17. Zaria
ZARIA
I've stopped pretending I don't want Greer around.
He shows up at Marco's most nights now, changing in his car before walking in like he belongs. And the fucked-up thing is—he does belong. My crew treats him like he's part of operations, Cain actually respects him, and I've caught myself looking for him when he's not there.
Tonight he's at my apartment, sprawled on my couch with his laptop balanced on his thighs, working through some report for his actual job.
The domestic normalcy of it should bother me—this clean slice of ordinary life invading my space—but instead I find myself watching the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating, the absent way he runs his hand through his hair.
"You're staring," he says without looking up.
"I'm admiring the view." I lean against the kitchen counter, coffee mug warming my palms. "There's a difference."
"Uh-huh." His mouth curves, eyes still on the screen. "And what exactly are you admiring?"
"How well you've adapted to being furniture in my apartment."
Now he looks up, green-gold eyes finding mine across the room. "Furniture?"
"Very nice furniture." I push off the counter, walking toward him. "The kind I'm considering keeping permanently."
His laptop snaps shut. "Yeah?"
"Don't let it go to your head, sweetheart." But I'm smiling as I settle beside him, tucking my legs underneath me. "You're still a pain in my ass."
"Your favorite pain in the ass, though."
"Debatable." I steal his coffee mug, taking a sip before he can protest. "Cain might still win that title."
"Please." Greer reaches for the mug but I hold it away. "You like me around more than Cain." He gives me a cheeky smile. "And he might like me more than he likes you now. We bonded over teaching me new and creative ways to hurt people."
It's true. Watching them train together these past two weeks has been...
unexpected. Cain doesn't warm up to outsiders.
Ever. But something about Greer's complete lack of ego during training, his willingness to get his ass kicked repeatedly just to learn, earned Cain's respect in ways I didn't anticipate.
"He does seem disturbingly fond of you," I admit. "It's weird."
"You're just jealous we have inside jokes now."
"I'm not jealous of?—"
My phone buzzes against the coffee table, cutting off the retort. Cain's name flashes across the screen.
I grab it. "What?"
"Got a present for you at the east docks." Cain's voice carries satisfaction underneath the casual tone. "One of Okafor's capos. Caught him sniffing around our shipment routes, asking questions he shouldn't be asking."
The Okafors have been pushing harder these past few weeks. Testing boundaries, probing for weaknesses, making it clear they think Dad's absence means Bennett territory is up for grabs. We've pushed back, but they're persistent in ways that make my jaw tight.
"How long ago did you grab him?"
"Two hours. I've been letting him sweat while I got things ready for you."
Smart. Fear works better than immediate violence sometimes—give them time to imagine what's coming before you actually deliver it.
"I'll be there in twenty." I stand, already cataloging what I need. "Keep him scared but not damaged yet."
"You got it." Cain pauses. "You want company for this?"
"I'll manage."
"Mm." His tone suggests he doesn't quite believe me, but he doesn't push. "See you soon."
I end the call and find Greer watching me, already pulling on his boots. He hasn't asked what's happening, hasn't questioned whether he's coming with, just assumed.
Something about that presumption should irritate me. Instead, it settles warm in my chest.
"What kind of problem?" he asks.
"One of the Okafor capos got too interested in our shipping routes." I grab my jacket from the back of a chair. "Cain has him at the docks. I need to find out what they're planning and make it very clear that Bennett territory isn't available for expansion."
Greer stands, reaching for his henley where it's draped over my couch. "Then let's go find out what he knows."
I should tell him to stay here. This is crew business, the kind of thing I've always handled with just Cain as backup.
But the words don't come. Instead, I watch him shrug into his shirt, covering the lean muscle Hayes and Cain have helped build, and I make a decision that months ago would've seemed impossible.
"Fine." I toss him my car keys. "You drive."
His eyebrows rise—I never let anyone else but Cain drive—but he catches the keys smoothly. "Yes ma'am."
The drive to the east docks takes eighteen minutes through streets that empty out this time of night.
Greer navigates without needing directions, having learned Bennett territory's layout through sheer osmosis these past weeks.
His hands are relaxed on the wheel, no nervous energy or anticipation beyond what always hums under his skin when violence might be involved.
"What's the play?" he asks as we turn down the access road leading to our section of the docks.
"Find out what the Okafors are planning.
How many operations they're running against us, who's feeding them information, what their timeline looks like.
" I check my knife against my thigh, making sure it's secure.
"Then make sure he understands that talking to me was the better option compared to what happens if I have to pull this information out of him. "
"Carrot and stick."
"More like stick and bigger stick." I glance at him. "You good with that?"
"Sweetheart." His mouth curves as he parks behind Cain's motorcycle. "I'm good with whatever you need me to be good with."
The warehouse Cain chose sits at the far end of our dock section—isolated enough for privacy but still clearly Bennett territory. Light spills from the half-open loading door, casting harsh shadows across the concrete.
Cain leans against his bike, arms crossed, looking relaxed in ways that mean he's completely alert. His gaze flicks to Greer climbing out of the passenger side, and something shifts in his expression.
"You brought backup." It's not a question.
"He wanted to come." I round the car, boots crunching on gravel. "You have a problem with that?"
"Nah." Cain pushes off his bike. "Actually makes my night easier. I've got three other things I need to handle before morning, so if you've got backup already..." He trails off meaningfully.
This is significant. Cain never leaves me alone during interrogations, always insists on being there even when I don't strictly need him. The fact that he's willing to walk away with Greer here says more about how far my guy's come than any words could.
"Go." I jerk my chin toward the street. "Handle your shit."
"Text me when you're done." Cain swings onto his bike, then pauses to look at Greer. "Don't let her do anything too creative. We need him able to talk."
"I'll do my best." Greer's tone carries dry humor. "But you know how she gets."
Cain's laugh echoes as he starts his engine. "Good luck, man."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with Greer and whoever's tied up inside that warehouse.
Greer looks at me, waiting for direction. Not pushing, not assuming, just ready for whatever I need. It's that easy deference to my lead—even though I've watched him be assertive and commanding in every other context—that makes heat curl low in my belly.
"Come on." I head toward the loading door. "Let's see what our guest knows."
The warehouse interior is exactly what I expected—concrete floors, metal support beams, and scattered equipment from when this space actually served its legitimate purpose. Cain's set up in the back corner where shadows are deepest, a single work light pointed at the man tied to a metal chair.
The Okafor capo is in his thirties, well-dressed in clothes that are now rumpled and sweat-stained.
His wrists are bound behind the chair, ankles secured to the legs, but Cain hasn't hurt him yet beyond whatever force was needed to get him here.
His face is intact, no visible bruising, just the wide-eyed fear of someone who knows exactly how bad this could get.
"Zaria Bennett." His voice wavers slightly. "I don't know what your man told you, but there's been a misunderstanding?—"
"The only misunderstanding is you thinking I'm stupid enough to believe that.
" I circle his chair slowly, letting him track my movement.
"Cain caught you asking very specific questions about our shipping schedules and routes.
Questions someone only asks when they're planning to fuck with our operations. "
"I was just gathering general information?—"
"Wrong answer." I stop behind him, close enough that he has to crane his neck to keep me in sight. "Let's try again. What is Okafor planning, and when?"
"I don't?—"
My hand fists in his hair, yanking his head back hard enough to expose his throat. "Think very carefully before you finish that sentence."
Greer leans against a support beam ten feet away, arms crossed, watching with the kind of detached interest someone shows when observing a chess match. Not squeamish, not uncomfortable, just... analytical. Waiting to see how this plays out.
I could do this myself. Have done it countless times. But something about having Greer here, about the way he's integrated into every other aspect of my operations, makes me want to include him in this too.
"You know what?" I release the capo's hair, stepping back. "I'm going to let my associate ask you some questions. He's got a different approach than me—more strategic, less immediate pain." I glance at Greer. "You want to take a crack at this?"
Greer pushes off the beam, and the shift in his posture is subtle but unmistakable. The casual observer is gone, replaced by someone who understands exactly what's at stake and how to extract what we need.
"What's your name?" he asks, voice calm and conversational.
The capo blinks. "Musa."