Chapter 31 Prime
PRIME
“You not leaving this penthouse.”
Zainab looked up at me from the couch, her sister curled up next to her holding a cup of tea she ain’t even touched.
Both of them still processing what went down at Ahmad’s crib.
Both wearing it different, Zainab looking like she was still processing what the fuck just happened, Mehar looking like she’d just had the best day of her life.
That second part worried me more than I wanted to admit.
“Prime—”
“I ain’t asking, Goddess.” I crouched down in front of her and took her hands.
“We at war now. Rashid know I’m coming for him.
That means everybody connected to me got a target on they back.
You, Mehar, my brothers, everybody. Until this shit is handled, you stay put.
Building secure. Doorman know not to let nobody up without my say-so.
You need something—food, clothes, whatever—hit my line.
I’ll bring it or send Quest and ’em. Or Pharaoh. ”
She searched my face, looking for something. Reassurance maybe. Or maybe just trying to memorize a nigga’s features in case this was the last time.
“Where are you going?”
“To handle Farah.”
“Be careful.”
“Always.” I kissed her forehead, then her lips. Let myself stay there a second, lingered there a while. “Keep your mind busy while I’m gone. Work on that business plan for Sweet Zin. That storefront ain’t gonna plan itself.”
Mehar perked up and turned her attention to Zainab. “We should bake. Maybe you can teach me since I’ll be working for you.”
“Bet.” I grabbed my keys off the counter. “I’ll have Pharaoh drop off whatever ingredients y’all need. Text me a list.”
Zainab nodded, but her eyes stayed on me as I walked to the elevator. Worried. Scared. But trusting me to handle my business.
The doors closed between us.
The drive to Farah’s spot gave me too much time to think.
I kept replaying what I witnessed at Ahmad’s crib. The way Mehar moved. How calm her voice was when she pulled that trigger. The smile on her face while she watched that nigga bleed out on his own floor.
That wasn’t just revenge and self-defense. That was enjoyment.
Shorty had spent years getting beat, controlled, raped by that bum-ass nigga. And now she’d had her first taste of power. Of violence. Of making somebody else feel as helpless as she’d felt all them years.
That kind of awakening don’t just disappear. It grows. Demands to be fed.
We ain’t seen the last of Mehar’s reckless shit. Not by a long shot.
But that was a problem for another day. Right now, I had a kidnapping to handle.
Farah’s apartment was in one of them luxury high-rises in Navy Yard. It was the kind of building where everybody too busy being important to notice what they neighbors doing.
Perfect for what I had planned.
Getting in was easy. The building manager should really rethink whatever electronic system they were using because I hacked it easily.
I knew her apartment would be empty when I got there. I called her office earlier, pretending to her father and asked if she would be available for dinner. They told me she had an event to go to.
I walked through the living room, past the kitchen, into what she called her “office.” Really just a room full of portfolios and mood boards for her event planning and interior design shit.
The job didn’t pay enough for this lifestyle but it kept her busy.
Rashid supplemented the rest as long as she stayed out of trouble.
I flipped through a few portfolios. Corporate events. Wedding receptions. Some politician’s fundraiser. Shorty was actually decent at this, I ain’t gonna lie. Had an eye for detail.
Then I saw it.
A portfolio with my name on it.
There was my name, PRIME. Written in loopy handwriting with little hearts dotting the letters like a middle schooler.
I opened it.
First page was her notes from when I hired her to redo my place. Color swatches. Fabric samples. Furniture measurements. Normal shit.
Second page was not fucking normal.
Photos of me. Dozens of ’em. Some was from events we both attended—galas, fundraisers, Banks Reserve parties.
Candid shots that ain’t never made it to no final album.
She was an event planner. Had access to every photographer in the city.
Probably been collecting these for years, asking for “extra shots” and paying for pictures nobody else ever saw.
But others was different. Me walking into Banks Reserve on a random Tuesday. Me at the gym. Me on my own balcony. Surveillance angles. The kind of footage Rashid kept on all his “sons.”
This crazy bitch had been raiding her daddy’s files.
The fuck was wrong with this woman?
I turned the page.
A handwritten letter. Nah, not a letter. A whole journal entry.
“Dear Future Husband…”
I almost put that shit down right there. Almost. But I needed to know how deep this rabbit hole went.
“I know you don’t see me yet. Not really.
You think I’m just Rashid’s daughter. Just another female throwing herself at you.
But I know the truth. We’re destined for each other.
I’ve known it since the first time I saw you at my father’s house.
You were wearing that gray suit, the one that makes your shoulders look like they were carved by angels.
You barely looked at me. But I looked at you. I’ve been looking ever since.”
“One day you’ll understand. One day you’ll see that Zahara (or whatever her real name is) isn’t worthy of you. She’s trash. Ghetto trash pretending to be something she’s not. You deserve a queen. Someone who was raised right. Someone who understands your world. Someone like ME.”
“I’ve already planned our wedding. I have a Pinterest board with 847 pins. I know what flowers we’ll have (white roses and orchids). I know what song we’ll dance to (At Last by Etta James). I know what we’ll name our children (Prentice Jr. for a boy, Pilar for a girl). I know EVERYTHING.”
“All I need is for you to wake up and see what’s right in front of you.”
“Soon, my love. Soon.”
I closed that shit.
This wasn’t no crush. This wasn’t even an obsession. This was full-blown psycho shit. The kind that end with somebody getting stabbed in they sleep ’cause they “betrayed” a love that never existed in the first place.
Zainab was right to be worried about this bitch. More right than she knew.
I almost felt bad about what I was ’bout to do.
Almost.
But this was war. And in war, you use whatever weapons available. Farah was a weapon—just not the way she always imagined.
Found a chair in the corner of the living room. Dark corner, away from the windows. Sat down. And waited.
She came home around ten.
Heard her keys in the lock. Heard her heels clicking on the hardwood. Heard her humming Go Girl by Summer Walker as she dropped her purse on the table by the door.
She ain’t notice me. Too busy being in her own little world.
Kicked off her heels. Walked into the kitchen. Poured herself a glass of wine. Checked her phone. Laughed at something on the screen.
Then she walked into the living room and hit the light switch.
And saw me.
She screamed. Short, sharp, instinctive. Wine glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor.
But then—and this the part that confirmed just how crazy this broad was—her whole face changed. The fear melted away, replaced by something else. Something hungry.
“Prime.” She pressed a hand to her chest, breathing hard, but she was smiling now.
“Oh my God. You scared me half to death.” She stepped over the broken glass, moving toward me.
“But I knew it. I KNEW you couldn’t resist forever.
All those months pretending you wasn’t interested.
Playing hard to get. But here you are. In my apartment. Waiting for me in the dark like—”
“Farah.”
“—some kind of romantic movie scene. God, this is so hot. I’ve literally fantasized about this exact scenario. You breaking into my place. Taking this pussy anyway you want. Being all dominant and—”
“Farah.”
“—mysterious. Should I pour you some wine? Or you wanna skip straight to the bedroom? I been saving this lingerie set for a special occasion and I think this definitely qualifies—”
I stood up.
She finally shut up.
I walked toward her. Slow. Deliberate. Watched her eyes go wide with anticipation. Desire. The absolute certainty that her delusions was finally ’bout to become reality.
“I knew it,” she whispered as I got closer. “I knew you wanted me. I could see it every time you looked at me. That hunger. That need. You was just fighting it ’cause of HER. But she ain’t here now, is she? It’s just us. Just—”
I moved fast.
One arm around her throat. Other hand controlling her flailing arms. Squeezed just enough to cut off blood flow to her brain—not the airway, never the airway, while she thrashed against me.
“Wha—” She tried to speak. Tried to scream. But the pressure on her carotid was already doing its job. Movements got weaker. Slower. Eyes rolled back.
Ten seconds later, she went limp.
I lowered her to the floor and got to work.
Zip ties on the wrists. Zip ties on the ankles. Duct tape over the mouth just in case she woke up during transport. Then the needle—sedative I got through channels that don’t ask questions—slid into the vein at her elbow.
Sleeper hold would only keep her out for a few minutes. The sedative would buy me a few hours.
Scooped her up, carried her to the service elevator, took her down to the parking garage. Bentayga was waiting, trunk already lined with plastic. I’d gotten rid of Zoo’s body a while ago.
Placed her inside. Closed the trunk. Drove off.
The warehouse was one of several spots I owned through shell companies. Off the grid. No neighbors. No cameras. The kind of place where you could scream all day and ain’t nobody hearing shit.
Not that I planned on making her scream. That wasn’t the point.
Point was leverage.
I’d set up a chair in the middle of the main floor. Industrial. Metal. Bolted to the concrete. The kind of chair that said “this ain’t a negotiation.”
Farah was still knocked out when I carried her inside and strapped her down. More zip ties. Rope for good measure. I wanted her uncomfortable, not damaged. Damaged goods wasn’t gon’ get me what I needed.
Pulled up a chair across from her. Sat down. Waited.
She came to slow.
First, the groaning. Then her head moving, trying to shake off the fog. Then her eyes, blinking open, struggling to focus in the dim light.
When her vision finally cleared—when she saw me sitting across from her, stone-faced, arms crossed—I expected fear.
I got something else entirely.
“Oh my GOD.” Her voice was hoarse but excited. “Prime. This is… this is incredible. You actually kidnapped me.” She squirmed in the chair, testing the restraints, and fucking GIGGLED. “I always knew you was freaky but this? This is next level. I love it.”
I ain’t say nothing.
“Is this like a roleplay thing? ’Cause I am SO into it. Should I pretend to be scared?” She put on this dramatic-ass expression of terror, eyes wide, lip trembling. “Oh no, please don’t hurt me. I’m just an innocent girl. Please don’t take advantage of me. Please don’t… rape me.”
She actually moaned on those last words.
This broad was certified.
“I’ve thought about this, you know,” she kept going, apparently unbothered by my silence. “You and me. Somewhere private. Somewhere you could do whatever you wanted to me and ain’t nobody knowing. I used to touch myself thinking about it. About you tying me up. Being rough with me. Making me—”
Somebody cleared they throat.
Farah’s head snapped toward the sound. Watched her expression shift from horny to confused as she registered the other presence in the room.
A man. Tall. Built. Square jaw. Dead eyes that looked like they’d seen things—done things—that would make regular people lose they lunch.
“Who the hell is this?” Farah’s voice lost some of that breathy excitement. “I ain’t agree to no threesome. I just want you, Prime. Is this some kind of test? You testing my loyalty? ’Cause I swear, I only want—”
“That’s Thad.” First time I spoke since she woke up. “My cousin.”
Thad ain’t say nothing. Just stood there in the shadows, arms folded, face blank. The kind of nigga who could watch somebody die and not blink once.
“He gon’ keep an eye on you while I’m out,” I continued. “Feed you. Give you water. Take you to the bathroom when you need to go. Keep you gagged the rest of the time so he ain’t gotta listen to your bullshit.”
The horniness was finally draining from Farah’s face. Reality was starting to seep in.
“I… I don’t understand.” Voice smaller now. Less certain. “Prime, what is this? What are you doing?”
“Maybe he’ll bring you a laptop. Let you watch Real Housewives of Whatever the Fuck to pass the time.” I stood up from my chair. “But you ain’t leaving this warehouse ’til your father gives me back what he took.”
“My father?” Now she looked genuinely confused. “What my father got to do with—”
“Yusef.” I buttoned my jacket. “The boy Rashid snatched. The one he been torturing this past week. You want outta that chair? You better hope your daddy wants to make the trade.”
“I don’t—I don’t know what you talking about.” Panic creeping into her voice now. “Prime, please. Whatever this about, we can work it out. I can talk to my father. I can—”
“Thad.” I walked toward the door. “Gag her.”
“NO! Prime, WAIT!” She was thrashing against the restraints, chair scraping against concrete. “You can’t do this! I ain’t some random bitch—my father will KILL you for this! He’ll—”
The sound of duct tape being ripped from the roll cut her off.
“PRIME! PRIME, PLEASE! I LOVE YOU! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO SOMEBODY WHO LOVES YOU! PRIME!”
I walked out into the night and pulled out my phone.
I’d snapped a photo of her earlier, while she was still knocked out. Slumped in the chair. Tied up. Helpless. The daughter of the most dangerous man I knew, completely at my mercy.
Pulled up Rashid’s contact and attached the picture.
For years, I addressed this man with respect. Deference. The acknowledgment that he was my elder, my mentor, the nigga who shaped me into who I was.
Them days was over.
I typed three words and hit send.
Your move, nigga.
Pocketed the phone and drove off, Farah’s muffled screams still echoing in my ears.
War had officially begun.