Chapter 38 Zahara
ZAHARA
Prime came back around nine.
I’d been sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, trying not to think about the yellow tape still visible from my window. Trying not to think about Brandi’s screams. About Nigel’s body under that white sheet. About Yusef in the other room, carrying the weight of what he’d done.
Where had I gone wrong? Why hadn’t I hid the gun better? This was all my fault.
When the knock came, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
But it was just Prime. Standing in my doorway with that calm, steady presence that made me feel like maybe everything would be okay.
“Pack a bag,” he said, stepping inside. “You and Yusef. You’re staying with me tonight.”
“Prime, we can’t just—”
“You can and you will.” His voice left no room for argument. “I’m not leaving y’all here. Not with police still crawling around the building. Not with… everything.”
He was right. I knew he was right. But leaving felt like running. Like admitting something happened.
“Where are we going?”
“My spot on the waterfront.” He looked down the hall toward Yusef’s room. “How’s he doing?”
“Calmer. But still scared.”
“That’s normal. Pack light. We can come back for more tomorrow.”
I didn’t argue. Just went to my room and threw clothes into a duffel bag. Toiletries. Phone charger. The essentials.
When I came out, Prime was in Yusef’s doorway, talking to him in a low voice. Yusef was nodding, his eyes still puffy from crying, but something in his posture had relaxed. Like Prime’s presence made him feel safe too.
We loaded into Prime’s car in silence. Yusef in the backseat, staring out the window. Me in the passenger seat, my mind racing.
As we pulled away from the building, I finally asked the question that had been burning in my chest.
“What did you do with the clothes? And the gun?”
Prime didn’t look at me. Just kept his eyes on the road.
“The less you know, the better.”
He gave my thigh a tight squeeze that was reassuring and firm at the same time. I let it go. He was right. I didn’t need to know the details. I just needed to trust that he’d handled it.
And I did trust him. More than I’d ever trusted anyone.
That was the terrifying part.
Prime’s penthouse was nothing like I expected.
When he said SW waterfront, I’d pictured something nice. Modern. Expensive.
I hadn’t pictured this.
Two stories of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Potomac.
The city lights sparkling across the water like diamonds scattered on black velvet.
Open floor plan with polished concrete floors, a kitchen with black marble countertops and brass fixtures, furniture that was clearly custom—cognac leather sectionals, a massive walnut dining table, everything masculine but warm.
What caught my attention were the personal touches.
A framed photo on a floating shelf of Prime with his brothers, all of them younger, laughing at something off-camera.
I was tickled by his chubby frame. He was such a cutie but I could understand why he was insecure.
A worn boxing glove mounted in a shadow box.
A shelf of vinyl records near an expensive turntable, mostly R&B and soul from what I could see.
There was D’Angelo, Maxwell, Jill Scott, Stevie Wonder and many more.
This wasn’t just a rich man’s apartment. This was Prime’s home. His sanctuary.
“Just got it furnished,” Prime said, watching my reaction. “Farah helped coordinate everything.”
Something flickered in my chest at her name, but I pushed it down. Tonight wasn’t about her.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Come on.” He guided Yusef toward a hallway. “Let me show you where you’re sleeping.”
The guest room was bigger than my entire apartment. King-size bed with gray linens. Its own bathroom. A desk by the window with a view of the water.
Yusef stood in the doorway, taking it all in with exhausted eyes.
“You good here?” Prime asked.
Yusef nodded slowly. Then he walked to the bed and collapsed face-first onto the mattress.
“I just want to be alone,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Is that okay?”
“That’s okay, baby,” I said, my heart aching. “We’re right down the hall if you need us.”
“Get some rest, lil man,” Prime added. “Tomorrow’s a new day.”
We closed the door quietly and stood in the hallway for a moment. I could feel the weight of everything pressing down on us. On me.
“Come on,” Prime said, taking my hand. “Let me show you the rest.”
The tour took us through the living room with its massive sectional and mounted TV.
Through the dining area with a table that seated twelve.
Through a home gym with equipment that looked like it cost more than my broken down car.
The master suite was upstairs, he mentioned—a whole separate floor for privacy.
But it was the study that made me stop.
The room was smaller than the others. More intimate. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with titles I recognized—The Art of War, 48 Laws of Power, but also James Baldwin, Langston Hughes, Toni Morrison. A leather chair sat in the corner near a reading lamp.
And against the far wall, near a window overlooking the water, sat a keyboard. Next to it, a guitar on a stand.
“I forgot you said that you played,” I said, eyeing the instrument.
Prime leaned against the doorframe, watching me explore the space. “Told you…”
“Are you good?”
“I only play for myself. You would have to tell me if I’m good,” he said, leaning into me, while brushing the side of my face before retreating back to the doorframe
I ran my fingers over the keyboard keys, not pressing them. “There’s so much I don’t know about you.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
I looked at him. Really looked. At the man who’d disposed of evidence for my son. Who disappeared a body for me. Who’d brought us to his home. Who’d shown more care for Yusef than his own father ever had.
“Play something for me.”
He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room. Sat down at the keyboard and adjusted the bench. His fingers hovered over the keys for a moment.
“If you don’t like it. Your body gonna end up wherever Larry’s is.”
“Excuse you?” I laughed.
“Don’t hurt my feelings.” His stone cold blue eyes stared into my soul, before his lips parted into a sly grin. At that moment his fingers found the keys.
The opening chords of “Nothing Even Matters” filled the room, and my breath caught in my throat. I knew this song. Had listened to it a thousand times, dreaming about a love that felt this way.
But hearing Prime play it—watching his fingers move across the keys with practiced ease—was something else entirely.
And then he started to sing.
His voice wrapped around the melody like it was made for it. Smooth and rich, with that same neo-soul texture D’Angelo was known for, but somehow more intimate. More personal. He wasn’t performing. He was confessing.
He sang about love being all that mattered. About the outside world fading away when you’re with the right person. About nothing else being important when you’ve found something real.
I stood there frozen, tears sliding down my cheeks, watching this man—this violent, dangerous, beautiful man—pour his soul out through music like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When he finished, the silence felt sacred.
“Prime…” I wiped my face, embarrassed by my reaction. “That was… that doesn’t fit your persona at all.”
He laughed softly. “What persona?”
“The… you know. This violent, rough around the edges. Rude…”
“That’s part of me too.” He turned on the bench to face me. “But this was first. Before all of that. Music was my escape when I was young. Before prison. Before I became what I had to become to survive.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“Because Black boys aren’t allowed to be artists without being called gay or soft.
” His voice went flat. “Can’t play piano.
Can’t sing. Can’t show emotion. Gotta be hard.
Gotta be tough. Gotta prove you’re a man every second of every day or somebody’s gonna take advantage of you.
We’re expected to fit into these boxes. Light-skinned niggas are soft.
Dark-skinned niggas are hard. This and that.
The list goes on and on. But it’s whatever.
You learn how to shove down the things that make you appear weak and amplify the shit that makes you appear strong. ”
I moved closer, standing between his legs as he sat on the bench.
“That’s not fair.”
“Nah. It’s not.” He looked up at me, his hands finding my hips. “But it’s the world we live in. The world that made me who I am.”
“Who you are is more than the violence, Prime.”
“Oh, I know. You helped me see that.” His grip tightened. “You and Yusef.”
Eventually, he guided me to the kitchen and poured me a glass of wine.
“Can I tell you something?” I asked.
“Anything.”
“I hated you at first.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I know.”
“I was so pissed to find you in my kitchen that day. You were such an asshole eating that cereal. And then you threatened me right in my house. I was so angry.”
“I would’ve been too. But man, I ain’t had Cinnamon Toast Crunch since before prison. When I saw them, I couldn’t resist.”
We both broke out laughing.
“I ain’t have no plans on fallin’ in love, though. You were supposed to be a job. But I need to apologize to you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For judging you. When we first met.” He set his glass down, giving me his full attention.
“I got… I got issues with women. Deep ones. My mother—” He stopped.
Started again. “Vivica fucked me up. That ain’t no excuse though.
I’ve carried that hatred for a long time.
And sometimes it colors how I see other women.
Makes me suspicious. Makes me assume the worst.” He reached across the counter and took my hand.
“But you’re not her. You’re nothing like her.
And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you had to prove yourself to me. ”