Chapter 26 Quest
QUEST
I woke up in the hotel and the first thing I thought about was her.
Not in some romantic movie bullshit way where birds are chirping and sunlight is streaming through the curtains.
More like a haunting. Mehar Ali had set up permanent residence in my brain and wasn’t paying rent and I couldn’t evict her because every time I tried, I’d remember the way she tasted and the whole eviction process would collapse.
I could still feel her on my tongue. Still hear the way she said my name when she was close—not screaming it, not performing it, just breathing it out like it was the only word she had left.
I’d been with a lot of women. Two at once for two years.
But none of them had ever made me feel like last night did.
Like I was doing something sacred and filthy at the same time.
Like she was trusting me with something she’d never given anyone and I’d better not fuck it up.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Trust.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall and let the other part of my brain do what it always did after I got close to somebody.
It built a case. Peanut betrayed me in a way that I still couldn’t talk about without my chest getting tight.
Camille betrayed me with a pregnancy that wasn’t mine and a lie designed to trap me.
Two women. Two devastations. Both of them dressed up in love and commitment and the illusion of partnership.
Mehar was different. I knew she was different.
She didn’t play games, she was too angry and too honest for games.
I knew all about the cage, about Thad, about her father and Ahmad and the whole ugly history of her life without flinching.
She didn’t perform vulnerability. She just was vulnerable, reluctantly, furiously, like someone handing you a weapon and daring you not to use it against them.
But knowing she was different and trusting that she was different were two separate currencies and I was bankrupt on the second one.
Every woman I’d ever loved had taught me the same lesson—don’t.
And my body was out here ignoring fourteen years of education because a pretty girl with box braids and a bad attitude let me between her thighs.
I showered, got dressed, and drove to the office because work was the only thing that had never betrayed me. Banks Reserve’s headquarters occupied the top three floors of a sleek glass tower in downtown DC, and my office sat at the top with a view that I never got tired of.
I had meetings all morning—insurance adjusters still dragging their feet on the warehouse claim, a marketing team presenting the casino launch campaign, a call with our distribution partners about rerouting shipments while the warehouse was being rebuilt.
I was reviewing the casino’s final budget when my assistant buzzed in.
“Mr. Banks, there’s a Mr. Rios here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment but he says it’s urgent.”
Rios. I knew the name. Mateo Rios. Real estate developer on paper, cocaine supplier underneath.
He’d been using our distribution network to move product for the last five years—his shit riding alongside our liquor shipments the same way everybody else’s did.
It was a clean arrangement. We transported, he paid a premium, and neither of us asked the other questions that didn’t need asking.
But his product had been in that truck that was robbed by Dimonte. And I’d been expecting this visit since the night of the fire.
“Send him in.”
Mateo Rios walked into my office wearing a tailored charcoal suit, no tie and with his hair slicked back. He moved with a calm that most people mistook for relaxed but was actually calculated. Every step measured. Every glance intentional. This man didn’t do anything by accident.
“Quest.” He extended his hand and I shook it because business was business even when business was about to get uncomfortable. “I appreciate you seeing me without an appointment.”
“You caught me on a good day. Have a seat.”
He sat in the chair across from my desk and crossed one leg over the other and looked at me with those eyes that had something behind them that my gut didn’t like. Not hostility exactly. More like patience. Predator patience. The stillness right before something moves.
“I’ll get to the point,” he said. “I lost two point three million in product in that robbery. Product that was moving under an agreement that guaranteed security and discretion. Neither of which was delivered.”
“I’m aware of the loss. And I’m sorry about it. We’re still investigating who was responsible for it. And you know I’ll cover the cost.”
“I’m not here about who’s responsible. That’s your problem to solve. I’m here about restitution.” He smoothed his tie with one hand. “I don’t want cash.”
“What do you want?”
“A stake in the casino.”
I leaned back in my chair and looked at him for a second. Then I smiled. Not a friendly smile. The smile I gave people when they said something so bold it was almost impressive.
“You want a stake in my casino because your cocaine was stolen from my truck.”
“I want a fifteen percent ownership stake as restitution for losses incurred under your watch. Your facility, your security, your failure. My product was in your care and it was taken. I think equity in a new venture is a reasonable resolution.”
“Reasonable.” I nodded slowly like I was considering it. It wasn’t. “Mateo, let me ask you something. When you park your Lamborghini in a garage and somebody breaks in and steals it, do you ask the garage for fifteen percent of their building? Or do you file a claim and move on?”
“This isn’t a parking garage.”
“You’re right. It’s my family’s business. And the casino is my family’s future. And neither one of those things is for sale—not fifteen percent, not five percent, not half a percent. Not to you, not to anybody.”
The patience behind his eyes shifted into something colder. “Two point three million is a lot of money to dismiss, Quest.”
“Who’s dismissing it? I said I’ll make you whole.
I’ll write you a check today. Cash. Full amount plus ten percent for the inconvenience.
You’ll have the wire by end of business tomorrow.
But you’re not getting a seat at my table because your shit was stolen.
You knew that was a risk. That’s a risk with any product in transport. That’s not how this works.”
“This isn’t about money.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“Opportunity. I’ve been transporting through your network for five years.
Paying premium rates. Never missed a payment.
Never caused a problem. And in three years, I’ve never been offered a seat at the table.
I’ve been a customer, not a partner. The casino is the perfect opportunity to change that. ”
“You’re a supplier who uses our trucks. That makes you a client.
And I don’t promote clients to partners because they had a bad quarter.
” I stood up and buttoned my jacket because this conversation was over.
“I respect you, Mateo. I respect your business. And I’m going to make you whole on every dollar you lost. But the casino has three names on it—mine, and my brothers.
That’s how it started and that’s how it stays. ”
Rios stood up slowly. He buttoned his own jacket, mirroring me, and the gesture felt less like courtesy and more like a man putting his armor back on.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” he said.
“Wouldn’t be my first one.”
“But it might be your most expensive one.” He held my gaze for a beat too long, then extended his hand again. I shook it. His grip was tighter this time. “So be it.”
He walked out of my office and closed the door behind him with a soft click that felt louder than a slam.
I stood at the window and looked out at the Anacostia and thought about the growing list of people who wanted something from me that I wasn’t willing to give.
Rios wanted the casino. Kacey wanted the truth about Thad.
Camille wanted a paternity test. Peanut wanted forgiveness.
Lucian wanted blood. And Mehar—Mehar wanted something I wasn’t sure I knew how to give anymore.
Something that required me to open a door I’d welded shut fourteen years ago, and trust that whoever walked through it wouldn’t burn the house down.
My phone buzzed. A text from Mehar.
Mehar: I slept better last night than I have in two years. Just thought you should know.
I read it three times. Put the phone down. Picked it back up.
Me: Same.
One word. But I meant it more than anything I’d said in a boardroom all day.