Chapter 4
KAIRO
There’s no real reason that I’ve avoided my office this morning except that Malcolm has likely stopped in, and I need a break from his constant presence. I don’t understand what he’s doing, and I hate how he’s making my stomach twist uncomfortably.
He’s been here for a week. He spends most of his time not in my building, but Carlotta told me two days ago that he’s been helping my team with inventorying our armory. She reports that my crew is growing quite fond of him.
This led to my paying a visit to my crew and unfairly grilling them about Malcolm’s presence. They’re used to my moods by now, so they, thankfully, didn’t take offense at my sharp tone or accusing questions.
“He’s not asking questions, Kairo,” Tony said after an hour. “He’s helping us make sense of this haul that your brother sent. He’s got some mad organizational skills.”
Outside of my crew, he shows up in my office with a meal, flowers, and is unperturbed by my chilly exterior. Fuck, if he keeps calling me good boy or baby girl, I’m going to lose my shit. I despise the way it makes me feel.
I planned to stay out of my office today, but Tony called to tell me they picked up a member of the modern-day gestapo and they were bringing him in to play with. I want to be there. I want to see him unmasked. I want to see his face as he fucking dies cruelly, just as he’s doing to my people.
Just because he hasn’t killed someone by his hand, he’s part of this lawless thug police force, and therefore, he’s more than just complicit.
He’s actively attacking Americans, and that’s not only unacceptable, it’s also unconstitutional.
Fuck that. It’s time to turn the tables on these bitches and see how they like being hunted by masked men carrying semi-automatic rifles and wearing misleading law enforcement vests.
When I step into the elevator, my neighbors are already there. Little Lucy grins up at me. “Kairo!” she says with excitement. “I haven’t seen you all month.”
I incline my head to her mother, Maria, and turn my attention to Lucy. “That’s dramatic, Lilith. I saw you two days ago.”
“It’s Lucy,” she corrects. This is our game, of course. I never call her Lucy, but I always call her a name that begins with L. “I don’t think I saw you two days ago.”
“You did, but I forgot to give you something. Are you headed out or in?” I look at Maria.
“Just got home,” she says, voice quiet.
“Wonderful. Care to stop by my apartment for a minute?”
She inclines her head while Lucy looks at me with excitement. “What is it? What do you have?”
“Hmm,” I make a show of scrutinizing her. “You might be a little small. You’re what, four or five?”
Her irritation shines in her eyes. “I’m seven. You know that, Kairo.”
“Are you sure?” I narrow my eyes.
Lucy stamps her foot as the elevator opens in the lobby. I hit the button for the fifteenth floor, where my apartment is, and we wait for it to go up again. I imagine that Maria picked up Lucy at our neighbor Tina’s house. Tina is the babysitter during the summer when she’s on break from college.
I live in a section of the city that I can’t imagine any of my family living in. It’s poorer than any of our properties could ever be found in. I own half a dozen buildings here and charge practically nothing, choosing to focus on those who are struggling to make ends meet.
I’m private sector affordable housing, and I hand-pick my tenants, looking for families like Maria and Lucy, who struggle on a single income in an expensive city.
I don’t think she knows I own the building she lives in.
I do know she’s aware that I don’t belong in this building with everyone else simply from the contents of my bank account that is assumed given my last name.
Maria knows who I am. It was in her eyes when we first met.
“Right this way, Lilyana.”
“It’s Loo-see,” Lucy says, emphasizing the two syllables of her name. She reminds me of my brother, Oxley. He hates being called anything other than his full name. It’s a compulsion at this point. I don’t think he actually cares, but he can’t help himself.
Letting myself into my apartment, I retrieve the pink carry-on that’s filled with clothes and a few toys.
“My sister’s neighbor keeps growing,” I explain as I step into the hall, wheeling the luggage with me.
“She’s eight, so the clothes might be a little big for a four-year-old, but I thought you’d like them anyway. ”
I’m not fooling Maria. She knows exactly who Kairo Van Doren is, which means she’s aware that I don’t have a sister. I have four brothers, none of whom has an eight-year-old daughter.
Lucy almost lets that slide as her eyes light up, and she grips the handle. “I’m seven, Kairo. Seh-vin!”
I wave my hand. “Hold on, Linda. Be right back.”
Lucy growls and stomps her foot again. “Lucy!” She calls after me.
Maria is always quiet, and while I haven’t quite figured out how to give her things without her feeling like I’m taking pity on her or whatever, I do spend a stupid amount of money on food containers just so I can pretend I always have leftovers.
Retrieving the paper bag from my fridge with probably three days’ worth of meals for them, I join them in the hall again, handing the bag to Maria.
Her eyes shine as she fights the tears. I wink and tell Lucy, “These were some of my absolute favorite meals as a kid. I was having a nostalgic week, but of course, I forgot I’m not cooking for all my siblings. You’ll eat them before they go bad, right? It’s too much food for me.”
“Yes!” Lucy cries, grinning up at me. “You cook so good.”
Maria wipes her cheek quickly before Lucy looks at her mother. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I wink and usher them toward the elevator, locking my door behind me. “I don’t like waste,” I assure her.
She bows her head. What I know about Maria Winkle is that her husband died of cancer four years ago, leaving her with no money and no way to take care of her small child.
Meeting her and her little daughter, homeless, when I was walking to my office from a restaurant where I treated my crew to lunch one day, changed my direction in life.
My stay in Chicago is no longer solely focused on crime.
It’s now split into two separate directions.
As far as my family knows, I do exactly what Arath, Oxley, and Noaz do—clean up.
My personal side project, funded with my own money, is helping people like Maria.
She’s the reason I purchased this apartment building.
She’s the first one I brought in, gave a home to, helped find childcare for Lucy, and assisted her in finding a job.
I claim to know the owner of the building and have Carlotta conduct all the business of leases, rent, and shit. I don’t want her to know that I’m taking care of her as best I can while still making sure she has the freedom she needs to find success and change her position in life.
After accompanying them to their apartment on the fourth floor, I make the short walk to my office.
I could have absolutely chosen to occupy a building in a more affluent part of the city, but that’s not where my money is needed.
I’m needed here; my presence, my money, and my support of the community.
I’d like to think that I’ve had a positive impact on this section of Chicago specifically.
I like thinking that I’m leading by example by helping people find truly affordable housing and jobs.
I don’t use government programs so I still turn a profit.
This isn’t about money. This is about people.
Hopefully, what I’m doing influences others to put their money and efforts where their mouths are.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think there are fewer homeless people in the area. Fewer people at the food banks. This neighborhood is beginning to look up.
And then my city was invaded by fucking thugs to terrorize my people.
Today is the first day I’m making an example of what it means to come into my city and hurt my people.
This message will be loud and public. It will send a clear message to this tyrannical regime of what happens when you mess with law-abiding citizens and what it looks like when we stand up against our oppressors.
I stop in on Carlotta first to make sure everything is good. She smirks, and I’m fucking wary when she hands me a pretty tray of chocolate-covered strawberries and bananas. The bananas look obscene.
There’s a note on top—a small, sealed envelope with my name on it. I try like fucking hell not to show any expression as I open it. The small card is handwritten, and I recognize it right away from a fucking gibberish list I recently fumed over.
I’m sorry that I can’t come in today, baby girl. I promise to make it up to you tomorrow. Be a good boy for me, won’t you?
It’s not signed. It doesn’t need to be. I stuff the card into my pocket and glare at the tray. “Will you put it in the fridge, please?” I grit out when her smile turns nearly giddy. My cheeks are not heating. My stomach is not clenching with disappointment that I won’t see him today.
Fuck all that.
Fuck Malcolm.
Without another word, I turn on my heel and head into the bowels of the building.
Through a series of locked doors, I finally make my way into the execution room.
It’s a plain room. No windows. No distinguishing marks.
No sounds. The walls are covered in stainless steel—smooth and untelling.
There’s nothing anywhere near the direction the camera is facing that will so much as hint at this location.
The man is on his feet, glaring at us all. As soon as I walk in, he says, “You won’t get away with this. We’re going to tear this city down, and you can’t stop us.”
He’s wrong, of course.
With men dressed just like him—same police vests, same head coverings, same face coverings—they strip him of his protective shields, exposing him to the camera. His hands are zip-tied. It’s their preferred method of detainment, after all.
Then he’s shoved against the wall. He struggles. As he wails and carries on, my people remain silent as they secure him to the wall as if he’s on a St. Andrew’s Cross. But this won’t be so fun for him.
A cart is wheeled in, filled with knives and throwing blades. No one speaks. No one but our prisoner, who continues to thrash and shout and carry on. Poor baby. He knows he’s about to die painfully.
No one is in frame except our prisoner as we take turns throwing blades. Blood begins to trickle down onto the floor as his screams echo around us. We’re careful that our hits don’t catch an artery yet. That’s no fun.
Once we send this to the fucking White House—from an IP address that originates from one of the gestapo detention centers, no less—there will be words that scroll across the screen.
GET OUT OF OUR CITIES OR BECOME THE HUNTED
After a while, I stand back and let my crew have their way with him. I let them enjoy the target. After all, I’m not a Chicagoan. I’m not the minority being attacked in this country. I’m someone with a lot of money and more power than the government because of it.
My anger at what they’re doing to my city runs deep. But my crew’s is fueled by vengeance and fear. They deserve to take their power back.
Meanwhile, unbidden as the thoughts are, the only thing I seem to think about when I let my mind wander is fucking Malcolm. What the shit?