Chapter Nine. Ember #7
Muthafucka. “I…” Still frowning, I pause and gather my whirling thoughts and parse them.
Inhaling a breath, I shake my head. “Shock at the changes, of course. But a quicker acceptance among the younger street bosses than the older ones, but that’s to be expected, I would think.
They’re accustomed to the traditions of Cross being patriarchal, and the addition of women is going to take longer for them to accept.
You will probably have to handle a few more how you did ol’ boy though.
And not to just make an example out of them, but because they won’t be able to take orders from your enforcers and resent women being street bosses and having the same level of authority as them.
They’ll end up being a problem. And problems either become snitches or competition. Both need to be eliminated.”
“Go on.” Asad nods, sliding his hands in his pockets, exposing his powerful chest and abs. My clit thumps, and my pussy, even though sore and still a little swollen, clenches around phantom dick. Like a fucking ho.
“For the most part, everyone in the room seems receptive of your leadership. Which isn’t very surprising since they’re familiar with you. Doesn’t hurt that you also promised them more money with a new product and a new distributor,” I point out.
“And you said ‘for the most part.’ So that means not everyone.”
I perch on the edge of the conference room table and study him, scrutinize each strong, masculine piece that congregates to form a beautifully brutal picture. What does he want from me?
“I think you already know, but okay, I’ll play along.
Xavier and Deacon. Malcolm didn’t seem to be bothered at all.
If anything, he appeared … relieved. I almost believe he’s ready to sit it down.
He’s about Marcus’s age and might be ready to get out of the game.
But not Xavier and Deacon. They hate you.
And want you dead. It’s just my opinion, but of the two, I believe Xavier is more dangerous.
He’s the type to stab you in the back while asking how the fam’s doing to your face.
A Judas. Matter of fact, I’m surprised his ass didn’t kiss your cheek on the way up out of here. ”
Asad snorts. “I never did trust him like that. But Marcus did, and neither him nor Deacon gave me a reason to think they were moving foul.”
“Until now.”
“Until now.”
“Just out of curiosity, why are they still alive? I can’t lie.
” I hike a shoulder up. “I was shocked as hell to see them sitting at this table when I walked in here. Not telling you how to do your new job or anything, but I would’ve thought they would’ve been more dead with a lot less limbs by now. ”
A gleam enters his gray eyes, and it reminds me of the glint that brightened his gaze as he stared down between my legs last night while his dick slowly muscled its way into my pussy.
Pleasure.
“’Cause it’s fun.” When I just stare at him, he smiles, and though it’s twisted and mean as fuck, my breath catches in my throat and my pulse echoes in my clit.
“You asked why’re they alive. Because it’s fun,” he explains.
“After some more time with Carter”—from the quiver of his lips, I can just imagine what that quality time entailed—“I got all the info I needed to confirm that yeah, Xavier and Deacon are behind that hit. Now I’m not na?ve enough to believe it hasn’t gotten back to them that Carter’s named them.
Until I clean house, I don’t know who’s loyal and who isn’t, so I assume everyone, except my own handpicked people, can’t be trusted.
So they sat here today knowing I’m aware they tried to have my ass taken out. ”
“And they’re also left wondering when you’re going to retaliate.”
Psychological warfare. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Asad has never been impulsive. He’s not the snake, quick to strike; he’s the spider, waiting, stalking, playing with their food before slowly sucking it dry for maximum pain.
“Do you think they’re behind Marcus’s death?” I quietly ask.
He studies me for several seconds. “Do you care?”
The question isn’t confrontational or accusatory. And because of that, I take my time and consider my answer.
“Yes, as in I’d like to know. Not only would not having the mystery solved annoy the hell out of me but it would be bad for business.
Rumors about the manner of Marcus’s death are already circulating.
To think we can squash them is unrealistic and impossible.
And once the fact that he was murdered is confirmed, if people discover Cross hasn’t identified and handled the person responsible, it makes the organization—and the head of the organization—appear weak.
And that affects business and the bottom line. For that reason, I care.”
He stares at me for a very long moment, and I almost think he isn’t going to reply. And something about the glint in his eyes … I begin to regret saying anything. Those intense, piercing eyes—it’s like being visually stalked and hunted down.
“That sounds cold as fuck, ma.”
I pause, glance to the side, and catch my reflection in the heavily tinted, one-way window where I can view the heavy traffic of downtown LA.
Instead of seeing myself, I glimpse the image of the woman I believe my mother must’ve looked like at my age.
A little over average height, same body type, the same facial structure.
Sam often tells me that I’m her twin, and since I’ve dyed my hair honey blond, the similarities are uncanny.
“My mother’s been gone longer in my life than the time I actually had her,” I murmur, still staring out the window.
Even as the words are spilling out of me, there’s a voice in my head screaming to shut up, to not give Asad ammo to use against me at a later date.
But it’s as if some circuit breaker flipped between my brain and mouth, because they’re not connecting.
And I can’t stop talking. “Yet there are times I miss her as if she died last week, instead of thirteen years ago. That’s why I changed my hair color.
” I lift my fingers to touch the long coils.
“To feel closer to the mother that I can only see, talk to, smell, and hold in my dreams.” I pause, then softly snort.
“At least, that’s one of the reasons. The one I’ll readily admit. ”
I finally turn away from the window, and as if he were just waiting on me to look his way, Asad’s gray eyes capture mine, and for a panicky moment, my throat squeezes closed, and I struggle against the sensation of drowning.
My fingers flutter to the base of my neck, and his gaze drops to the movement.
I drop my arm, forcing it to hang by my side.
I’m already revealing too much with my word vomit, but this …
this gesture suddenly and inexplicably feels too … vulnerable.
“Don’t stop now, Ember.” Asad takes a step toward me, his hands still tucked into his pockets, an urgency in his words, in the tight lift of his shoulders. “Get that shit out. What’s the other reason?”
My lips part, but no sound comes out. Self-preservation shows her ass, and since that’s my girl, I should listen.
Should. But I don’t know if it’s some kind of magical dick left over from last night fogging my God-given good sense …
or if these thoughts have been locked up deep inside me for so long that all it took was a question about my father and a thought about my mother to unlock that rusty door to free them.
I swallow, wetting my throat and tongue, attempting to wipe away the dusty layers of the past.
“I was about fourteen when I noticed Marcus never looked me directly in the eye; he’d look over my head or shoulder but not in my face.
It didn’t take therapy or an accelerated degree to eventually figure out it was because of my resemblance to my mother and his late wife.
So a few years ago, I decided to make it even harder for him to ignore me by changing my appearance to look even more like the woman he so easily replaced in my mother’s house and bed with an evil, crazy-ass bitch.
” If he expects me to apologize for calling Michelle out her name, well, people are disappointed every day.
Shit, I could’ve called her a raging, STD-ridden cunt, so he needs to be grateful.
“Marcus made neglecting me an Olympic sport, and that muthafucka won gold year after year. You explain to me how I miss a parent who’s been gone for over a decade more than one who hasn’t even been dead for a couple of weeks. ”
“So your other reason was to punish Marcus.”
“Over and over,” I admit without shame and with a perverse, delicious glee that I probably do a shit job of hiding.
“What you call cold as fuck, I call my truth. I care about finding out who killed Marcus as much as Sherlock deducing who was behind the hound of the Baskervilles. Leaving mysteries unsolved is irritating.”
Silence settles between us as we both fall into our own thoughts.
I don’t know what his are, but mine switch from my gone-on-to-glory father to another track that crowds into my head like the Beyhive at a Beyoncé concert.
And while reason demands I let it go, I can’t.
The not knowing would eat at me until it would slowly drive me insane. More so than who dispatched Marcus.
“Why do you care about my impression?” I ask. No one ever has before. Especially you. “Why aren’t you asking your second and Sam? That’s why they’re there. Since when did my opinion become important?”