Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
IMANIO “GATEZ”
C hi killed the headlights as we eased up the street, stopping three houses down from the beige home with the stone trim and basketball hoop over the garage. A golden porch light hummed over the driveway.
Carter’s block was quiet—too quiet for a man who liked to run his mouth. I scanned the house the way a wolf sizes up a pen of sheep. It looked smaller than the arrogance he carried into my office.
I remembered every second of that interview—him sitting across from me with that smug, paper-thin smile, thinking he was educating me like I didn’t build an empire without him, or like I needed his “white way” of doing things to keep it standing.
That was his first mistake; thinking he could step into my space, disrespect me under the guise of professionalism, and walk out untouched.
His second mistake? Not knowing I wasn’t just the COO of Kors Luxe Development, but I was Gatez .
I didn’t go there to ask questions or negotiate. Carter was about to learn the part of the process nobody talks about—the follow-up interview. And that time, he wouldn’t get the chance to walk away.
Chi glanced over at me, chewing on a toothpick, dressed in all black like a shadow that could talk.
“You ready?”
I nodded then opened the door.
We approached on foot, silent. Chi pulled out a set of picks and made quick work of the lock. The side door creaked just slightly as we slipped inside.
“This nigga’s house smells like Little Caesars and fake Versace,” Chi whispered.
The interior wasn’t filthy, but it was far from what I expected.
For a man who carried himself like an uppity white executive, I thought his place would be spotless—glass tables, polished floors, the works.
Instead, a couple of empty pizza boxes sat stacked in the corner and beer cans lined the table like trophies.
“Yeah, yeah. It was some real nigger nonsense,” we overheard Carter saying with a laugh.
We followed the sound of his voice.
“Like, he actually had a thug sitting next to him like security… a real knuckle-dragger,” he kept talking not knowing death was right around the corner for him.
“And don’t get me started on Imanio. The man’s clearly trying to rebrand from kingpin to CEO.
I played the part, though; said all the diversity buzzwords. You know how it is.”
Chi and I stopped near the kitchen.
Carter’s back was to us. He was pacing, holding a glass of red wine in one hand and his phone in the other.
I slowly pulled my gun from my hoodie.
Chi cracked his neck and whispered, “I hope this nigga got AppleCare on his spine.”
I walked past a photo of him with a golden retriever and a ski trip montage on the fridge.
Click.
The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked sliced through the air.
Carter froze mid-step.
Still holding the phone to his ear, he slowly turned around. His face lost all color the moment he saw us.
I stood just a few feet away, pistol raised, expression carved from stone. Chi leaned against the kitchen counter, casual but ready, his own piece tucked but visible.
With my gun, I gestured for him to end the call.
Carter’s voice cracked. “Hey, uh—I’m gonna have to call you back.”
He hung up without waiting for a response.
“Now,” I said evenly, voice low but sharp, “what’s all that slick shit you were just saying?”
“I-I didn’t mean any of that,” Carter stammered, sweat already gathering at his temple, his hands twitching like he was searching for an exit that didn’t exist. “I was just—just joking around. You know how white guys talk in private—we don’t mean it!”
“But you said it!” I fired back. “That was your truth. That’s what you think about me... my people… my business.”
“Look, we can talk about this! I… I really did want the job!”
I chuckled, low and dark. “Muthafucka, you didn’t want a job; you wanted to test me… and now you’re failing. Carter, I came to personally let you know your application’s been denied… permanently .”
The bravado he’d carried in the interview was gone… stripped clean. His shoulders were hunched inward and his eyes were glued to the gun in my hand like it was a snake about to strike.
With a satisfied grin, I took a slow step forward. “See, Carter… I don’t just hire anybody to represent my name. That seat? It requires respect and discretion.” I tilted my head slightly. “And you... clearly lack both.”
Carter dropped to his knees.
“I’ve got money—stocks, savings! I’ll give you whatever you want! Please! You don’t have to do this!” he begged like a man drowning.
Chi scoffed. “Man, don’t nobody want yo’ Whole Foods money! Look at this kitchen—ain’t even a grain of Lawry’s in sight! You the type to think salt and pepper is spicy. What we gon’ do with you besides dispose of your colonizer carcass?”
“Chi,” I said simply.
Chi fell silent instantly.
I crouched slightly, leveling the gun at Carter’s forehead. “Carter, I don’t hire racists; I bury ’em. You should’ve wanted to keep breathing more than you wanted that job.”
“Please—”
Bang.
One shot. Clean. Fast.
Carter slumped over, wine glass shattering beneath him, blood pooling into the grout.
I stood up and slipped my gun back into my coat.
Chi stepped around the body, glancing down at the ruined tile.
“Damn. I bet you Martha Stewart didn’t put that in her remodeling tips.” He looked over at me. “You want to torch the place or make it look like a robbery?”
My expression didn’t change. “Neither. Let ‘em wonder.”
Chi nodded. “Aight. I’ll grab his phone and wipe the logs. You wanna stop for tacos on the way back?”
I didn’t answer; I was already walking toward the front door like the devil clocking out after a long day.
I laid flat on my back, eyes open, jaw tight, and in my thoughts.
Frustrated wasn’t even the word—it was war inside me.
Naji hadn’t said more than a handful of words to me the day before, and when she did, they came wrapped in attitude, like every breath she took was dipped in fire just for me. Said she was tired and just needed space. But she had no damn idea the kind of chaos she left in her wake.
My gray sheets were wrapped around my legs like restraints, soaking up the sweat of a man doing everything he could not to snap.
My boxers? Suffocating. Every shift made me wince…
and harder. And it was her fault. Because she was downstairs—barefoot, yawning, and half-dressed in those soft little shorts that hugged her ass like sin.
Her face was bare, hair was wild and skin was probably still warm from her shower.
.. smelling like vanilla and soft disobedience.
I exhaled through my nose, slow and sharp.
Every single sound Naji made in that damn house felt intimate—like she was speaking directly to my restraint.
Her lazy footsteps. The mutter of her tics. The way she cleared her throat with a tiny grunt, like she was annoyed—but trying to be polite about it.
Naji didn’t even realize how sexy she was when she was mad.
She didn’t know that storming off that day only made me want to drag her back or that her silence—those sharp little stares—lit a fire in me that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with ownership.
I wanted to snatch her pretty ass up by the waist, haul her over my shoulder, toss her into my bed like she belonged there, and let her throw all that nervous energy into begging instead.
Face down. Ass up. Attitude gone.
I wanted to pin her body to my mattress and fuck her until she forgot why she was mad, until her tics were moans, and until every sharp edge melted under me and she finally understood what she did to me.
Yeah. Because this? This wasn’t just frustration; this was torture wrapped in a vanilla-scented girl who didn’t even know she was dangerous. And I was one wrong move away from proving it.
I wasn’t the type of nigga who got a thrill out of beating my dick. Never had to. If I wanted pussy, it took one text—two if I felt like being polite. Options? Man, I had 'em like liquor in a kingpin’s cabinet.
Bad. Willing. Damn near eager.
Naji wasn’t just sexy, she was fragile, unpredictable, and way too damn soft in a world that ate girls like her alive.
I knew what she’d been through and what she was still trying to process; that’s what made it worse.
My need for her wasn’t just physical… it was becoming emotional.
I wasn’t used to craving people. Bodies?
Sure. I’d had my share. But that… that was different.
I wanted to hear her sounds and stories.
I loved the way she looked at me like she didn’t fully trust me—but hoped she could.
I ran a hand down my chest, stopping just below my navel. My abs tightened.
“Nah,” I muttered, turning on my side like it would help.
It didn’t.
My hand moved again—that time lower—but I stopped myself.
“Nigga, get yo’ ass up!” I grumbled to myself.
I sat up, sheets falling away, revealing the exact problem I was trying to ignore-a hard dick. My muscles were tense. My teeth clenched, and my mind was on doing some nasty shit to Naji.
I needed a cold shower, because if Naji walked past me again with those short ass shorts or an attitude like she was begging me to fuck her, that lil’ marriage of ours was about to get real in a different way.