Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
"Merge"
Knox climbed into the passenger seat of my whip, wearing all black and smelling like expensive cologne.
The second the door shut, he glanced over at me. “Damn, nigga… yo’ ass look like you ain’t slept in days!”
Knox had been back from his anniversary trip for almost two weeks, but his ass ended up catching COVID trying to vacation somewhere tropical and overpriced where the water probably looked edited in real life.
On some real shit, I thought COVID had disappeared by now… apparently not.
Knox came back coughing, sweating, and sounding like a dying lawnmower over the phone, and I damn sure wasn’t stepping anywhere near him.
I loved my boy, but I also loved breathing regularly.
Matter of fact, every time he tried to pull up, I started feeling imaginary symptoms immediately.
I did my check-ins with him over the phone, and I also had a care package sent to his house, filled with medicine, soup, tea, water, expensive immune boosters he probably ignored, and enough disinfectant wipes to sanitize a nightclub…
but that was as far as my support was going.
But now that he was finally doing better?
Yeah… I needed my dawg.
“I haven’t,” I admitted, without shame.
That answer alone made him sit up straighter.
“Wassup?” he asked, his rough New Orleans drawl cutting through the low music. “Who I gotta shoot?”
A mischievous laugh left me. “In due time.”
“Ah, shit.”
I rubbed my jaw slowly before speaking again.
“Before we hit the club, I need you to ride somewhere with me.”
Knox’s brow lifted slightly. “Oh?”
“You strapped?”
Knox looked offended. “Nigga, asking me am I strapped is like asking birds if they fly.”
He lifted his shirt slightly, revealing the gun tucked into his waistband.
“I got enough artillery on me right now to start a small civil war.”
That pulled a real laugh out of me.
We slapped hands quickly before I pulled away from the curb.
Unknown to Knox, we were heading to pay Dr. Fairchild and his little ‘underground’ doctor friend a visit.
After Zonnique left my house that day, instead of simply texting me the doctor’s information like I told her to, she called later and confessed to the real story.
Turns out, she fucked Dr. Fairchild after asking him if there was a “quieter” way to handle the surrogate situation without all the official clinic procedures, screenings, legal contracts, waiting lists, and oversight.
Apparently, Dr. Fairchild mentioned he knew someone who could facilitate everything—on the down-low, off the record.
Of course, such a connection came with its own set of strings attached. That thirsty-ass nigga wanted pussy in exchange for the referral.
Desperate people make desperate decisions, and Zonnique fit that mold perfectly.
After she slept with him, he connected her to some underground, black market doctor who conducted borderline illegal procedures away from the prying eyes of authorities and clinical eyes of standard medicine.
Every new detail somehow made the situation feel more reckless, more illegal, and way more expensive than it ever needed to be.
As we drove toward our destination, we kept the discussion light, avoiding the elephant in the ‘car.’ That was how it typically went for men like us.
Lengthy conversations before violence felt unnecessary.
Instead, Knox talked about his anniversary trip, and how his wife almost cursed him out for checking business emails during dinner.
Somewhere between that, we touched on business matters concerning money, shipments, and a random issue involving one of the clubs downtown.
Before we realized it, twenty minutes had flown by and we had arrived.
I punched the security code into the keypad beside the gate, and seconds later, the massive steel gates to one of our riverfront properties slowly creaked open.
The building itself looked abandoned from the outside. Rusted loading docks lined the perimeter, broken windows stared emptily like hollow eyes and old shipping signage clung desperately to the brick walls. The weathered letters were barely legible.
Perfect camouflage.
But underneath the surface was one of the places where my family handled problems too sensitive for the public eye.
In those hidden spaces, we were shielded from all prying eyes: no cameras recording our every move, no paper trails left behind to unravel our activities, and certainly no witnesses whose testimonies could alter the outcome.
As soon as we crossed the threshold, Knox took a brief glance around, his eyes flicking over the cold surroundings before settling on me.
“Now this definitely feels like somebody finna die,” he joked.
I just chuckled.
The smell of blood already lingered in the air.
We walked deeper into the heart of the place until the steel doors swung wide open, revealing the lower level.
Both men were already there, restrained in separate metal chairs, beneath hanging industrial lights. They were bloodied and bruised, barely recognizable under the brutal effects of whatever torment had been enacted upon them.
The moment Dr. Fairchild caught sight of me, panic exploded across his face.
“Mr. Belvior—” he began, his voice trembling.
I interrupted him with an abrupt raise of my hand, signaling him to stop.
“Save it. Whatever weak excuse you got prepared ain’t worth the oxygen it’s about to waste. You already look like somebody used your face to test the durability of a brick wall. Don’t make this worse by crying too. You got enough swelling going on without adding tears.”
Knox let out a quiet chuckle behind me, adding a layer of tension to an already charged situation.
Dr. Fairchild gulped, his throat visibly constricting. “I can explain!”
I stared at his swollen, disfigured face for a heartbeat longer than necessary before a laugh escaped my lips, lowly and mockingly.
“Oh, I know you can. In fact, let’s explain it together.”
I began to pace deliberately in front of him, forcing him to maintain eye contact.
“So, from what I gathered, Zonnique approached you seeking an alternative path around the very legitimate fertility clinics she should’ve been consulting.”
His breathing turned jagged, each inhale a struggle.
“She wanted privacy,” he muttered quickly. “No paper trails, no waiting lists, no legal complications—”
“And in return,” I interrupted smoothly, “you decided the best payment option was pussy.”
Knox let out a loud “Damn” behind me.
Dr. Fairchild shook his head wildly; a desperate plea etched across his bloodied features. “It wasn’t like that!”
“Now when you were fuckin’ Zonnique I’m sure yo’ hands were steady, now suddenly you’re shaking?” I laughed in true humor. “I just had to throw that out there.”
Then I jumped back in serious mode.
“So, let me make sure I understand. You saying Zonnique didn’t offer herself as payment. She just accidentally fell on your dick while the two of you were discussing medical alternatives?”
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
“Take your time. I know concussions make lying difficult.”
Knox coughed, trying to cover another laugh.
Sweat began to bead on Dr. Fairchild’s brow. He shifted uncomfortably into his chair, the bindings creaking against his struggles.
“She came onto me first!” he deflected.
My laughter swelled, a dark, amused chuckle that betrayed his pathetic defense.
“Now why does every guilty nigga suddenly play the victim once repercussions start breathing down their neck?”
“I was just trying to help her!”
“Damn. Which one is it? Were you trying to help her or she came on to you first?”
Dr. Fairchild blinked nervously, his face growing paler by the minute. “Um… both.”
I stared at him for a long moment, then laughed once under my breath.
“Dr. Fairchild, here’s my theory. I think you saw a desperate, beautiful woman, realized she was vulnerable, then manipulated her into giving you some pussy in exchange for connecting her with an illegal black-market insemination doctor?”
Silence.
“Yeah. Wanting to help her, my ass.” I studied him for a moment. “And the more I think about it, that’s somehow worse than you simply being horny.”
His swollen face tightened.
“Because now you ain’t just a doctor who crossed the line; you’re an opportunistic with credentials, and now every degree on your wall looks questionable…
not that it would matter after today. You can hang those muthafuckas in Heaven…
maybe frame them beside yo’ wings, assuming they let you through the gate. ”
Knox let out a low whistle behind me.
Dr. Fairchild’s breathing grew heavier.
“Oh, don’t look shocked now. You had plenty of time to consider consequences while you were taking advantage of her.
You just assumed the worst thing that could happen was losing your license.
” I smiled faintly. “That was cute. You should’ve been praying for a malpractice suit.
Hell, even prison would’ve been a blessing compared to this. ”
“Please,” he whispered.
“Now you wanna beg? You ain’t beg when Zonnique was desperate, you negotiated.”
His lips parted, but nothing came out.
“That’s the problem with niggas like you. You think a title, a white coat, and a few framed degrees make you untouchable. You forget there are people in this world who don’t file complaints.” I leaned closer. “We handle shit in person.”
His face crumpled.
“And if Heaven is the place you’ll spend eternity, before you start asking God for mercy, make sure you explain the whole story. Don’t get up there lying and leave out the part where you used a vulnerable woman for sex. I’d hate for him to deny your appeal over missing paperwork.”
My eyes shifted toward the second man.
Before addressing him, I sized him up quietly. I took in his smaller frame, the thinning hair he so desperately tried to cover, and the thick glasses that were cracked down the middle.
Salvatore Vane.
“Stand up,” I ordered, my voice calm and collected.
“I… I can’t,” he rambled, his eyes darting to the ropes that bound him tightly to the chair.