Zaria
Three weeks slide by in a blur of violence, strategy, and domesticity that would've seemed impossible months ago.
We moved into a new place—a modern loft in a renovated warehouse halfway between Jersey and Manhattan, close enough to both worlds but belonging fully to neither.
Greer negotiated the lease with the same analytical precision he brings to everything, pointing out security concerns and exit routes like he's been doing this his whole life instead of just since he met me.
The space is ours in a way my old apartment never felt.
We picked out furniture together, argued over kitchen appliances, compromised on paint colors.
His books sit on the same shelves as my files.
His running shoes by the door next to my boots.
That stuffed panda from our first real night together is on a chair in our bedroom. Small things that add up to permanence.
Weekly dinners with Hayes and Lilah, Heath and Ella have become routine.
Last Wednesday, Ella got me drunk on wine and convinced me to try yoga.
Hayes spent the evening giving Greer increasingly elaborate combat scenarios while Lilah rolled her eyes at both of them.
It feels like family—the kind I haven't had since my father got locked up.
Most days, Greer comes with me to handle problems. Cain still gives him shit constantly, but there's genuine respect underneath the insults now.
Last week, Greer spotted a pattern in our supply chain that saved us fifty thousand dollars.
Yesterday, he talked down a potential territory dispute with logic instead of violence, which impressed even Cain.
He's been transitioning out of his marketing job, taking more "sick days" until his boss finally asked if everything was okay.
Next month, he's quitting entirely to work with me full-time.
Things are perfect in a way I never expected my life could be. Dangerous and violent when necessary, but grounded in partnership and love and this bone-deep certainty that we're building something that lasts.
Which is why I'm terrified right now.
"Stop fidgeting." Greer's hand finds mine as we walk through the prison parking lot.
"I'm not fidgeting."
"You've checked your hair three times in the last two minutes." His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "He's your father. He's going to love you regardless of who you bring to meet him."
"That's not what I'm worried about." I pull my hand free to smooth my shirt—black silk, tailored, professional. Not too soft, not too aggressive. I changed twice before we left. "I'm worried he's going to hate you."
"Then he hates me." Greer shrugs like it's simple. "Won't change anything between us."
The casual certainty in his voice makes my chest tight.
He means it—even if my father rejects him completely, Greer isn't walking away.
He's already proven that in every way that matters over the past months.
But this still feels different. Malcolm Bennett's opinion carries weight I can't ignore, legacy wrapped up in blood and loyalty that predates anything Greer and I have built.
I've visited my father every month for five years.
Sat across from him in the visiting room and reported on territory status, crew problems, revenue streams. All business, because sentiment gets people killed in our world.
But bringing Greer here—introducing him as mine—that's personal in a way nothing else has been.
What if my father sees weakness instead of strength? What if he thinks Greer is a liability, someone who'll get me killed because I care too much?
What if he's right?
"Hey." Greer stops walking, turning to face me. "Breathe."
"I'm breathing."
"No, you're spiraling." He cups my face, forcing me to meet those green-gold eyes.
"Your father is going to see exactly what I am—someone who loves you, who's proven loyalty through violence and strategy, who's willing to do whatever it takes to protect what's yours.
If he can't accept that, then he's not the man you've described to me all these weeks. "
The words settle something in my chest. Greer's right—Malcolm Bennett didn't build an empire through blind prejudice or snap judgments.
He reads people, sees their potential or their threat, and acts accordingly.
If Greer walks in there honest about who he is and what he's done for me, my father will recognize it.
At least, that's what I'm telling myself as we clear security and move deeper into the facility.
The visiting room is exactly as depressing as always—fluorescent lights, cheap tables bolted to the floor, guards stationed at every exit.
The same handful of families occupy their usual spots, wives and children maintaining connections to men they see through reinforced glass or across monitored tables.
I've watched the same toddler grow into a sullen teenager over five years of monthly visits, and the weight of that hits different now that I'm bringing someone who matters.
My father appears through the far door, and my breath catches the way it always does.
Malcolm Bennett at fifty-six is still imposing—six feet of contained violence wrapped in prison blues, moving with the controlled grace of someone who remembers how to kill.
His amber eyes—the same shade as mine—find me immediately, and I see the moment he notices Greer at my side.
His expression doesn't change, but I know him well enough to read the slight tension in his shoulders. Questions he'll wait to ask until we're sitting down, until he can assess properly.
We claim a table in the back corner, the three of us settling into chairs that creak under the weight.
My father's gaze moves between me and Greer with methodical precision, taking in our proximity, the way Greer's leg presses against mine under the table, the small intimacies that betray exactly what we are to each other.
"Dad." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "This is Greer Martin. He's?—"
"The analyst from Manhattan who killed Rasheed and Felix." My father's voice is exactly as I remember—deep, calm, assessing. "Cain told me about him last month."
Of course Cain did. I should've known he'd warn my father, give him time to process before this meeting. Probably saved me from having to explain the basics.
"Yes, sir." Greer extends his hand across the table without hesitation. "It's an honor to finally meet you. Zaria speaks about you constantly."
My father studies Greer's hand for a long moment—long enough that discomfort prickles down my spine—before accepting the handshake. His grip is firm, assessing, and I watch him read everything he can from that single point of contact.
"Martin." My father settles back in his chair. "Irish?"
"Half. Other half is Dutch and German." Greer doesn't flinch under the scrutiny. "Grew up in Connecticut, went to boarding school, got my MBA before discovering I was better suited for strategy in criminal enterprise than corporate marketing."
The blunt honesty makes me tense, but my father's mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. He appreciates directness, always has.
"And how did you discover that?" My father's eyes stay locked on Greer.
"I was kidnapped and beaten by my sister's abusive ex nine months ago.
" Greer's voice stays steady, matter-of-fact.
"My future brother-in-law killed him in front of me, and I realized violence in service of protection was something I understood instinctively.
Met your daughter at a fight club a few months later and she gave me an outlet to explore that darkness. "
The casual way he summarizes our beginning—months of tension and resistance and me trying desperately to keep him out—makes it sound inevitable. Like there was never any other outcome except this.
My father's gaze shifts to me. "You tried to keep him away."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. "For weeks. He kept showing up. Kept proving himself. Kept refusing to leave even when I told him he was going to get hurt."
"Because she was worth the risk." Greer's hand finds mine under the table, threading our fingers together. "Still is. Always will be."
The touch grounds me, reminds me why we're here.
Not to get permission—we're both too far gone for that—but to integrate Greer into the final piece of my life that matters.
To show my father that I'm not alone anymore, that I've found someone who can stand beside me in this world without getting destroyed by it.
My father watches the small gesture, and something shifts in his expression. Not softness exactly, but recognition. Like he's seeing something he understands intimately.
"Cain says you're smart." My father leans forward slightly. "That you spotted patterns in our supply chain that saved money, that you talked down the Westside dispute without violence, that you've been training with him and learning fast."
"Cain's a good teacher." Greer's voice carries genuine respect. "And yes, I have a background in data analysis and strategic planning that translates well to territorial operations. I've been helping Zaria optimize distribution routes and identify potential problems before they escalate."
"He's leaving his corporate job next month to work with me full-time." I force myself to meet my father's eyes. "We moved in together three weeks ago. He's part of my crew now, part of the operation. Part of my life."
The words hang in the air between us. I'm not asking for approval—I'm telling him this is happening regardless. But the weight of his judgment still matters in ways I wish it didn't.
My father's gaze stays on me for a long moment before shifting back to Greer. "You killed for her."
"Yes, sir." No hesitation.
"Would you do it again?"
"Without question." Greer's voice is firm. "I'd do whatever necessary to protect her and what she's built. That's not going to change."