Chapter 11
Eleven
Honor Gravehart
Brooklyn was known for being rowdy and always screaming for attention.
Sirens blaring, bass knocking through car doors, and niggas arguing on the corners were just part of the borough's charm.
But when we stepped inside The Glided Leaf, and the door closed behind us, that charm didn't exist anymore.
The pungent smell of whiskey hit first, cuddling cubes of ice in glasses that probably cost more than the average person's rent.
Tobacco, cedar, and leather followed right behind, curling in the air.
Dim lights hung low, blanketing everything that made the dark, wooded room feel expensive in an tawny glow.
Melodies from the piano, sax, and soft drums floated through the speakers, so intoxicating that they could make a struggling man forget what he was running from.
"This some real Harlem Renaissance type shit," Crown muttered.
I didn't reply. I just kept my eyes moving, clocking exits and faces in case the night went left, and Crown had to get the fuck outta here.
To my left, the bar stretched long, bottles lined up behind it like trophies, expensive, polished, and pointless if you didn't make it out alive.
The bartender moved like he had nowhere else to be, wiping down the counter like time didn't apply to him.
His eyes barely lifted our way as we headed in that direction, which made me pay more attention.
A gun sat on his hip as if it was a part of his uniform. I smirked out of respect.
My gaze drifted toward the humidor. Behind the glass were rows of cigars stacked neatly.
Some labels I recognized thanks to Lucian, others I didn't, but I knew nothing in this bitch was cheap, not the liquor, the smoke, or the lives occupying the space.
To the right, men sat in quiet circles, speaking low and laughing more quietly than a casual conversation called for.
Their smiles didn't reach their eyes, and those soft laughs were rich with power rather than amusement.
Some wore suits cut from expensive fabric, while others wore designer streetwear.
Still, it was all the same uniform of money and violence stitched together.
The few women here didn't cling to the men they accompanied.
They lingered, close enough to be seen but not enough to cause a distraction.
"What can I get for you fellas tonight?" the bartender asked, sliding a napkin and two glasses onto the marble top.
"Water," I answered.
"A big man like yourself can surely survive something heavier than water," the bartender commented.
I let out a humorless breath. "You wouldn't be able to stomach the shit I've survived," I replied, keeping my tone even.
The bartender's smile twitched like he heard the threat beneath my words.
"Mhm," he hummed, dropping a few cubes of ice into the glasses. "I've heard many men come in here and say that exact thing. None have—"
"Those other men aren't me," I quipped, holding his stare long enough for him to understand I wasn't here to fuck around.
His gaze flickered to Crown for half a second, then came back to me.
"Suit yourself." He poured the water, then walked away as if he had gotten the answer he was looking for.
"The fuck was that about?" Crown mumbled, grabbing his glass.
"Don't," I quietly stated, shaking my head.
Crown put the glass down, then looked at me silently, asking what the hell was going on?
"All this shit is a test. What we're testing for, I don't know," I murmured, keeping my voice low. My eyes stayed on the room, on the men posted in corners like decoration. "But the moment you start talking too much or moving too loosely, you fail."
Crown's hand tightened around his glass, his jaw ticking like he was chewing through patience.
"The fuck you mean you fail?" he muttered, aggravated. "Nigga, if you know some, say some."
"I don't," I responded, my voice flat. "That's the problem."
Crown leaned closer, his shoulders squaring like he was ready to turn this lounge into a crime scene. "So we just sitting here blind? Where the fuck is Killian?"
"We sitting here alive," I corrected.
For the first time since stepping into this bitch, Crown started paying attention. His eyes cut across the room, watching every movement, catching every laugh before frustration washed over his face.
"This shit is weird as fuck, my nigga," he groused.
"I know."
"Nah, I don't think you do." Crown's nostrils flared. "You got me sitting here watching niggas stare at you like you're a target and I'm 'posed to act like I don't see this shit? You know I'm not the nigga to sit still. As soon as one of 'em breathe wrong, I'm on they asses," he warned.
"Pause." I chuckled lowly.
"Nigga, now ain't the time for that shit," he grumbled.
"I 'preciate all that shit you talking, but I need you to be calm."
Crown muttered some shit under his breath, but it didn't matter because a man dressed in all black was headed in our direction.
"This way," he directed, never slowing his stride as he reached us.
I got up first, then nodded for Crown to follow.
We moved past the roped-off sections and through a narrow hallway tucked behind thick curtains.
The music faded with every step, and the lights grew dimmer the farther we went.
The man stopped in front of a door that looked too plain for a place like this, just a slab of wood with a keypad beside it.
He punched in a code without looking at us, and the lock clicked.
The door opened, and hazy air rolled out, smelling like stale cigar smoke mixed with whiskey and something metallic underneath it.
The only light in the room came from a low lamp in the corner and the faint glow of an old-fashioned chandelier lit by candles.
Two men I didn't know sat at the table, dressed in regular street shit, while Killian wore a suit, with his best friends Grim and Ghost posted at his sides.
"That will be all, Mayne," Killian stated, nodding toward the man who had led us back here. Mayne nodded, then left the room as swiftly as he had come.
The door closed, and Killian stood up. With his hands outstretched, he gestured toward the two empty chairs opposite the men who were staring at me just as hard as I stared at them.
"Honor… Crown… have a seat."
I didn't move.
"I think we need to handle introductions first," I said evenly. "Being in close proximity to someone who might be an enemy has never worked out well for the niggas I've buried."
A low, deep chuckle filled the silence in the room.
One of the men leaned back in his chair like he'd been waiting on me to say some shit like that.
He had a face that looked like it had been through war and came out meaner for it.
Dark skin, heavy eyes, and a scar that cut through his eyebrow like somebody tried to take his eye and failed.
"Killian," he said, his voice gravelly. "You didn't say Honor talked like this."
Killian's expression didn't change. "If you needed a warning, you shouldn't have agreed to the meeting."
The other man didn't speak. He just watched, fingers tapping the table as if he were counting down to something. Light skin, skinny, clean-cut, but that light skin niggas are soft stigma didn't fit him. His calm didn't come off like a weakness. It felt like discipline.
The scarred one sat forward, resting his forearms on the table.
"I respect you not sitting. It was smart. Most niggas sit too quickly when they're nervous."
Crown shifted beside me, shoulders tense and ready to explode if the wrong sentiment hit the air.
"I've never been a timid nigga," I asserted.
The scarred man's smile widened. "That might be worse."
"Nigga—" Crown started, but Killian cleared his throat.
"Enough." Killian's voice didn't rise, but it still cut through the room. His gaze moved across all of us slow like he wasn't looking at faces but looking through them.
"If anyone has a reason to be skeptical in this room, it's me. I see the colors you exude, and the colors never lie. So if I'm at this table trusting everybody in here, I suggest you all do the same."
"Killian," the scarred one voiced in an amused tone, "you know I have nothing but love for you, but this color shit is real?"
Killian's gaze slid to him and stayed there. He slowly nodded, eyes narrowing as if he were staring at a painting only he could see.
"Dark gold," he muttered, sitting back in his chair. "Almost burnt like old coins left in the fire too long. It's not the gold that comes from money, or ego, but stems from purpose."
Killian's voice was calm, as if he were having a regular conversation about the weather.
"But it's burnt… meaning somebody set that purpose on fire and you didn't die."
The scarred nigga's smile twitched like there was some truth to what Killian said.
"You believe you're justified no matter what you do. You don't kill because someone pissed you off. You kill out of belief and stand on principle."
Killian's stare skimmed the scar cutting through his brow.
"The color that surrounds you is conviction, and you've been hurt, but instead of bleeding out, you turned it into a code." Killian's tone dropped. "And niggas with a code always believe they're the hero."
The room went still as fuck.
"Now, if you don't mind, I would like to continue with this meeting." He nodded toward the scarred man.
"Honor, Crown, the burnt gold nigga with the scar is Righteous. His family owns a winery upstate."
"If he's from upstate, why the fuck is he here?" I asked. "I thought this meeting was with those in the Sovereign Circle?"
"It is," Righteous answered smoothly. "My family is one of the founding families."
"I thought there were only three families in this shit," Crown huffed.
"That's what we want people to think," Righteous replied. "But the smart ones realize three families don't make a balanced circle."