Page 2 of Blake University HBCU Chronicles: Nuri & Silas

Professor Muthafuckin’ Sullivan. Nuri shook her head and slightly bit down on her lip as she walked away.

He was undoubtedly Blake University’s whisper.

No wedding ring. No woman was ever seen with him, and he taught Psychology like he could see straight through you.

Yet, he kept his private life locked in a vault somewhere no one had the key to.

Nuri met his eyes the second he stepped through the door, and he never looked away.

Nuri and Bre slipped into a booth near the back—just close enough to the kitchen to smell the seafood coming out fresh.

“Can I get you ladies started with some drinks?” The waitress asked.

“Yes, we’ll take two palomas please,” Nuri quickly ordered their drinks.

As soon as the waitress turned to walk away, Bre leaned in with pettiness.

“Now I know damn well, he definitely felt that gotdamn look.”

“Oh my God, Brielle… What look?” Nuri played dumb.

“The one you just gave him before walking away. That look that said you want extra credit in ways HR don’t allow. ”

Nuri cracked up laughing. “Shut the hell up… That’s why I can’t stand yo’ crazy ass.”

“Mhm… Don’t forget I know you better than the majority. Yo’ ass can’t fool me,” Bre told her. “Come on, let’s go get our food.”

Nuri cut her eye in Professor Sullivan’s direction once more, just long enough to catch Professor Sullivan doing the same. Their eyes met for half a second—long enough to say everything their lips never would.

Minutes later, Bre and Nuri made it back to their table with their plates.

“Looks like I’m right on time,” their waitress said, sitting their palomas’ on the table. “Can I get you ladies anything else?”

“Not at the moment, but thank you,” Nuri said, scooting her chair closer to the table.

“You saw the group chat, right?” Bre asked, sipping taking a sip from her glass.

“Mhm. You know our girls stay with the shits.” Nuri giggled.

“I tell you what… I’m not playing about this block party. We gotta come through in true Veta fashion, and we gotta shut that shit down. Nobody else deserves to shine on that stage with us.”

“Nah, for real though. We gotta go hard, or not at all,” Nuri agreed. “We gotta represent like never before… I feel like we need to sport our colors in a new way. Of course, Crimson and black will be our base colors, but we need something to make it pop.”

“Gold accents,” Bre said without missing a beat. “Jewelry, heels, and our makeup needs to be red and gold. We gotta have some gold eye shimmer… real goddess but dangerous type shit.”

“Yesss, sis.” Nuri agreed. “And I’m thinking we hit ‘em with custom-cropped jackets. Veta stitched across the back in black thread over crimson satin, gold trim, and line numbers stitched into the wrist.”

Bri’s mouth opened.

“Bitch, I could cry. That’s gone be hard as fuck. I love it!”

Nuri and Bre laughed so loud they made the couple across the aisle look over, but they didn’t give a damn.

“And we not inviting Zaria,” Nuri added, voice dipping into steel. “She still got me blocked, and I’m too damn grown to be dealing with childish behavior. We’re in a good place, ain’t nobody got time to deal with all that toxic ass energy.”

“Facts,” Bre nodded. “She ain’t Veta no more. She’s Zaria the vagabond. Her crazy ass been floating between orgs like she lookin’ for her identity. Let her ass watch from the gate.”

“And the Kamma Metas ?”

Bre rolled her eyes so hard Nuri swore she heard it.

“They was cool until they started lowkey dissing the black community. I want us all to have a good time this year. They uninvited.”

“Say less,” Nuri smirked. “What about the step routine? I was thinking we could start slow motion, then boom… Let’s start it with something like Chris Brown’s Pills & Automobiles, then flip the tempo with Kash Doll’s Kash Commandments mid-performance for the first routine.”

“Oh yea, we gotta hit ‘em with the beat drop,” Bre said. “I want them to feel us in they soul . No smiling. Just a sexy attitude and footwork.”

“You think we should record the plan now?” Nuri asked, already pulling out her phone. “So we ain’t gotta repeat all this at the meeting?”

Bre cleared her throat like she was prepping for a TED Talk .

Nuri hit a record.

“Hey, Veta sisters! What's up? It’s Nuri and Brielle. We just locked in part of the vision for the block party and trust—this year, we ain’t comin’ to play with nobody. It’s been all gas, no breaks, all year. Let’s keep that same energy flowing.”

“Color scheme is crimson and black with gold accents. We comin’ through with elegance, appeal, and we finna be the flyest sorority on the block.”

“Custom-cropped jackets with our line numbers. Black lace bodysuits underneath, and black jeans. Faces must be beat to the gods’. Tight formation, and the step will start slow and build. We’re performing with purpose.”

“Zaria, the Kappas, and anybody who moved funny last spring? They’re not invited. Energy is everything, and we’re not bringing old vibes into a new season.”

“We’re still meeting next week, same place, same time. We’ll finalize everything then. But lock this in… VETA OVA EVERYTHING!”

Nuri ended the call, tossed her phone on the table, then raised her glass for a toast.

“They gon’ eat that shit up.”

“They better,” Bre said. “We feedin’ ‘em nothing but royalty this year.”

Silas was never loud about his power. Silence is a language too.

Silence wasn’t just golden to Silas Sullivan.

It was sacred. It was a part of his strategy, and it was the one thing that never turned on him.

He’d made peace with silence years ago—learned how to hear his breath amid chaos.

How to think five steps ahead while everybody else was caught up in the noise and nonsense.

He was always watching. Always learning. Always a man in control.

The warehouse wasn’t a rundown spot with rats and creaky floors.

It was immaculate. The room was cold, but not uncomfortable.

The walls were bare, concrete polished to perfection, lit by recessed lighting that cast everything in a subtle golden glow.

Cameras embedded in the corners, steel vaults tucked behind mirrored doors, and not a single fingerprint out of place.

This wasn’t your average warehouse. This was headquarters.

Silas Sullivan ran it like a Fortune 500.

Silas sat back in the leather chair at the head of the long glass table, his fingertips pressed together in that familiar pose—like he was praying, but for strategy, not salvation.

Professor Sullivan b.k.a. Silas… He’d mastered the ability to live two lives.

Never mixing one with the other. Giving each one hundred and ten percent.

Silence filled the room, and he didn’t rush to break it.

Silas didn’t speak much unless he was in the classroom—and even then, he rationed them out like gold.

He understood the power in stillness, and the control found in quietness.

Most times people found ways to talk too much, but Silas mastered the art of listening, learning, and burying muthafuckas with the same words they offered so freely.

That’s not only how he survived. It’s how he thrived.

On the surface, Silas Sullivan was Blake University’s head and most respected professor in the psychology department.

Thirty-five, clean-cut, well-dressed, and articulate.

A two-time alumnus of Blake U himself, still an active member of Phi Rho b.k.a ‘The Phi’s , a man who shook hands with deans, the mayor, and other public figures by day, and sent quiet orders across state lines by night.

This was a secret no one knew… a close-kept fact that no one would ever find out unless Silas wanted them to —he was the ghost behind Sullivan Cartel.

Silas was so smooth with his operation, and did it so clean, the streets didn’t even speak his name without whispering it.

He didn’t sell women, and didn’t traffic children.

That part of the game had never been a part of his hustle.

Granted, it was prevalent in his late teens and early twenties, and before Silas refined his methods, tightened his circle, and built an empire rooted in leverage, and loyalty.

These days, extortion moved cleaner. Quieter.

He made million-dollar deals without ever raising his blood pressure.

There was No Blood unless it was necessary, and No Noise unless it was useful.

Every dollar laundered was cleaned through Blake University.

Across the table, Memphis, one of Silas’ soldiers, sat with his hoodie down and his watch glinting under the dim lights. He kept checking the time like it had disrespected him.

“You know this nigga late, right?” Memphis said flatly.

Silas glanced at the clock and then back down at the leather duffle bag in front of him.

“Patience… That nigga comin’, ” Silas corrected, his voice low, composed.

“Fear make people stall, and stallin’ make ‘em weak.”

Silas wasn’t concerned because he had leverage.

Superintendent Boyd had no choice but to fall in line with the program because his hands were just as dirty as Silas’.

The difference was that it’d cost Superintendent Boyd his life if he didn’t adhere to their agreement.

Beyond that, Boyd had dipped into the University’s funds to cover personal debts, and when it caught up with him, Silas had been there—offering a solution wrapped in numbers and sealed with a smile.

Now, he owned him. The meeting was just a formality.

Silas leaned forward and brushed invisible lint from his charcoal slacks, then smoothed his hand over the deep-set ocean waves resting on top of his head.

His fade was always fresh, and his edge stayed razor-sharp.

He was always groomed, always ready. He was the type of man women noticed but couldn’t quite read.

Smooth voice, fitted suit, and mystery rested behind his alluring orbs.

He didn’t need to be loud as long as he was effective.

His mind drifted for a second to earlier that night at Copeland’s.

Nuri Sinclair.

Brown skin, soft edges, and that quiet fire tucked behind her smile.

She was all together complicated, tempting, and dangerous.

He had no business wanting her, and even less reason to let himself feel anything.

But the thought of her had lingered—longer than it should’ve.

The respect, attraction, and curiosity was all present, but she was the Superintendent’s daughter and his top student.

Yet, something about her made him dare to indulge in what he knew was forbidden.

Suddenly, the elevator at the far end of the room slid open with a soft chime. It was none other than Blake University’s Superintendent Boyd.

“Silas,” Boyd greeted with treachery dripping from his tone.

Silas nodded, without bothering to stand. “Director.”

Memphis stood and handed Boyd the bag. Conversation between Silas and Boyd was always clipped because Silas didn’t trust him, and never gave him a chance to use his words against him.

“How much is in the bag this time?” Boyd asked, attempting to start a conversation.

Silas handed him a folder. “Everything is there. You sign. I’ll deliver. Your seat on the board is secure, and your pension will remain untouched.”

“And the additional?—”

“You askin’ questions like you forgot who fixed yo’ life,” Silas cut in, voice smooth but sharp. “Don’t get curious now. Just finish the play.”

Memphis smirked behind him, arms folded like a soldier watching a chess match. He’d seen this show before.

Silas walked to the tinted window and looked out at the city lights.

Cove City stretched before him in silence.

Blake University lit up in the distance.

He rested one palm against the cool glass, and watched the cars blink past like ants.

She out there. Somewhere. He didn’t want to want her.

Didn’t need the complication, but the way she looked at him made his soul lurch in his chest. And even though he’d learned how to bury everything years ago, he wasn’t sure he could bury her.

He tapped his finger once against the glass.

Stay out of the fire, pretty girl. This world don’t bend for softness.

Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.