10. Nairobi Crawford
“You should tell your friend Fontaine to stop sniffing around,” said the man who’d introduced himself as Jack. His polished British accent oozed privilege, the kind that boasted boarding schools and summer homes in the countryside.
I didn’t usually dabble in milk, but I had to admit that he was fine. Dark buzz cut, with eyes the color of the sky on a perfect summer day, and a suit so perfectly tailored that looked like it was stitched by the gods themselves.
The Centaur Lounge looked like the kind of place built for blackmail and agreements sealed in blood.
I was surrounded by rich mahogany paneling, deep burgundy accents, and plush leather booths that curved around candlelit tables.
This was an if-you-know-you-know kind of establishment.
Their security took my purse when I arrived and there were biometric scans at every point.
I’m sure on a normal day, this place would’ve fallen silent the second I crossed the threshold—like the help had taken a wrong turn. But today, it was just me and Jack.
Still, I was glad with the outfit I’d settled on—black leather pants, fitted black turtleneck, with a fox fur vest, and my chunky black boots. Cute, but functional just in case someone tried to get froggy with me.
Right before I left my condo, I’d gotten a text from an unknown number changing the meeting location. I wasn’t sure who or what I was expecting, but a forty-something-year-old white guy who looked like he split his times between the boardrooms and members-only sex clubs wasn’t it.
We’d been sitting here for over an hour.
And every time I brought up Sterling, Jack sidestepped like we were doing some kind of dance.
He kept steering the conversation back to me—my background, my habits, things I knew he already had information on.
He eyed me the way most white men do when they’ve either been with one Black woman and never recovered…
or haven’t and are trying to see what the hype’s about.
Not my ministry. I wasn’t a fucking experiment and damn sure wasn’t about to be part of a man’s weird racial fetish bucket list.
“Oh, trust me. I’ve tried,” I sighed, crossing my legs. “Look, Jack, if that’s even your real name. What the fuck do you want? And if you dodge the question again, I’m leaving. I don’t like having my time wasted.”
Jack sipped his scotch, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. “Did you know your father was a gambler?”
A gambler. It was still hard to accept that Sterling would lose himself to something as reckless—and honestly, pathetic—as gambling.
“You know I wasn’t close to that man,” I rolled my eyes, trying to sound unimpressed, but inside my pulse had quickened. I could tell where this was headed—I just didn’t know at what cost.
Jack gave me a predatory smile that showed off his perfect white teeth. “Sterling loved the poker table—he was quite good actually. But the last two high-stakes games we had? He lost terribly.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head.
“So you drained his accounts and collected what you were owed?”
“We’re not pressed for money,” he scoffed. “Your father was in over his head. He almost put the house up as collateral. But then he remembered something far more valuable.”
I lifted my chin. “Which is?”
He tilted his head. “You, Nairobi.”
A lump formed in my throat as he raised a hand and snapped his fingers. A tall, hulking man appeared from the shadows and handed Jack a manila folder. Jack slid it across the table.
“What’s this?” I asked, eyeing the folder.
He tipped his chin. “Open it.”
My blood was boiling, but I kept my face neutral and did as he said. I couldn’t even be relieved that Sterling was dead—he still had me wrapped up in his shit from the grave. I wanted to flush his ashes down the toilet.
Inside were clear high-res pics from jobs I’d done, including the one in Miami two years ago. Then there were pictures of Fontaine with his sister and nephew. Pictures of everyone in the Banks Crew that I had any kind of connection to—Money, Jasmine, Jelani, and Slim.
These were the closest thing to real relationships that I had, even if I’d kept every one of them at arm’s length.
“We know what you’ve done,” Jack said calmly. “Who you care about. The man who’s in love with you. And we could take it all away in an instant.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
I closed the folder and pushed it back across the table.
“So what is this? A job interview? Or you want to sell me off to the highest bidder?”
Jack let out a hearty laugh. “Neither. We’re offering you a job. We could put your skills to good use.”
“You want me to work off his debt like some kind of indentured servant?”
“In exchange, we’ll restore the money to the accounts. Your mother gets to continue living the life she’s always lived, and you continue doing your work, but for us.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “You think I’m dumb enough to believe it’s that simple? People like you are never satisfied, you’ll keep finding some other way to keep me locked in with y’all.”
“What you believe is irrelevant,” he shrugged. “You don’t have twenty million to settle his debt, and you’d be working until you’re old and gray, to fund your mother’s lifestyle. Think of it as a way to improve your future.”
I stared at him. “You think the Agency would just let me go so easily?”
A smug smirk played on his lips. “Don’t you get it? We’re bigger than the Agency. The Agency answers to us. How do you know they haven’t already cut ties with you?”
“And if I say no?”
“You won’t. Because you care. As much as you can’t stand it, you care about your mother. You care about that little Banks Crew, especially Mr. Jackson.”
I pushed back from the table and stood. My body felt cold even under the weight of my fur vest. “I’ll think about it.”
Jack raised his glass. “We’ll give you thirty-six hours.”
Leaving was a blur. One minute I was getting in the elevator, the next I was gripping the steering wheel, my pulse hammering in my ears.
I screamed. I screamed until my throat was raw and slammed my hand against the wheel.
How could Sterling use me—his daughter—as a fucking bargaining chip? He’d made me into a weapon, and I’d spent most of my life trying to build something around that. Now I was back in his shadow, paying for his sins.
I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel, squeezing my eyes shut. Quiet tears slipped down my cheeks and onto my lap. My body shook as I tried to calm myself down.
God knows how long I sat there like that. But I sucked in a breath, wiped my face, and grabbed my phone. There were a series of missed calls and texts, most from Fontaine, and one from CJ.
CJ (Brooklyn)
You crossed my mind. You good?
Bear
You need to call me ASAP
I couldn’t call him back. If I heard his voice, I’d break for real, and I couldn’t afford that right now. I had to keep my head in the game. I’d deal with him tomorrow.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Kenya asked as she stepped into the kitchen.
Instead of answering her right away, I poured myself a glass of sweet tea.
I’d spent the morning buried in Sterling’s paperwork, digging through every drawer and filing cabinet in that bitch.
Neither Fontaine nor Jack had shown me anything concrete, just words.
I needed to see the mess with my own eyes to justify how my life had turned into collateral for his secrets.
Of course, there wasn’t shit. Everything was organized down to the letter—no hidden ledgers, no random memory stick.
Only the echo of a man who’d worked so hard to keep his image so spotless.
The whole time, Fontaine had been blowing up my phone.
I hadn’t called him back and disabled the tracker malware I knew he’d installed on my phone since I knew he’d figure out I was at my mom’s.
Honestly, that’s part of why I was back here—because I knew that man was crazy enough to show up at my condo unannounced.
I wasn’t in the mood for his stalker games.
I glanced down at the small snack plate I’d thrown together—some fruit, cheese, and dry ass crackers. I picked at the fruit absentmindedly, trying to figure out how much I should tell her.
Kenya sighed and smoothed her hand down her olive sweater, her eyes searching my face. “Something’s not right, Nairobi. I can feel it. I’m not as ditzy as you think. I know you’re not just here sorting through old papers.”
She reached over and stole a strawberry from my plate.
“It’s been over a week. The memorial’s done.
You handled everything like you said you would.
So, what’s keeping you in the city? Normally you’d be gone by now, off to your next assignment or whatever it is you do.
I know you’re not just here for my sake. ”
I lifted my glass and watched the condensation bead up, trying to buy myself another moment. I took a slow sip before setting it back down on the counter.
“Daddy had a gambling addiction,” I said finally. “And there’s no money left. Nothing. He lost it all.”
It was strange, referring to Sterling as “Daddy” after all these years, but in the moment, it felt necessary to soften the blow.
Kenya’s brows shot up with genuine confusion plastered all over her face. “What do you mean, no money? He always told me the poker games were just a way to unwind. It wasn’t supposed to be anything serious. He said it had it under control.”
My eyes narrowed. “So, you knew he gambled?”
“I knew he played cards from time to time.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I figured it was some harmless fun with his old Marine buddies. It never seemed like anything that could put us at risk. He wasn’t that kind of man.”
I shook my head. “It was more than that, Mama. He didn’t just lose a few thousand dollars. I’m telling you everything is gone. If I don’t figure this out, you could lose the house.”