Chapter 5 #2
“Leave m-me alone,” I’d managed, hating how the words got stuck in my throat, how my tongue felt too big for my mouth.
Dayvon had laughed. “Or what? You gonna c-c-cry?”
The first punch came fast, catching me in the eye. I’d gone down, tried to cover my face, but they’d gotten in a few more shots before someone’s grandmother yelled at them from a window.
By the time I made it home, my right eye was swollen shut, my lip split, and my shirt torn.
Grandma Rita had been in the kitchen when I walked in. She’d taken one look at me, and her hands had gone still on the dish towel. She stayed with us for years after my father was murdered, even when my mother remarried. She stayed around to watch after us, especially me.
“Baby, what happened?”
“N-nothing,” I’d mumbled, trying to get past her to my room.
But then Vivica had walked in, wearing one of her power suits. She’d looked at me—really looked—and something in her face had hardened.
“Who did this to you?”
“S-some boys from s-school.”
“And what did you do?”
My stomach had dropped. “I… I t-tried to walk away—”
I didn’t even see her hand coming. The slap had rocked my head to the side, making my already injured eye throb.
“Vivica!” Grandma Rita had shouted.
But my mother wasn’t done. She’d grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at her with my one good eye.
“You let them beat your ass, so I’m gonna beat your ass too.
You understand me? In this family, we don’t run.
We don’t hide. We fight back.” Her perfectly manicured nails dug into my skin.
“You got Banks blood in you, even if you don’t act like it.
Tomorrow, you find those boys and you show them what happens when they put their hands on you. ”
“B-but—”
“No buts. You either handle your business or I’ll give you something worse to cry about.”
She’d let me go then, straightening her suit like nothing had happened, and walked out.
Grandma Rita had pulled me into her arms, her voice soft. “Baby, don’t listen to her. You don’t have to fight—”
“Y-yes I do.” I’d pulled away, my good eye burning with tears I wouldn’t let fall. “She’s r-right. I’m weak.”
“You’re not weak, baby. You’re kind. You’re gentle. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
I blinked, coming back to the present. Quest was staring at me, concern written all over his face.
“Prime? You good?”
I rubbed my face, trying to shake off the memory. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine.” My voice came out harder than I meant it to. “Look, you want me to come to some board meeting? Fine. Next week. After I handle something for Rashid.”
Quest’s eyebrows rose. “Rashid? You still doing work for him?”
“It’s nothing. Just a favor.”
“A favor.” Quest didn’t look convinced. “What kind of favor?”
“The kind that’s none of your business.” I headed for the door. “I’ll be at the meeting. That’s what you wanted, right?”
“What I want is for my brother to stop running from his family.”
I paused at the door, my hand on the knob. “I’m not running. I just know where I belong. And it ain’t here.”
“Because Vivica made you think you weren’t good enough?”
I turned to face him. “Vivica made me strong. Everything I am, every skill I got—it’s because she refused to let me be weak.”
“Nah.” Quest shook his head. “Everything you are is because Grandma Rita loved you enough to see past the bullshit Vivica put you through. You think she’d be proud of you now? Using that strength to hurt people instead of build something?”
“She can’t see anymore,” I said quietly. Grandma Rita had lost her sight two years earlier. Diabetes.
“But she’s still here. Still asks about you.” Quest’s voice softened. “You know what she told me last time I visited? She said, ‘Prime’s light got dimmed, but it ain’t out. Y’all just gotta help him find his way back.’”
My throat tightened. Grandma Rita going blind had broken something in me. Those blue-green eyes she’d passed down to me, the ones that had seen so much, built so much—gone dark. And I’d been too busy killing people to spend time with her before it happened.
“Don’t.”
“Nah, we’re doing this. You walked away from this family, from this business, to do what? Kill people for money? That’s the legacy you want? That’s what you want Grandma Rita to feel proud of when you finally go see her?”
My jaw clenched. “You don’t know shit about what I had to do—”
“Then tell me!” Quest’s voice rose. “Tell me why you’d rather be out there in the streets instead of here with your family, building something that could last for generations. Tell me why Grandma Rita’s blood running through your veins means nothing to you.”
The mention of her blood—the blood that gave me these eyes, this face that didn’t quite fit anywhere—hit harder than I wanted to admit. The same eyes she couldn’t use anymore to look at me with that mixture of love and disappointment.
“I’m done with this conversation.” I turned toward the door.
“Monday,” Quest called out. “There’s a board meeting. Investors. Your name came up. They want to meet you, hear your vision for the expansion.”
I paused, hand on the doorknob. “I don’t have a vision.”
“Then find one. Because whether you like it or not, you’re part of this. The Banks name means something, and it’s time you started acting like it.” He paused. “And maybe after, you could stop by and see Grandma. She asks about you every week.”
That last part hit like a gut punch, but I didn’t let it show.
I left without responding, his words chasing me down the hallway.
In the parking lot, I sat in my car, staring up at the Banks Reserve logo illuminated against the night sky. My grandfather’s dream. My grandmother’s sacrifice. My father’s ambition cut short. My brothers’ present.
And me? I was just passing through, trying to figure out where I fit in a legacy built on love and loyalty when all I knew was violence and isolation.
Grandma Rita was still alive, still in that house she’d raised me in, still probably sitting in her favorite chair by the window even though she couldn’t see the view anymore. Still asking about me. Still believing I had light left in me.
I hadn’t been to see her since I got back to DC. Couldn’t bear the thought of those blind eyes trying to see me, her hands reaching out to touch my face to know if I was okay. She’d feel the hardness there. The coldness. She’d know what I’d become.
The fat kid with the stutter who’d learned that violence was the answer. Who’d traded Grandma Rita’s gentleness for Vivica’s cruelty. Who’d let one moment of rage when he was thirteen define the next nineteen years of his life.
My phone buzzed. A reminder I’d set: Saturday. 7 AM. Pick up Zahara and Yusef.