Chapter Two. Asad Prince
CHAPTER TWO
Asad Prince
“Do you know the woman that walked in behind them?”
Neither the instrumental music pouring into the ballroom through the discreet surround sound nor the rising flow of chatter and laughter can conceal the women’s voices.
Not that they’re trying to be unobtrusive.
Foolish bitches. This is my playground, my territory.
This room might be the size of two fucking football fields, but nothing happens here that I’m not aware of.
Including this inappropriate, rude-as-fuck conversation about something that’s not their gotdamn business.
I shift, angling my body so I have a clearer view of the two women while still giving the congressman the impression that I give a damn about the words steadily tumbling out of his mouth without any semblance of a break.
“I don’t know. I saw her at the funeral, but she wasn’t sitting with the family on the first pew.
Maybe she’s their assistant.” The brunette lifts a glass, taking a sip.
“There’s one thing I’m certain of though.
She definitely doesn’t belong to Prince or Kareem for that matter.
Truth be told, I’m not sure if she’s a man or woman. ”
Not-so-quiet snickers follow that petty bullshit.
I briefly survey the immediate area. Michelle, in her element as a social hostess, holds court across the room near one of the ridiculous dove-shaped ice sculptures.
And Kareem … I grind my teeth, a flare of pain blooming along my jaw.
Kareem hovers near Ember, two glasses of wine in hand.
As he extends one toward her and Ember gifts him a smile, I battle to smother the searing burst of anger sliding through my chest. Always solicitous, my brother. Always the good son, the kind sibling.
Nothing like me, who would use her neck as the stem of my glass and feed her the alcohol directly from my mouth.
Nah, I’m not the solicitous or good one.
Deliberately relaxing my jaw, I shift my attention back to the chatty politician and slide my hands into the front pockets of my suit pants.
Either that or slap my palm over his mouth, or worse—cuff both of these women up by the neck like the bitches they are and hand them over to Eli.
See how fucking tickled they are after my head of security drags their asses down to the subterranean basement and I let him off the chain to …
play. Their own fucking mama wouldn’t recognize them by the time he washes and puts up the extensive collection of knives, hooks, saws, and other devices that make up his torture kit.
I murmur a generic answer to the congressman, ready to move on from this man and his dry begging.
Yeah, I’m a self-admitted sociopath, but even his politics disgust me.
He can get a visit in the middle of the night from me and my Glock for all the racist, xenophobic bullshit he backs and promotes, but he won’t get a fucking dime from me or House of Cross.
But it’s fun letting him think he has a chance.
Imagine him trying to get money from a Black man who he probably thinks is another DEI hire.
Bitch ass.
“Anyway, fuck her. Did you see Aryn Murray? I saw her as soon as I arrived,” the nosy-ass brunette continues.
An ache pulses along the line of my jaw.
It would be interesting to see if she could run off at the mouth without a tongue.
“Have you noticed that Prince hasn’t even glanced in her direction, much less talked to her.
He’s ignored her for the last two hours. ”
Malicious glee damn near drips from her words, and her girl chuckles.
“Of course I noticed. Do you think they’re still together? Trouble in paradise?” The blond sighs. “I hope so. Let the rest of us bitches have a shot at all that man.”
I wouldn’t fuck either one of them with the congressman’s dick.
And as for Aryn, she has never been my woman.
Yeah, we’ve been fucking for a little over a year, but she’s free to do her own thing when not with me because I for damn sure do mine.
Ours is an equally beneficial partnership.
She uses me for exposure that has already elevated her supermodel career, and I get easy, convenient pussy.
Win fucking win.
“… nasty rumors circling. Not that I believe—”
“Repeat that.” I abruptly focus back on the congressman, and the murmur of conversation in the small circle surrounding us abruptly ceases. He flinches before he covers the telltale reaction with a strained, nervous smile.
He should be nervous.
“I said, I heard the rumors about Marcus’s death, but I—”
“What rumors?” I softly ask, staring him down in his watery blue eyes.
Moving forward the slightest inch and invading his personal space.
The small party of aides and sycophants he approached me with slowly eases back, leaving him on his own.
Abandoning him to my displeasure. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.
What rumors?” I press, daring him to repeat it.
Yeah, the gossip surrounding Marcus’s death wouldn’t just die off right along with him.
He was a powerful man, so talk of him being offed was more titillating than him having a heart attack or stroke.
Even now, his body chilled in a cold, wet grave waiting for the worms to start playing “don’t drop the soap” with his ass.
And the asshole deserved every peek-a-boo. But murder?
This wasn’t the fucking Godfather, and Marcus couldn’t put a horse’s head in nobody’s bed. His bitch ass would’ve been too afraid about getting blood on his Italian loafers. Sometimes people just fucking died from bad diet, bad choices, and playin’ in God’s face.
If the congressman doesn’t watch himself with spreading this kind of talk, he’s going to find out what happens when he plays in my face. God is a little too busy, but I got time today.
As if he can read his obituary on my face, he blinks, swallows, and his prominent Adam’s apple slides up and down his throat.
“No rumors. I misspoke,” he whispers.
I scan the faces behind him and none of them are brave enough to meet my gaze.
Satisfied, I nod. “We all make mistakes. Now, Congressman, if you’ll excuse me.” I clap him on the shoulder. “There’s something I need to handle.”
“Oh yes, sure. We can talk later…” He rambles to my back because I don’t hear shit else he says as I walk away.
I need to get away from his long-winded ass and those two hoes before I pull my Glock and shoot this bitch up.
I clench, then stretch out my fingers, already feeling the grip of the gun in my hand like a lover I can’t stay away from.
When I find out who let that shit about Marcus possibly being murdered, I’m stripping them clean of their flesh, Buffalo Bill–style.
Do I have my suspicions about the true nature of Marcus’s death?
Yeah. Strong suspicions. But until the truth is confirmed one way or the other, I’m shutting down all speculation. Ruthlessly.
Flipping my wrist over, I peep at the time on my gold-faced Patek Philippe.
Nearly six o’clock. A little over three hours since we first arrived.
More than enough time to start wrapping this up.
If these people haven’t stuffed their faces with free food and guzzled enough alcohol by now, that’s their problem. I’m about ready to shut this shit down.
I maneuver my way to the full bar without stopping to acknowledge the various people who speak to me.
The throngs of people crowded there part like I hold a staff and got ten plagues notched under my belt, allowing me a clear path.
They scatter, leaving me by myself as I wave the bartender over.
She immediately approaches, and I ignore the invitation for more than alcohol in her smile and eyes.
The white shirt, black pants, and bow tie can’t conceal that sexy-ass body with large titties, wide hips, and an ass I can see from the front.
She’s bad as fuck, and another time, I might’ve taken her up on her offer.
But right now, all I want is a shot of that Henny she has behind the bar. No side of pussy.
“What can I get you?” she asks, showing me all thirty-two of her teeth.
“Double shot of Hennessy.”
Her smile dims a little at my abrupt answer, and with a small nod, she fixes my drink.
“Here you go.”
I accept the glass filled with the cognac and hand her a hundred-dollar bill for her tip.
That grin returns, and I turn away, lifting the glass for a long sip.
In the time I’ve been here, it’s the first drink I’ve allowed myself.
I don’t trust none of the mu’fuckas in here.
For Michelle and even Kareem, this is more of a social event, an opportunity to network.
And yes, I’ve been socializing, but for me, it’s more about showing every mu’fucka in here that House of Cross might’ve lost its leader, but we’re far from weak.
There’s nothing vulnerable about us, and it’s business as usual.
That force of strength requires being aware and sober.
Being impaired around these people would be stupid as fuck, and I may be a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.
Because forget God willing. By my hard work, all the lying, the swallowing of my hate and pride, I’ve earned every last ephemeral brick of this empire.
I’ve spent years in servitude to a man who shoved the blade of disgust and betrayal deeper with every second spent in his company.
I’ve bled literal and figurative blood for House of Cross, and no one and no thing will take it from me.
And I swear fo’ God right now, if Marcus’s bitch ass double-crossed me, I will dig his corpse up with my bare hands and beat the shit out of him. It’ll be a DIY cremation.