Chapter 32 Prime #2
She flinched like I’d hit her. Then that hurt hardened into something else. Something cold. Calculating.
“Fine,” she said, smoothing her gown. Fixing her hair. Putting that professional mask back in place. “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”
She turned to walk away.
Stopped.
Looked back at me over her shoulder.
“I hope she’s worth it, Prime,” she said softly.
She walked away, heels echoing down the corridor.
The way she said that, didn’t sit well with me. But Farah wasn’t a real threat. She was a sheltered daddy’s girl. Her father was the problem. And not just him individually. It was all of his sons. But Farah wasn’t dumb. She knew better than to start a war.
Farah had always been a mild annoyance. A woman who wanted something I wasn’t willing to give.
But that look in her eyes just now?
That wasn’t a woman accepting rejection.
That was a woman planning revenge.
I was gonna have to watch her. Make sure she didn’t try anything stupid.
Because if she came for Zahara—if she even thought about hurting what was mine—I’d bury her.
Rashid’s daughter or not.
The gala kicked off at seven.
The ballroom transformed from empty elegance to packed chaos in under an hour. DC’s elite pouring through the doors in their designer gowns and tailored suits. Diamonds catching the chandelier light. Expensive perfume mixing with expensive cologne until the air was thick with wealth and ambition.
I posted up near the bar, nursing a glass of Banks Reserve I had no intention of finishing. Watching. Waiting.
This wasn’t my scene. Never had been. I preferred shadows to spotlights. Preferred handling business in private rather than performing for crowds.
But tonight I was here for Zahara.
I found her across the room, stationed behind her dessert table. The trays of cinnamon rolls were arranged perfectly—red velvet on one tier, peach cobbler on another, bourbon pecan on a third. A small sign read “Sweet Zin” in elegant script.
She was talking to an older white woman dripping in pearls, explaining something about her baking process. The woman took a bite of a roll, and I watched her face transform. Eyes going wide. That performative politeness shifting into genuine surprise.
She called over her friends. They tried the rolls. Same reaction.
Within minutes, a crowd had formed around Zahara’s table.
That’s my girl.
Pride swelled in my chest watching her work. Watching her smile. Watching her hand out business cards and answer questions and live her fucking dream.
I did that. Helped her get here. And seeing her shine like this?
Worth every body I’d disposed of. Every secret I was keeping. Every risk I was taking.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
Vivica stood on the small stage at the front of the room, microphone in hand, spotlight making her silver hair glow like a halo.
She didn’t deserve a halo. But she sure knew how to fake one.
“Thank you all for being here tonight,” she said, her politician voice carrying through the room. “Your support means the world to me and to this great city we all love.”
Applause. Polite. Practiced.
Vivica worked the room like the pro she was. Shaking hands. Kissing cheeks. Laughing at jokes that weren’t funny. Posing for photos with donors and dignitaries.
And right beside her, clipboard in hand, tablet tucked under her arm—Indya Coleman.
Her assistant. The woman whose thighs Vivica had been buried between when I walked in on them weeks ago.
Indya looked every bit the professional tonight. Navy dress. Hair pulled back. Playing her role perfectly.
But when her eyes met mine across the room, that professional mask cracked.
I saw the raw undeniable shame all over her face.
She looked away immediately. Dropped her gaze to her tablet like it held the secrets of the universe. Wouldn’t look at me again even when Vivica turned in my direction.
She knew I knew. Knew I’d seen her in her most vulnerable moment. Knew I had ammunition that could destroy both of them.
And she was terrified I’d use it.
Then Vivica’s eyes found me.
Even from across the room, I felt it. That predatory focus. That calculating gaze.
She made her way toward me, the crowd parting like she was Moses and they were the Red Sea. Indya followed two steps behind, eyes down, trying to make herself invisible.
“Prentice.” She reached me, her smile bright and toxic. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Vivica.”
“It’s Madam Mayor tonight, sweetheart.” She hooked her arm through mine before I could react. “Come. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“I’m good.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
Her grip tightened on my arm. Nails digging in through my suit jacket.
I let her lead me toward a group of donors. Campaign people. The kind of rich folks who wrote checks and expected favors in return.
“Everyone, this is my son Prentice,” Vivica announced, pulling me into the circle. “My youngest. And my biggest success story.”
Success story. Like I was some project she’d completed.
“Prentice has overcome so much,” she continued, her voice dripping with false pride.
“He made some mistakes when he was younger. Ended up in prison. But look at him now.” She patted my arm like I was a trained dog performing tricks.
“He’s rebuilt his life. Joined the family business.
Hasn’t been back to prison once. I’m just so proud of the man he’s become. ”
The donors murmured their approval. Nodding. Smiling. Eating up the redemption narrative like it was one of Zahara’s cinnamon rolls.
A photographer appeared. “Madam Mayor, can we get a photo?”
“Of course!” Vivica pulled me closer, angling us toward the camera. “Smile, Prentice.”
“Vivica—”
“Smile.”
I ain’t smile. The camera flashed and inside I was burning.
She’d just announced to a room full of DC’s most powerful people that I was an ex-con. Put my business out there like it was some cute little campaign story. Used my past—my pain—to make herself look good.
This woman gave birth to me but she’d never been my mother. And moments like this reminded me exactly why.
The photographer moved on. The donors dispersed. And I finally pulled my arm free from her grip.
“What the fuck was that?” I kept my voice low. Controlled. Didn’t want to cause a scene.
“That was politics, sweetheart. You should be grateful. I just humanized you to some very important people.”
“You just told a room full of strangers that I went to prison.”
“And that you overcame it. That’s the story, Prentice. Redemption. It plays well with voters. Besides everyone already knows about you.” She adjusted my lapel like she had the right to touch me. “Now stop pouting and mingle. You’re representing the Banks name tonight.”
I started to walk away.
She grabbed my arm. Pulled me back.
“We’re not done.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re running out of time. That information I wanted on Dante?
“I’m still working on it.”
Her eyes went cold. That maternal mask slipping to reveal the snake underneath.
“Then work faster,” she hissed. “I need dirt on him. Affairs. Financial impropriety. Something I can use.”
“These things take time.”
“Time is something you don’t have.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You want your mentor to stay out of prison? You want those casino permits approved? Then uphold your end of the bargain. I gave you a job to do. Do it. Get me what I need, Prentice. Before my patience runs out.”
She walked away without waiting for a response. Back into the crowd. Back to her adoring donors. Back to playing the role of devoted public servant.
I stood there for a moment, jaw clenched so tight my teeth hurt.
This woman had abandoned me as a child. Let me get sent to prison at thirteen. Never visited. Never wrote. Never gave a fuck until I became useful to her.
And now she was using Rashid—the only real parent I’d ever had—as leverage to make me do her dirty work.
One day, I was gonna make her pay for everything she’d done.
But tonight wasn’t that night.
Movement caught my eye. Zahara, stepping away from her table, looking toward me with concern on her face.
She’d seen the exchange with Vivica. Seen me standing next to a woman who’d called me her son.
Heard about the prison.
Fuck.
Before I could go to her, a heavy hand landed on my shoulder.
“Damn, bro.” Quest’s voice, low and sympathetic. “She really just aired you out like that in front of everybody.”
I turned to find my brothers flanking me. Quest in a navy blue suit, looking like money. Justice was in all black.
“You good?” Justice asked.
“I’m straight.”
“You don’t look straight. You look like you wanna murder somebody.”
“I always look like that.”
“Nah, this is different.” Quest studied my face. “That woman is toxic, bro. Pure poison in a designer dress.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
We dapped up properly, falling into that easy rhythm we always had. Three brothers against the world. Against a mother who’d never loved us. Against a system that wanted us to fail.
“Business good?” Quest asked.
“Business is business. You?”
“Can’t complain. Got a meeting with some investors next week about the casino. Justice is supposed to be there but you know how he is.”
“I’ll be there,” Justice said. “Probably.”
“See what I mean?”
I almost smiled. Almost.
But my eyes kept drifting across the room.
To Zahara.
She was back at her table now, surrounded by people. A woman in a red gown was taking a selfie with one of the cinnamon rolls. A man in a suit was asking for her business card. Two servers were whispering to each other, pointing at the nearly empty trays.
She was almost out. In less than an hour.
My girl was killing it.
Pride swelled in my chest. Deep. Possessive. Primal.
That was my woman over there. Building her empire. Showing these people what she was made of.
And I’d helped her get here. Given her the kitchen. The opportunity. The belief in herself that nobody else had ever given her.
But underneath the pride was something heavier.
She’d heard Vivica. Heard about the prison.
I wasn’t sure if she knew I’d been locked. Don’t think I’d ever mentioned it.
Never told her about Tre.
About the padlock.
About the twelve-year-old boy I’d beaten to death because he wouldn’t stop talking shit and I didn’t know how to control the rage inside me.
I was gonna have to tell her everything.
About my past. About the monster I used to be before Rashid taught me control.
She deserved to know who she was really dealing with. Who she was sharing her bed with. Who she was letting around her son.
And once she knew?
I had no idea if she’d still look at me the same way.
If she’d still let me touch her.
If she’d still want me.
But I had to tell her. Tonight. Before someone else did.
Because if Zahara was gonna be mine—really mine—she needed to know all of me.
Even the parts I’d spent years trying to bury.