Page 19 of Before I Say I Don’t

Chapter Nine

ROMAN

I nursed my drink at the corner of the high-top table with one hand in my pocket and my eyes scanning the room with that calm, lawyer-by-day, predator-by-night composure I was known for.

Viangelo invited all his guys out to a lounge called Luxe. He called it “Groomsmen night out… said it was “a little pre-wedding bonding.” Which I found to be odd as hell, considering he wanted to meet and drink during the week instead of on the weekend.

I was the first to arrive; I was just waiting on their asses.

Five minutes later, Viangelo arrived with two of his cousins flanking him, a friend I remembered from summer runs, and the best man, Jax, who was nice enough when he was sober and a documentary nobody asked for when he wasn’t.

“Roman!” Viangelo greeted me with a slap on the back, the easy familiarity of old friends.

“I see some things never change. Yo’ ass was always the first to arrive anywhere.” He chuckled.

I smirked, leaning back. “Somebody’s gotta set the tone. You know I don’t like being fashionably late; I like being remembered. But what’s up, man?”

“Shid, this high-ass wedding is what’s up,” he answered, dropping into the booth with a dramatic exhale. “For real, though, it’s good to see you, man. You’ve been laying low since you got back.”

I let my smile tilt just a little. “You know how I do. Move quiet, keep it clean, and let folks guess what I’m up to. They usually guess wrong.”

“Facts! But welcome back, G,” Jax said, pulling me in for a hug. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show up, but Angelo said you’d come through.”

“Yeah. I had to see what Chicago calls a boys’ night in 2025. Figured I’d show my face before this nigga gets tied down.”

The table laughed… Viangelo included.

“Tied down?” Viangelo shook his head. “More like upgraded .”

It was friendly enough, but I was already clocking him.

“Yo!” Viangelo shouted, flagging down the waitress. “Round of shots!”

The waitress came back with the shots and a plate of lime wedges nobody asked for. She leaned a little too far over the table as she set Viangelo’s glass down, her hand brushing his shoulder like it belonged there. He didn’t push her away—just smirked like it was part of the service.

Jax elbowed me. “Angelo’s gonna flirt with the DJ next.”

“You gon’ get yourself in premarital counseling,” one cousin added, and the whole table howled.

“Y’all sound jealous,” Viangelo grinned. “But the shit was harmless. It ain’t like I asked for her number. Let me live a little before I gotta answer to ‘Yes, wife’ and ‘No, wife’ in two weeks.”

To his boys, it was a joke. To me, it was a tell.

I noticed it all—the way Viangelo let the waitress be all in his space, the way his smirk lasted a bit too long, and the way he tried to blur the line between harmless and disrespectful.

Men don’t have to take numbers to cheat; they just have to leave the door cracked and smile at whoever walks in.

Jax raised his glass. “To the last days.”

We lifted, clinked, and sipped.

The next thirty minutes were laughter and lies.

Viangelo had been laying it on thick all night, smiling big, playing the role of the devoted fiancé like he deserved an award for it.

“Kam’s been stressed with all the wedding details, but I told her not to worry—I got this. My lady is about to have the wedding she deserves. The venue’s booked, catering’s handled and honeymoon’s paid for.”

I swirled my drink, hiding the way my jaw twitched.

For a man who “had everything handled,” he sure had Kamira covering most of the costs. Kamira had told me enough to know all of that was smoke. Still, Viangelo said it smooth, and the other niggas ate it up.

I leaned back, smirking. “Sounds like you’ve got it all under control.”

“Damn right. She’s my queen, man. I’m making sure she doesn’t lift a finger.” he replied, leaning forward, eyes bright like a man in love.

The guys nodded, slapped him on the back, and ordered another round.

Then one of the groomsmen, Terrence—loose mouth, already halfway lit—leaned in with a laugh.

“Yeah, just don’t let her find out about your Tuesday nights , bro.”

The table went quiet for half a beat—just long enough to mean something .

I had a feeling what “Tuesday nights” meant, but I kept my face flat and my glass lifted like it was just another throwaway joke.

Viangelo’s jaw ticked and eyes cut to Terrence with a glare sharp enough to slice him open.

“Ain’t nothing to find out. Right ?”

The question wasn’t really a question—it was a warning dressed as one.

Terrence chuckled, suddenly finding the bottom of his beer bottle real interesting.

“Yeah, yeah. Just messing.”

I didn’t say a word, but I did make a mental note.

The shift in Viangelo’s tone and the look on Terrence’s face… that wasn’t “just messing.” That was a man who’d let too much truth slip through his teeth.

I’d seen it too many times—the cover-up smile, the deflection, the way a man’s body tensed when his truth was dangling by a thread. And the way Viangelo looked at Terrence? Hell, I’d seen softer stares before a fight broke out.

“ Make sure those Tuesday nights turn into date night after ‘I do,’” I slid in, light but pointed. “Consistency is cheaper than apologies.”

The tension loosened a notch, and the hum of conversation found its rhythm again.

The table laughed—the kind of laugh people give when they’re not sure if it’s a joke but decide to laugh anyway so they don’t feel awkward.

Viangelo shot me an appraising glance—like he was trying to decide if I’d just tossed shade or wisdom across the table. Then he smirked, slow, that smug little curl of his mouth that always said he thought he was untouchable.

“Look at Roman dropping Pinterest quotes and shit,” he quipped, lifting his glass in my direction. “To good friends and even better wives.” His smirk lingered like he believed his own toast.

I clinked my glass with his but kept my eyes steady. “To truth and loyalty,” I included.

Viangelo laughed like he didn’t notice the difference, but I could see the flicker in his eyes.

Moments later, his phone buzzed under the table. He angled it away from the group, thumbs moving with a speed no fiancée ever inspired. That wasn’t a “hey baby” smile; that was a secret smile.

“Be right back,” he announced, sliding out of the booth before anyone could even nod.

I checked my watch after five minutes… then ten… then fifteen. Nobody else seemed to notice. They were all caught up in gossip, wings, and whiskey, but I saw it for what it was. That wasn’t a bathroom break… more like a rendezvous.

When Viangelo finally slid back into the booth, his collar was shifted like somebody had tugged it, his face a little too freshly wiped—like he’d just rehearsed his innocence in the mirror.

Then, as if the universe wanted to testify, his phone lit up again.

A woman’s name—not Kamira’s—glowed across the screen, and the smirk he tried to hide said more than any excuse could.

Tell me you’re sloppy without telling me you’re sloppy, nigga.

I sipped my drink slow; lips pressed to the rim. Outwardly, I was just another friend at the table. Inwardly? I was seething and gearing up.

Viangelo didn’t know it yet, but court was already in session. Every smirk, every too-long bathroom break and every name that lit up across his phone—I filed it neatly like evidence.

Exhibit A: the crooked collar. Exhibit B: the smirk he couldn’t swallow. Exhibit C: the text that had him grinning under the table like a middle-schooler with a hall pass.

The jury in my chest was already deliberating, and the verdict wasn’t looking good.

I wasn’t rushing the trial, though. Sometimes the best way to win is to let a liar talk themselves into a conviction. By the time the gavel dropped, there wouldn’t be any room left for reasonable doubt.

The rest of the night blurred into small talk, sports scores, empty laughter, and wings we didn’t need…

but none of it mattered. My focus never left Viangelo.

Every easy smile he flashed, every shoulder slap, and every casual “bro” he said—it all screamed performance.

And Kamira? She didn’t even know she was watching a play.

And if his shadows ever touched her? I’d drag Viangelo into the light myself. He’d find out fast I wasn’t built to let shit like that slide.

“You settled back in yet?” he asked, leaning back in his chair like he was king of something.

“I’m just here for a month; I don’t plan on doing too much settling,” I replied, calm. “Just letting the city reintroduce itself.”

“Good… we need your kind of energy at the wedding to balance my chaos.”

I let a slow smile tilt my mouth. “I don’t balance men; I tell ’em the truth.”

Jax whistled, low. “Bars.”

I swirled what was left in my glass, watching the light catch the amber liquid .

My savage usually slept in silence. But sometimes, like tonight, he poked his head out just long enough to stretch in the sun.

I stood before the mood curdled.

“I’m out,” I announced, sliding from the booth.

“Already?” Jax frowned.

“Early morning,” I lied, tossing a half-smile.

Viangelo stood too. “Let me walk you out.”

We stepped into the night, the city’s heat still clinging to the air. Viangelo followed close behind, like he didn’t want the silence to do the talking for him.

“Yo,” he said, voice easy. “You know I’m glad you came through, right? It means a lot you being part of my wedding.”

“No problem.” I kept it simple.

“Speaking of…” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “My fiancée says she knows you from college.”

I gave him a lazy grin.

“Yeah. Kamira and I go back… but we didn’t really hang out much,” I lied. “Just same lecture halls, caffeine addictions, and professors trying to scare us out of law school. She was sharp back then… still is. Smarter than most of us put together.”

Viangelo’s smile twitched. Based on his expression, he appeared not to be sure if I was complimenting Kamira or reminding him of something he didn’t want to picture.

He chuckled, uneasily. “Small world.”

“Small world indeed,” I echoed, sliding my hands into my pockets. “But big memories.”

The air between us got heavy… thick enough that even the streetlamp buzz seemed to hesitate.

I let it linger before flashing him a grin that didn’t reach my eyes.

“Anyway, you got a good one… make sure you act like it. Which brings me to ask… are you sure you’re ready for married life, or do you still got a couple bad habits to kill off first?”

Viangelo laughed it off, that easy, charm-your-way-out laugh. Then he saw I wasn’t laughing.

“You know the phrase ‘cold feet’? Not like I’m not gonna do it. I’m just… you know. It’s like—this shit is really about to happen. I’m about to be somebody’s husband… committed to one female… for the rest of my life. That’s heavy.”

“Cold feet is your body telling you to slow down and look around… not to run, but to check your pockets and make sure you’re not carrying lies to the altar.”

Viangelo laughed again, like I’d cracked a joke.

He wanted it to be a joke… needed it to be.

“You always be on philosophy time,” he said, nudging my side. “I’ll see you next week, man.”

“See you,” I responded.

With that, Viangelo headed back inside.

I watched the way his eyes scanned the room before he slid into the booth again.

Hunters and husbands look at rooms differently. Viangelo was still choosing targets; he hadn’t learned how to choose home.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I started the engine but didn’t move. My mind wasn’t on the road—it was on Kamira.

Aight, nigga— I told myself, You’re not her man. You’re not her keeper. But if she calls… if she so much as hints she needs you… be there. No questions.

By the time I pulled off, I had no proof… just instinct. And my instincts were rarely wrong. Still, I was going to keep my ears open and watch Viangelo and the company he kept. I wasn’t afraid to play the long game—hell, I thrived in it. If he was as clean as he pretended, I’d find out soon enough.

But if he wasn’t?

I smiled to myself, a slow, cold curl of the lips.

Let’s just say, I wasn’t there to steal what wasn’t mine. I was there to be ready, not by accident, but by honesty.