4. Zaria
ZARIA
The meeting runs long because Vaughn can't shut the fuck up.
"All I'm saying is we need to show more force in the northern sector. The Okafors are testing boundaries, and if we don't push back?—"
"We push back strategically, not reactively.
" I lean forward, elbows on the scarred table in the back room of Sal's restaurant.
The place smells like garlic and old grease, authentic Italian that fronts for these exact kinds of conversations.
"You start a war every time someone looks at our territory wrong, you're burning resources we don't have.
My father didn't build this by being reckless. "
"Your father," Vaughn says, his tone hovering somewhere between respect and condescension, "isn't here."
The room goes quiet. Even the two other guys—Tommy and Lex—stop their side conversation to watch this play out.
I smile. It's not friendly.
"No, he's not. Which means you answer to me. And I'm telling you we handle the Okafors with precision, not ego. We reinforce the northern routes, increase patrols, make our presence known. But we don't start shooting unless they cross a line that matters."
Vaughn holds my gaze for a beat too long, testing. Then he nods, the tension breaking. "Fine. Your call."
"It is." I stand, signaling we're done. "Tommy, I want those patrol schedules on my desk tomorrow. Lex, check with our contacts at the port—make sure nothing's moving through without our knowledge. Vaughn, you keep your temper in check and your eyes open. We clear?"
They murmur agreement, and I walk out before anyone can challenge me again. Leading meetings exhausts me in ways physical violence never does. At least in a fight, the rules are simple: hit harder, move faster, don't stop until the other person does.
Business is all performance and calculation, every word measured against how it'll be perceived, every decision scrutinized for weakness.
Cain's waiting by the back door, arms crossed, that perpetual scowl on his face that somehow passes for resting expression.
"How'd it go?"
"Vaughn is an asshole, Tommy's useful, and Lex is competent. Same as always." I push past him into the alley, breathing in cold air that cuts through the restaurant's grease-smell. "You get those shipment manifests?"
"Yeah. Everything's on track for Thursday." He falls into step beside me, his longer stride easily matching my pace. "Though we might have some hiccups with the northern routes if the Okafors keep sniffing around."
"They're testing. Seeing if Malcolm's daughter can actually hold territory or if it's all reputation and borrowed power."
"And can you?"
I shoot him a look. "Fuck you think?"
"I think you're meaner than half these idiots realize, which works in your favor." He grins, sharp and mocking. "Also, I think you enjoy this way too much. The whole 'I'm in charge, bow down' thing really does it for you, doesn't it?"
"Says the guy who gets off on breaking people's bones for a living."
"That's different. That's art."
"That's you being a sadistic asshole."
"Potato, po-tah-to." We turn onto the main street, heading toward where his car is parked. The neighborhood is quiet this time of night, the legitimate businesses closed, the illegitimate ones just warming up. "So when are you going to deal with your stalker?"
My step falters for half a second before I recover. "What stalker?"
"Don't play dumb. Private school. The guy who's been showing up to every fight for the past three weeks like he's auditioning for a position in your security detail."
"He's not a stalker. He's just..." I trail off because I don't actually know how to finish that sentence. What is Greer? A bored corporate drone looking for thrills? Someone with trauma trying to self-medicate with violence? A complication I don't need?
All of the above, probably.
"He's just what?" Cain presses. "Harmless? Because I'm getting cop vibes."
"He's not a cop."
"You sure? Because he's got that clean-cut thing going on. Shows up out of nowhere, asks no questions, just watches. That's undercover behavior."
I shake my head. "Cops don't watch like that.
They're looking for evidence, patterns, connections.
This guy..." I picture Greer's face across the bar last night, the intensity in his green-gold eyes, the way he holds his ground when I get in his space.
"He's looking for something, but it's not a case. "
"Then what?"
"Himself, maybe. I don't know. Point is, he's not law enforcement."
"Okay, but what if he's a fed? What if this is bigger than local PD?"
"He's not." My voice is sharper than intended. "I can spot feds. They've got that particular brand of arrogance that comes from federal backing. This guy's just... lost."
Cain stops walking, forcing me to turn back. His expression is serious now, the mockery gone. "Z, the way he watches you isn't casual. That's not some bored office worker looking for entertainment. That's obsession. And obsession makes people do stupid, dangerous things."
"You worried about him or me?"
"Both. He's going to get himself killed if he keeps pushing into this world, and you're going to feel responsible when it happens."
The accusation lands harder than I'd like. I cross my arms, defensive. "Why would I feel responsible? I keep telling him to leave."
"And yet he keeps coming back. Which means either he's incredibly stupid or you're not being as convincing as you think."
"Maybe I'm not trying to be convincing."
Cain's eyebrows rise. "Oh, that's healthy. String along the civilian, see what happens. Great plan."
"I'm not stringing him along. He's a spectator. He sticks to public spaces, doesn't push into actual business. He'll get bored eventually."
"Will he? Because from where I'm standing, he looks more invested every time I see him."
I think about the way Greer challenged me last night, the edge in his voice when he said he didn't care about ending well. The darkness I saw in his eyes, recognizing something broken that's trying to piece itself back together in all the wrong ways.
"He'll be fine," I say, pushing past Cain toward the car. "He's playing tourist, testing boundaries. Eventually reality will hit and he'll run back to his safe life."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then that's his problem, not mine."
Cain follows, unconvinced. "You're going to regret this."
"You keep saying that like I have control over what some random guy does with his free time."
"You have control over how you respond to it." He unlocks the car, slides into the driver's seat. "You could actually scare him off instead of... whatever the fuck you're doing."
"I'm not doing anything."
"Right. The way you look at him is totally nothing. Very convincing."
Heat crawls up my neck and I ignore it, buckling into the passenger seat. Cain usually drives his bike, but when we're together, I let him drive my car. "We need to focus on actual problems. Like the Okafors and those shipments you mentioned."
Cain starts the engine, mercifully dropping the subject. "Shipments are Thursday night, northern warehouse. I'll have extra security just in case."
"Good. And keep monitoring their movements. I want to know if they make any plays before we're ready to respond."
"You got it, boss." The title is mocking but affectionate, the same way most of our interactions land. "Where to?"
"Drop me at my place. I need to review those manifests."
"You mean you need to brood about private school and pretend you're working."
"Cain."
"Fine, fine. Going to your place." He pulls out, navigating the familiar streets with easy confidence. "But for the record, this is going to blow up in your face."
"Noted. Your concern is touching."
"I'm a very caring person."
"You're an asshole."
"That too."
I should stay home.
The manifests actually do need review, and I have calls to make, territory to manage, a dozen responsibilities that don't involve underground fight clubs or green-eyed corporate drones who don't know when to quit.
But I've been cooped up in meetings all day, playing politics and strategy, and I need to feel like myself again. Need the raw energy of the clubs, the violence and honesty, the reminder that I'm not just Malcolm's daughter holding his empire together—I'm Viper, undefeated, feared.
Everything I do is an angle. Everything is calculated to maintain position, show strength, keep people in line.
Going to the clubs tonight isn't about entertainment or even about Greer, despite what Cain thinks.
It's about presence. About making sure everyone sees me, remembers who runs this territory, understands that Bennett power didn't disappear when my father went inside.
At least that's what I tell myself as I pull on dark jeans and a leather jacket, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror.
The truth—the part I don't want to examine too closely—is that I'm hoping Greer shows up tonight. That I want to see what happens if I push him a little harder, test those boundaries he claims don't exist anymore.
It's stupid. Reckless. Exactly the kind of personal complication I can't afford.
I go anyway.
The bar is packed when I arrive, the kind of mixed crowd that blends legitimate patrons with our people. Music thumps from speakers, pool balls crack in the back room, and the bartender nods at me as I pass. This place is neutral ground, Bennett-protected but open to anyone who respects the rules.
I scan the room out of habit—checking for problems, for opportunities, for anything that needs attention. Then I spot Dante near the back booth, one of my father's oldest associates, someone whose loyalty I need to maintain.
He sees me at the same time, gestures me over.
I navigate through the crowd, exchanging nods and brief words with people who want to be seen acknowledging me. Status performance, territory marking, the endless dance of power.