here… or anywhere,” I clarified.
The younger one let out a low whistle, understanding exactly what I was implying without me needing to spell it out.
The older cat, who I assumed was Joe, mumbled a low “damn” and backed away without a word, walking off down the street like he’d heard all he needed. But the young nigga stayed. He lingered a second, eyes narrowed, then took a cautious step closer.
I didn’t move .
“I know who you are… not the billboards and commercials; the other you… Gatez,” he revealed, voice low.
I said nothing.
“I ain’t stupid,” he continued. “Blu ain’t just vanish; he crossed the wrong nigga. And you? You the type who doesn’t leave no loose ends.”
We stared at each other for a moment—just two men in the open, one trying to measure the distance between bravery and stupidity.
“I’m not here to snitch, though,” he added, holding up his hands. “I ain’t got no death wish. I just…know things. That’s all.”
I glanced around once, then let my voice drop to something far more dangerous.
“You right. Blu crossed the wrong nigga. And yeah… I’m exactly who you think I am.” I chuckled then added, “Actually, I’m worse .”
The nigga stiffened. His hands twitched at his sides like he didn’t know whether to raise them or hide them.