14. Real
The view of the city from the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows was beautiful. I stood with my hands shoved into the pocket of my hoodie and watched the movement of thousands of people across the maze of roads and highways. The city lights lit their way, but the artificial illumination had nothing on the glow of the stars and moon visible at this level.
"This shit is nice," Targen said from his spot on the loveseat.
I turned to him, smirking.
"Yeah. Maybe the blood will come out of the carpet."
He shrugged as he cracked the shell on another pistachio. "They should've listened to us."
"Lots of mothafuckas' lives would be easier if they listened to us," I agreed.
"You didn't tell me the plan for tonight," he said, shifting in his seat.
It was my turn to lift my shoulders nonchalantly.
"That's cuz I don't have one."
Targen nodded.
"Playing it by ear? All right. I usually like to know what the fuck we doing, but I'm okay with a little organic shit. Man, these cotton candy grapes are the truth. You want one, Assad?” he asked the little dog sitting next to him on the couch. Assad—if his tag was right—wagged his tail yes.
I couldn't help smiling. This nigga was as crazy as I was.
“That dog got a death wish,” I muttered.
“Why you say that?”
“He ain’t supposed to have no grapes or raisins.”
Targen looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “How the hell you know that?”
I shrugged. “Probably something Cairo ass told me.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said skeptically, but he tossed Assad a cheese cube.
"You think that's a real Fabergé egg?" I asked, eyeballing the egg resting on one of the built-in glass shelves on each side of the doorway.
"Might be one of the missing ones. He looks like a black-market kind of nigga. We gon' find out when I take it to be appraised."
"You just gon' walk out with something that may be worth twenty mil?"
He chuckled. "Who gon' stop me?"
I shook my head, about to fuck with him about his crazy expensive tastes when I heard the elevator. Leaning against a window, I waited as the doors slid open and a couple caught up in a sloppy kiss stepped out. They parted long enough for him to ask, "You are ready for this big dick?"
Targen cleared his throat, and I shook my head. The man's head snapped toward us.
"Damn, Aaqil. Yo' game weak as fuck," I commented.
"Shit was definitely embarrassing," Targen said before smiling at the woman. "Let me stop being rude. Come on over and have a seat, shorty. This is Assad. He don’t bite."
He patted the space beside Assad as her eyes got big as hell. Looking behind her, she made a small sound as she noticed the elevator doors had closed. No escape. She swallowed hard.
"N-n-no, thank you. I'm good right?—"
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Aaqil raged. “And you let the dog on the couch? He knows better! Traitor,” he hissed before cursing poor little Assad in a rapid-fire blend of Arabic and French.
"Ay, leave my lil’ homie alone. And um, I'm sorry you thought that was optional, baby girl," Targen said as we ignored Aaqil’s protests. "Come sitcho ass down and let me hold that driver's license. Insurance in case you don't forget whatever you see tonight."
Slowly, she made her way to Targen, sitting as far away from him as the small couch would allow. Aaqil was busy making spluttering sounds as I watched him, bored by his dramatics.
"How the fuck did you get in here? Where is my security?" he finally demanded.
"Is that what you called the two fools we laid out? I got news for you, Aaqil. You not very secure."
"Swear. They obviously trained at Topflight Security with Day-Day," Targen theorized.
Aaqil turned furious eyes on him. "Always the jokester, but nothing is as amusing as your ruined face," he hissed.
Chuckling, Targen leaned forward, causing the terrified woman next to him to whimper.
"I spare you because Real asks me to. Keep running your fucking mouth, and I'll line your face up like I'm tryna pass state boards for my barber's license. We can see whose face is funnier then."
Targen's voice was low and unbothered as he spoke. He smiled at Aaqil's date as he settled back into his seat.
"You gotta excuse Aaqil's manners, shorty. His refrigerator and pantry got somma everything. Would you like something?” he inquired, gesturing toward the fruit and nuts he had assembled on the coffee table.
I laughed. “It is sad how all he offered was that weak-ass dick.”
Aaqil made a noise that sounded like a growl as he mugged me. He was practically foaming at the mouth.
“Weak-ass dick? Not everything runs in the family. Do not project your issues onto me, brother ,” he snarled.
I straightened real fast, and I knew my expression probably mirrored his now. I didn’t play that shit he was talking about at all.
“I’m not your fucking brother, bitch ass nigga,” I spat, striding toward him, ready to separate his head from his neck.
“You should not be. You should not exist. It is unfortunate that my father let himself be seduced by an American?—”
My fist connected with his eye socket, sending him stumbling backward. I grabbed the lapel of his jacket and pulled him back toward me, pressing my Glock against his temple. He went still, but he didn’t cower.
“An American what, mothafucka? Don’t you ever speak ill on that one. Yo’ daddy is a lying ass bastard who took advantage of her being so innocent and trusting. Spun her a whole lot of dreams while pumping her full of babies. Then you got the nerve to be mad cuz the nigga finally shared the wealth?” I scoffed.
Aaqil was breathing hard, his chest expanding and contracting quickly as his eyes met mine.
“He disrespected my mother. His wife . Each time he lay with your mother. Each time he claims to love your mother. Each time?—”
I didn’t want to hear his bullshit, had heard it all before.
“Yo’ mother is seven thousand miles away. My mama didn’t know about her until after Chennai. Blame yo’ father. Ismail don’t love nobody but himself,” I cut him off.
Somehow, despite all the bad relations between Libya and the US in the 1980s and 90s, Ismail al-Saleh from Benghazi, Libya, had been allowed into the country as a student. He met my mother, a na?ve nineteen-year-old, and decided to go after her. Mama fell for him and got pregnant with Cairo quickly. Her parents were pissed when Ismail agreed to take care of her but not marry her. They saw the red flags, but Mama was too in love to listen. He was with her almost constantly during her pregnancies with Cairo and me. Then, he started to claim he had to go back to Libya for blocks of time. He never could take us. Too dangerous, he told her. He’d come back and they’d pick up where they left off.
Ismail was arrested when Mama was pregnant with Chennai. He'd gone to medical school just long enough to make him extremely valuable in the illegal organ trade. He dabbled in some other dark shit, too. Once he was caught, his skeletons started to fall out of his closet. He had a whole other family in Libya, a wife and three kids. Aaqil was the oldest, the product of his parents’ arranged marriage. Ismail had never been in love with his wife Zeynep, he told my mother. Marrying her was a duty. My mom was the wife of his heart, even though he broke hers with all his fucking deception.
Ismail had not given us his last name, but he had never denied us. That and the fact that he’d finally begun blessing us financially while doing his thirty years pissed Aaqil off. It was more evidence of disrespect to his family. The nigga would probably explode if he knew Ismail still wrote Mama. She never responded, but I knew she read his letters.
Aaqil had made up his mind that he was going to take everything we’d built with the little money Mama had saved for us and the lucrative trade Ismail had introduced us to as adults. He hoped to throw dirt on our names in the process, which was why he’d recently contracted Gerard to spy. For years, we ignored his ass. I didn’t acknowledge him as a brother, but the blood tie made us hesitant to kill him. Mama had begged us not to. But he was getting mad annoying now.
“I am going to take back—” he began, breaking me from my reverie.
“You ain’t gon’ take shit. You gon’ stay the fuck away from my family and my property, or I won’t be just holding this gun on you,” I warned him. “I hope yo’ stupid ass understands.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, like he didn’t know what to say. I saw the moment something clicked in his head, the way his eyes lit up and his mouth curved into a sudden smile.
“So serious tonight, brother . Usually, you and your striped friend laugh at me. Even when I visit the properties that I will one day own, that I will take from you, you act as if I am beneath you, a joke too lowly to be taken seriously. But yesterday, something was different, yes? A pretty, bountiful something. No wonder it is the first time you have thought I was worth a visit.”
“Stay the fuck away from her. Stay out of her face, out of her neighborhood. I don’t give a fuck what my mama says or what Ismail wants. I will fucking kill you,” I promised.
He chuckled lowly. “See? That response. I wanted to know what caused that response. We followed you one night. And then, I realized how many nights you visited. I had to see what had the… what is the word? Playboy? Player? Yes. I had to see what had the infamous player Montréal Hamilton fascinated. I will learn all your weaknesses. She is one. And I understand why.”
I didn’t answer, but he must have seen my jaw tighten. He laughed, a fucked-up sight with his purpling eye.
“I do not blame you. She smelled so good. And she was so soft when that body ran into mine. I had to squeeze her a moment longer than necessary. I can imagine what it is like to fuck her. Those big breasts and full legs… you are in heaven, brother, no? I will be, too, when I slide between those thick thighs, making her forget about your weak ass dick ?—"
My Glock and I went upside Aaqil’s head a few times. He was barely standing by the time Targen called my name. He swayed, trying to hold onto consciousness. I let go of him, and he stumbled backward. Blood trickled down the side of his face, and still, he laughed. I had to give him credit—he never showed fear. But he wasn’t cut out for the life he was trying to live. He’d spent his life as a wealthy heir, educated at French boarding schools and a British university, according to our research. Aaqil would always lag behind us when it came to the grimier side of life.
“Not as invincible as you present, mon petit frère (my little brother). Humbled by la beauté , huh?”
“Stay the fuck away from her,” I gritted out, knowing I was revealing too much.
Hell, I was doing too much. Ev wasn’t even officially mine, and I was acting like a man obsessed. Still, the thought of Aaqil touching her turned my stomach. I scowled at him again.
“Play with me if you want to. You gon’ see how serious I can get.”
For a moment, the room was silent as we glared at each other. The woman’s eyes darting back and forth was the only movement until Targen suddenly clapped his hands.
"Whew, shit just got awkward, so I know we about to slide," he said, standing from the couch with a stupid grin on his face. "It was nice to meet you..." he looked down at the license in his hand before tossing it to the woman. “Cherie Witherspoon of 6118 Spring Oak. Aaqil, you might wanna untie them niggas in yo' hall closet. Might be dead from circulation issues, anyway. I tend to tie a li’l tight."
He shrugged and headed to the elevator while Aaqil made a strangled sound. Targen gently grabbed the heavily jeweled, egg-shaped treasure from the shelf.
"You have lost your fucking mind! That is priceless! Put it down!" Aaqil thundered.
Targen scoffed. "Nigga, fuck you. This my birthright. I'm half Russian, hell. Damn mudak !"
I clapped his shoulder. “Ay, I like that, how you cussed him in Russian, like you emphasizing yo’ point.”
“I know. I felt like it would give it that little extra something,” he said, looking smug as hell.
He pushed the down button as I looked at Aaqil one last time.
"This was a friendly warning. The only one you gon' get," I said before stepping onto the lift and beginning the descent that would lead me back to the South Texas streets.