Chapter 22 Prime
PRIME
So I rolled up at eleven, two hours early, because Prime Banks didn’t dance to nobody’s rhythm but his own.
Her Georgetown brownstone was everything you’d expect from a mayor trying to cosplay as old money—pristine lawn that probably cost more to maintain than most people’s mortgages, historic brick that screamed “I’ve arrived,” and enough political power radiating from the place to make your teeth ache.
I’d been here maybe twice since she bought it with blood money and broken promises.
Stepping into Vivica’s domain always felt like walking into a trap.
I used the key she’d forced on all us boys years ago. “For emergencies,” she’d said, like any of us would actually come running if she called. This was the first time I’d ever used the damn thing.
The front door whispered open on expensive hinges. The house was silent. Too silent. The kind of quiet that makes your instincts prickle.
“Vivica?” My voice echoed through the marble foyer.
Nothing.
I moved deeper into the house, my footsteps muffled by Persian rugs that probably cost more than a luxury car. Headed toward the living room, already irritated that I’d have to—
I froze mid-step.
The living room wasn’t empty.
Oh, it definitely wasn’t empty.
Vivica was on the leather couch—the expensive Italian one she’d bragged about at that charity dinner last year. But she wasn’t sitting. She wasn’t reading. She wasn’t doing any of the buttoned-up, politician shit I expected.
She was face-deep in pussy.
A woman—younger, maybe mid-thirties, thick in all the right places—was spread out on those cushions like a feast. Naked from the waist down, her skirt bunched around her hips, legs thrown wide open.
Her head was tilted back, mouth forming a perfect O, throat exposed as she gasped at the ceiling.
Beautiful brown skin glowing with sweat under the chandelier light.
And there was my mother—Mayor Vivica Banks, pillar of the community, champion of family values—with her silver-streaked head buried between those thick thighs like she was starving.
Her manicured fingers dug into soft flesh, nails leaving little crescent marks on that butter-brown skin.
The woman’s legs trembled, thighs quaking, ankles locked behind Vivica’s back.
Her stiletto heels dangled off her feet, swaying with each roll of her hips as she ground herself against my mother’s eager mouth.
A champagne bottle lay tipped over on the marble coffee table, expensive bubbles soaking into what looked like silk panties—probably the woman’s—and spreading across the surface in a wet, decadent mess.
The sound was what really got me. That wet, rhythmic sucking. The stranger’s breathless moans. Vivica’s hungry groans vibrating against sensitive flesh.
My brain completely short-circuited.
“Fuck,” I said out loud, the word ripping out of me before I could stop it. It was the most disturbing shit I had ever seen.
Vivica’s head snapped up like a puppet on strings.
Both women jumped apart like they’d been hit with a cattle prod.
The younger woman—and oh shit, I recognized her now—scrambled for her clothes.
Indya Coleman. Vivica’s assistant. The one who was always in those perfect tailored suits, hair in a tight bun, walking three steps behind the mayor with a tablet and that professional smile that never quite reached her eyes.
Not so professional now. Not with her lipstick smeared, hair wild, thighs still glistening.
Her face went from post-orgasm bliss to mortified in half a second. She grabbed a throw pillow, trying to cover herself, hands shaking as she reached for her blouse, her skirt, anything to hide what I’d just witnessed.
I couldn’t help it.
I laughed.
A real, deep, genuine laugh that bounced off the high ceilings and probably carried through the whole damn house.
“Prime!” Vivica’s voice cracked like a whip—sharp, deadly, furious. She’d grabbed a silk robe from somewhere and was tying it around her waist with violent efficiency. Her face was a warzone of emotions—fury, embarrassment, and something that looked like fear. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“You said one o’clock.” I was still grinning, enjoying every second of her discomfort. “I came early. Clearly not as early as y’all though.”
Indya had managed to get her skirt on and was clutching her blouse to her chest like a shield, looking like she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole. Her eyes were anywhere but on me.
“I’m so sorry, Mayor Banks,” she stammered, backing toward the door. “I should—I need to—this was—”
“Go,” Vivica snapped. “We’ll talk later.”
Indya didn’t need to be told twice. She practically sprinted from the room, one heel on, one in her hand, her dignity left somewhere between the couch cushions. The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.
Vivica turned back to me, and if looks could kill, I’d be dead three times over. “You’re two hours early.”
“Had shit to do. Wanted to get this over with.” I shrugged. “Glad I did. That was entertaining as hell.”
“My office. Now.” She bit out each word like it hurt.
She stalked past me, her robe billowing behind her like she was some kind of avenging angel instead of a politician who’d just been caught with her face between her assistant’s legs.
I followed, still fighting the urge to laugh.
Her office was classic Vivica; all dark wood and leather, walls lined with photos of her pressing flesh with senators and celebrities, every surface carefully arranged to project power and success. The desk alone probably cost more than most people made in six months.
She closed the door with a sharp click and whirled on me. “You will never speak of what you just saw.”
I dropped into one of her expensive leather chairs, stretching my legs out like I owned the place. “You never cease to amaze and surprise me, Vivica. Just when I think you can’t shock me anymore.”
“I’m serious, Prentice.”
“I bet you are.” I grinned wider. “But Indya though? I gotta say, she’s a baddie. Can’t blame you. I might’ve hit too if she was offering.”
Her jaw clenched so tight I heard her teeth grind. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.” I leaned back, getting comfortable. “Actually, it’s a lot funny. And you know what else? I think I just got myself one hell of a bargaining chip.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“What would the city think,” I continued, “if they knew their mayor—their family values, law and order, traditional marriage mayor—was a closeted lesbian getting her face sat on by her assistant? On a Tuesday morning? In her living room?” I whistled low.
“That wouldn’t play well with your voter base. Especially not in an election year.”
Something flickered across her face. Not quite fear, but close enough.
“I wasn’t the first to cheat in this marriage,” she said, voice tight as a wire. “Dante’s been fucking anything with a pulse for years. Multiple women. I have names.”
“Then why stay married to him?”
“Because I have more money than he does.” She said it like it was obvious.
“My shares in Banks Reserve alone are worth more than everything he has combined. And if I can prove infidelity in court, he walks away with nothing. Not a dime. Not a share. Nothing.” She pressed her fingers to her temples like this conversation was giving her a migraine. “But that’s not your concern.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” I leaned forward. “So what do you want from me, Vivica? Why am I here? Because I know it’s not for a family reunion.”
She moved to her desk, sat down with the posture of a queen on a throne, and folded her hands together. “I want a divorce from Dante. But I can’t be the one to file. I can’t be the one who looks like the villain in this story.”
“So you want me to do what exactly?”
“I need dirt on him. Evidence of his affairs—photos, videos, witnesses. His financial misdeeds. Anything I can use to bury him in the court of public opinion. I need the people to hate him so much that when I file, I’m the victim.
The wronged wife. The woman who stood by her man until she just couldn’t anymore. ”
I stared at her, trying to process the audacity. “You want me to destroy your husband so you can play the sympathy card and keep your political career alive while you’re out here getting your pussy ate by your assistant?”
“Yes.”
At least she was honest.
“What about Serenity?” I asked. “You thought about her in all this? If her father gets dragged through the mud and exposed like that, it’ll destroy her. She’s your daughter. You care about that?”
“Serenity will be fine. She’s strong. She’ll recover.
” Vivica waved a hand dismissively. “But I won’t.
I have an election next year. If I can get the public to sympathize with me, rally behind me as the betrayed wife, I’ll win in a landslide.
Dante’s humiliation is a small price to pay for four more years in office. ”
I stood up so fast the chair scraped against the hardwood floor. “You’re out your damn mind if you think I’m helping you with this.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home. Actually, Target. I need some toilet paper.” I headed for the door.
“Prentice, you need to help me.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?” I turned back. “Dante never did shit to me. And you want me to ruin him to save your career? Nah. I’m good.”
She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a folder. Thin. The kind of thin that meant bad news.
“This is why.”
She opened it slowly, like she was revealing a royal flush. Police reports. Crime scene photos—the kind with body outlines and blood spatter. Witness statements typed on official letterhead.
My stomach dropped.
“Rashid murdered the former district attorney, William Graves,” Vivica said, her voice calm, measured.
Like she was discussing the weather. “It was retaliation for his sentence. I have a witness willing to testify. Physical evidence linking him to the scene. DNA. Fingerprints. The whole package.” She closed the folder with a soft thud.
“If I hand this over to the current DA, Rashid goes back to prison. Life sentence. No parole. No appeals. No second chances.”
My hands curled into fists. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped steel bands around my ribs.
“You are so fucking petty.”
“I’m giving you a choice,” she said simply. “Help me bury Dante, and Rashid stays free. Walk out that door, and he’s back in a cell by the end of the week. Forever.”
I wanted to flip her desk. Wanted to put my hands around her throat and squeeze until that smug expression disappeared. But I forced myself to stay still. To breathe through the rage.
“No killing,” she added quickly, reading the violence in my eyes. “No physical harm. Just information. Just exposure. That’s all I’m asking.”
“That’s all?” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You want me to destroy an innocent man so you can keep playing mayor while you fuck your assistant behind closed doors. That’s what you’re asking.”
“Yes.”
I stood there for a long moment, weighing my options. Walk away and Rashid—the man who saved my life, who gave me purpose when I had none—goes to prison forever. Or sell my soul a little bit more and save him.
It wasn’t really a choice at all.
“Fine.” The word tasted like ash in my mouth. “I’ll get your information. But after this, you leave me the fuck alone. You don’t call me. You don’t text me. You don’t manipulate me. You don’t use Rashid or anyone I care about as leverage ever again. We’re done. Completely.”
“Agreed.”
I started toward the door, then stopped. Turned back.
“You know what’s funny?” I said. “You’re sitting here asking me for help. Blackmailing me into doing your dirty work. After everything you did to me.”
“Prentice—”
“You called me stupid my entire childhood,” I continued, my voice low and steady.
“Fat. Worthless. A disappointment. You made fun of my stutter in front of your friends at that campaign dinner when I was ten years old. Remember that? I tried to give a toast—tried to make you proud—and I couldn’t get the words out.
And you laughed. You actually laughed at me.
Your own son, struggling and embarrassed, and you thought it was funny. ”
Her face went slack, color draining.
“You never got me speech therapy,” I went on. “Never took me to a doctor. Never even asked if I was okay or if I needed help. You just decided I was an embarrassment and you sent me away. Shipped me off so you wouldn’t have to deal with me. So I wouldn’t ruin your image.”
“I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what?” I stepped closer. “Didn’t mean to fuck me up? Didn’t realize that treating your kid like he was worthless would have consequences? You made me feel like I wasn’t enough my entire life. Like I’d never be enough. And now you want my help?”
“Prentice, I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” I shook my head. “You’re sorry you got caught with your face in your assistant’s pussy.
You’re sorry your marriage is falling apart and you need someone to clean up your mess.
But you’re not sorry for what you did to me.
To Quest. To Justice. You’re not capable of that kind of remorse. ”
I walked out before she could respond, before she could spin more lies or make more empty promises.
The cool air hit my face as I stepped outside, and I sucked in a deep breath, trying to clear the poison of that house from my lungs.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
A text from Zahara: Thank you. For the recommendation. For the opportunity. I don’t know what to say.
I stared at those words for a long moment, feeling something shift in my chest. Something that felt almost like hope.
I typed back: You don’t have to say anything. Just let me take you to dinner. Celebrate your win.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Finally: Okay.
I smiled despite everything. Despite Vivica and her blackmail. Despite the fact that I was about to dig through another man’s life to save someone who’d never saved me. Despite all the darkness I carried.
At least there was one good thing in my life.
One pure thing.
And I wasn’t letting her go.