7. Greer
GREER
Ican't wait to see Zaria.
Three days since I walked away from that alley.
Three days of planning, researching, tracking shipment routes through databases that took considerable finesse to access without leaving digital fingerprints.
Three days of figuring out how to intercept an Okafor operation without getting myself killed in the process.
The logistics were complex but not impossible—identify the weak points in their communication chain, spread misinformation about route compromises through channels they'd consider credible, redirect them to a location where I had the advantage of surprise and preparation.
Take out the security fast enough that they couldn't call for backup.
Secure the product and deliver it to Zaria with a message that made it clear this was Bennett retaliation, not random theft.
I made sure the Okafors knew it came from her. Made sure they understood Bennett territory isn't theirs to play in. Made sure Zaria got the credit while keeping my involvement invisible enough that she wasn't put at additional risk.
The satisfaction of pulling it off was immediate and visceral—that same rush of adrenaline I felt watching her fight, but amplified because I'd created the violence instead of just witnessing it.
Now I'm heading back to Marco's bar, the one where we first met. Where she looked at me across the crowd after crushing a man's windpipe and something fundamental shifted in my understanding of what I wanted from life.
I don't know if she'll be there. Don't know if she appreciated my gift or if she's furious about my interference. But I need to see her reaction, need to know if what I did was enough to prove I belong in her world.
The bar is quieter than usual when I arrive—early evening, before the fight crowds gather. A few regulars nursing drinks, low music playing, the familiar smell of liquor and violence.
And there, at the far end near the hallway that leads to the back rooms, is Zaria.
She's leaning against the wall in dark jeans and a fitted black tank top that shows her arms, her natural hair styled in twists that frame her face.
Watching the door like she's been waiting.
When her amber eyes lock on mine, there's something in her expression I can't quite read—amusement mixed with calculation mixed with something that looks almost like approval.
My pulse kicks up. I cross to her, weaving between tables, aware of Marco watching from behind the bar with an expression that suggests he knows exactly who I am and what I did.
"Good boy," Zaria says when I reach her, and there's none of the usual mockery in the nickname. "I was wondering if you'd have the balls to show up."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Because what you did was either very stupid or very calculated, and I wasn't sure which." She pushes off the wall, gesturing toward the hallway. "Come on. We need to talk somewhere more private."
I follow her down the dim corridor to one of the back rooms—the same kind of space where fights happen, but this one's empty except for some chairs and a table.
She closes the door behind us, and suddenly the noise from the bar is muffled, leaving just the two of us in close quarters with the weight of what I did hanging between us.
"So." She turns to face me, arms crossed. "You want to explain what you were thinking?"
"I told you in the note. I didn't like the idea of you getting bloody without me there to watch."
"That's not an explanation, that's a justification." But there's a slight curve to her mouth that suggests she's not actually angry. "Walk me through it. How did a marketing analyst with no criminal experience manage to intercept an Okafor shipment that my own crew was planning to hit?"
The question isn't accusatory—it's genuinely curious. She wants to understand my process.
"I listened when you were talking to Cain at the bar," I start. "Heard you mention the northern route, Thursday night, six people. Then I did what I do best—found patterns, identified variables, optimized the operation."
"Optimized."
"I researched Okafor distribution networks using public shipping records and corporate databases.
Tracked their legitimate business fronts to predict where they'd move product through your territory.
Found the communication channels they use—not encrypted nearly as well as they think—and introduced misinformation about the route being compromised. "
Her eyebrows rise. "You hacked them?"
"I prefer 'accessed information through creative means.
' But yes." I move closer, watching her reaction.
"They believed the route was blown, rerouted to a secondary location I controlled.
I took out their security before they could call for backup, secured the product and one hostage, and delivered everything to your warehouse. "
"You took out three armed men."
"My brother-in-law has been teaching me combat for almost a year. Turns out I'm a quick study when I'm motivated." The memory of that fight surges through me—the clean efficiency of disabling threats, the rush of controlled violence. "They weren't expecting someone like me. That was my advantage."
Zaria studies me in that way she has, like she's analyzing every layer of who I am. "And you made sure the Okafors knew it was Bennett retaliation."
"Of course. That was the point—establishing your boundaries, sending the message that their product isn't safe in your territory.
I gave you the credit because it needed to come from you.
" I hold her gaze. "I'm not trying to take over your operations, Zaria.
I'm trying to prove I can be useful in them. "
"Useful." She tastes the word. "That's what you think you are?"
"I think I solved your problem without putting you or your crew at risk. I think I gave you leverage over the Okafors and intelligence on their distribution network for the next month. And I think you're trying to decide if you're impressed or annoyed."
"Both." But the amusement in her expression is winning. "You're reckless and presumptuous and you interfered in business that wasn't yours to handle."
"And?"
"And it was fucking brilliant." She moves closer, into my space, and I can smell her—something dark and spicy that makes my blood heat. "You gave me exactly what I needed in the way I would've done it myself if I had your resources. Clean, strategic, effective."
The approval in her voice sends a thrill straight through me. "So you're not angry."
"Oh, I'm furious. You could've gotten yourself killed doing something that stupid." Her hand comes up to my chest, fingers spread over my heart where she can probably feel it racing. "But I'm also impressed as hell, which is not a feeling I get often."
"Good."
"Someone came sniffing around tonight," she continues, voice dropping lower. "Okafor crew member trying to track down where their product went. Thought he could intimidate my people into giving up information."
Anger flares hot and immediate. "Did he hurt anyone?"
"No. Cain grabbed him before it got that far." Her amber eyes gleam with something predatory. "But it got me thinking about your gift. About how you went through all that trouble to give me something you thought I'd want."
"The shipment."
"The shipment, the intelligence, the message sent. You were very thorough." She slides her hand up to my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheek. "So I thought I should return the favor. Give you something you want."
"What do I want?"
"You said it yourself in the note." Her smile turns dangerous. "You don't like me getting bloody without you there to watch. So I waited."
The implication hits me like a physical blow. "You waited."
"Come on." She takes my hand, leading me out of the room and further down the hallway to a door I haven't seen before. She unlocks it, and the sound of muffled struggling comes from inside.
The room is smaller, concrete floor with a drain in the center. And tied to a chair in the middle of it, gagged and bloodied, is a man in Okafor colors.
Zaria closes the door behind us. "Meet the thief who thought he could steal back what you gave me. I figured before I handle him, you might want to watch. Since you went through all that trouble to keep me from getting bloody on my own."
My pulse is hammering. The man in the chair glares at us with the kind of hatred that comes from knowing exactly what's about to happen. Blood already trails from his nose where someone—Cain probably—roughed him up during capture.
"You're giving me a show," I say.
"I'm giving you what you earned." She moves to a small table against the wall where weapons are laid out—nothing as crude as guns, but knives and other implements designed for up-close work. "You wanted to be here when I get bloody. Here's your chance."
She selects a knife, testing its weight, then approaches the hostage with the kind of casual grace that makes the violence ahead feel inevitable.
The man struggles against his restraints, trying to speak through the gag, but Zaria ignores him.
She's focused entirely on the task, on the control she exerts over this moment.
She glances back at me, and there's something vulnerable in her expression despite the knife in her hand. Like she's checking to see if this is where I finally run, finally prove I'm not actually built for her world.
But I'm transfixed.
My feet carry me closer without conscious thought.
I should be horrified—I know rationally that I should feel disgust or fear or moral outrage at watching someone be hurt.
But all I feel is that same rush from the fight club, from intercepting the shipment, from every moment of violence I've witnessed or participated in since my kidnapping rewired something fundamental in my brain.
I feel alive.
Zaria pulls the gag from the hostage's mouth. He spits blood at her feet. "You're fucking dead. All of you. The Okafors don't forget?—"