Page 28

“W h a t d i d T h e Dream say on that song? Fuuuck that niggaaaa!”

Mecca’s voice rang through her apartment as she held up her wine glass like she was making a toast. Her bright yellow acrylics caught the dim light, and the gold rings on her fingers clinked against the glass as she sipped.

I let out a weak laugh, shaking my head. “You really ain’t shit.”

“I’m just sayin’,”

Mecca said, settling back into the couch, her silk bonnet slightly askew. “Ain’t no way in hell you should be stressin’ over a man who had a whole-ass plot to kill his own brother. That’s some Game of Thrones shit, P. And you married to that?”

I sighed, pressing my fingertips into my temple. “I didn’t know, Mecca. I had no fucking clue. And now that I do… I feel like I’ve been sleeping next to a damn monster. He’s a menace for real.”

Mecca rolled her eyes dramatically. “Girl, we been knew Shooter wasn’t no choirboy, but his own brother? Nah. That’s some next-level demon-time shit. And you did the right thing leavin’.”

I stared down into my wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid, my stomach still knotted with everything I’d learned. Leaving had been the only option. Staying there, pretending I didn’t know the truth, pretending that I could still lie in the same bed as Shooter wasn’t possible.

“I just… I don’t get it,”

I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Silas was family. Blood. I keep asking myself what he did to deserve that. What could possibly make his own father and brother decide he had to die?”

Mecca shook her head. “Baby, these rich, crime-world motherfuckas don’t think like us. They don’t got no real loyalty, no real love. It’s all about power, about makin’ sure they hold the crown.”

She exhaled sharply. “And you? You was in the middle of it like a damn chess piece.”

That hit me harder than I expected. I knew Mecca had a way with words, a way of making me see things for what they were, but hearing her say it like that made my stomach twist even more. “Yeah…”

I whispered, swallowing a lump in my throat. “A chess piece. That’s exactly what I feel like.”

Mecca scoffed and topped off my glass. “Well, bitch, you off the damn board now. No more playin’ house with a killer. No more, Mrs. Mosley.”

I let out a humorless chuckle, but my chest felt hollow. No more Mrs. Mosley. Six months ago, I would’ve laughed in somebody’s face if they told me I’d actually start to fall for Sebastian “Shooter”

Mosley, that underneath all his possessive, controlling ways, there was something I started to love. Now, I didn’t even know what was real anymore. I took a slow sip of my wine, letting it warm my chest, but it didn’t do shit to calm the storm inside me.

Mecca side-eyed me. “I know that look.”

“What look?”

I muttered, playing dumb.

“The ‘I’m still lowkey in love with this ain’t-shit-ass nigga’ look.”

I groaned, flopping back onto the couch. “Girl, shut up.”

“Nah, I’m serious. You might’ve run, but your heart ain’t caught up yet. I can see it all over your face. That nigga had you wide open, P. And that’s okay… for now. But you gotta let that shit go.”

I rubbed my temples, feeling the weight of her words. “I know I do,”

I admitted. “But it ain’t that easy.”

Mecca snorted. “Nobody said it was easy. That’s why you got me, hoe. I’m ‘bout to make sure you detox from that nigga.”

I laughed despite myself, shaking my head. “You so stupid.”

“And you so lucky to have me,”

she shot back, grinning. “Now, let’s go over the plan. You stayin’ here for now, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I need time to figure shit out. I left the penthouse, blocked his number, and I know he’s probably losin’ his damn mind right now, but I don’t care. I can’t care.”

Mecca arched a brow. “Oh, you can care. You just won’t.”

I sighed. “Semantics.”

She smirked. “So what’s next? You gettin’ back into your fashion shit or what?”

I exhaled slowly. “Yeah… yeah, I think so. I put that dream on the back burner for too long. Parkmore Clothing Co. was supposed to be my thing. I lost focus for a while, but it’s time I get it back.”

Mecca’s eyes lit up. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout! See? That’s the energy I wanna hear. No more lettin’ these rich crime bosses dictate your future. You ‘bout to be a whole CEO, bitch.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You know, you really need to be somebody’s motivational speaker.”

“Girl, I know,”

Mecca grinned. “I’d have these hoes' lives together in seconds.”

I finally started to relax, sinking into the comfort of knowing that Mecca had my back, that I wasn’t alone in this. I knew Shooter wasn’t gonna let me go that easy—hell, he’d probably already flipped over half the damn city looking for me. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had control over my own life again. The problem was, I wasn’t sure how long that control would last because, knowing Shooter… he was coming for me.

F o r t y - e i g h t h o u r s.

That’s how long it had been since I walked out of that penthouse and left Shooter behind. And honestly? I thought maybe he was giving me space. Maybe he knew I needed time to process. Maybe, for once in his controlling, possessive life, he was letting me breathe.

That’s why, when Mecca said she was throwing a little party at her spot tonight, I was all in. I needed to let loose, needed to drown the fucked-up reality of my life in liquor, weed, and loud-ass music. I needed to forget about blue eyes that haunted my dreams, about the way my body still craved a man I was trying to erase. So, with a red cup in hand, I danced in the middle of Mecca’s apartment while the bass of some ratchet song made the floor vibrate beneath my feet.

“Ayeeee, this my shit!”

Mecca hollered, swaying her thick hips to the beat.

“Don’t hurt ‘em, sis!”

Kalea cackled.

My girls were turned up, liquor was flowing, and the air was hazy with smoke. Wall to wall men. It was a vibe. A reckless, wild, I-don’t-give-a-fuck vibe. Which was exactly what I needed.

A fine-ass dude named Devonate had been on me all night, feeding me drinks and sweet-talking in my ear like he was trying to manifest me into his bed. Normally, I wasn’t the type to entertain dudes like this, especially not when I was drunk. But tonight? Tonight, I didn’t give a damn.

I threw my head back and laughed at something slick Devontae said, letting my body move against his as we danced. His big hands slid down to my waist, and I let him pull me closer. He smelled good, like expensive cologne and bad decisions.

“You mad beautiful, ma,”

he murmured in my ear. “Your man stupid as hell for lettin’ you outta his sight.”

I smirked. “I don’t have a man.”

“Word?”

He grinned, then licked his pinkish lips. “Then lemme change that.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “You tryna wife me up already? Damn.”

“Can you blame me?”

He spun me around, hands gripping my hips. “You fine as hell, got that boss bitch energy. I like that shit.”

I was about to say something slick back when the front door crashed open so hard that the music seemed to cut out instantly. Screams rang out, cups spilled, and people scattered as men stormed inside. Big, mean-looking men with cold expressions and even colder intentions.

“What the fuck?!”

Mecca shrieked, jumping back as one of them knocked over a table like it was made of paper.

“Who the—”

Before I could even finish my sentence, rough hands grabbed me. “GET OFF ME!”

I screamed, thrashing, but they were too strong.

“Yo, chill out!”

Devontae barked, shoving through the chaos, reaching for his waistband. Bad move. One of the men swung on him so fast I barely saw it happen. He hit the floor, knocked out cold before he could even pull his gun.

“PARKER!”

Retia shrieked, running up to them, but another man grabbed her, keeping her back.

“LET ME GO, MOTHERFUCKAS!”

I screamed, twisting, kicking, scratching—anything to break free. But I was drunk, disoriented, and weak. I couldn’t fight the grip of the two men hauling me toward the door. One of the men pulled a gun, and suddenly, the whole party was seconds away from turning into a bloodbath.

“EVERYBODY FALL THE FUCK BACK!”

the guy holding me barked.

“PUT ME THE FUCK DOWN!”

I screamed, still struggling.

“Sorry, Mrs. Mosley,”

the man growled, voice like gravel. “Boss wants his wife home.”

My stomach dropped. Oh, fuck.

The last thing I saw before they threw me into the backseat of a black SUV was my girls fighting like hell to get to me. Then the doors slammed shut, and that’s when I smelled his cologne. I looked up, breath shaky, and met ice-cold blue eyes.

Shooter sat there, legs spread, jaw tight, watching me like a predator that had just reclaimed its prey.

“Got somethin’ you need to get off your chest?”

he asked, voice low, dangerous.

My heart pounded, rage bubbling through my drunken haze. “You crazy muthafucka,”

I spat, hands shaking as I tried to sit up. “You just kidnapped me?!”

Shooter’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Nah,”

He leaned in, his voice a dark promise. “I’m just takin’ my wife home.”

The car sped off into the night, taking me straight back to the last place I wanted to be. Straight back to him.

The car ride was silent and not the kind of silence that felt comfortable, but the kind that felt suffocating.

Shooter sat next to me, his jaw tight, his fingers tapping impatiently against his thigh. His energy was so dark that it seeped into the air, filling the space with an unbearable tension. I kept my eyes forward, staring out the window, heart pounding as my thoughts ran wild.

This was different. He had always been intense, always been possessive, always had a dangerous edge to him. But this? This silence? This unshakable, simmering fury rolling off of him? I hated it, and for the first time since I’d known him, I was truly scared.

I wasn’t sure if it was because I was still drunk or if it was because I had never seen him like this before. Either way, fear wrapped around my ribs, tightening with every passing second.

By the time the SUV pulled into the underground parking garage of the penthouse, my nerves were frayed. The second the car stopped, Shooter swung the door open and stepped out, but I hesitated. The driver turned to look at me, but Shooter’s voice cut through the tension. “Get the fuck out.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and slid out of the car. My legs felt shaky beneath me as I followed him inside, my heart hammering with every step. The moment we were inside the penthouse, the air changed. Shooter didn’t say a word or give me a second to breathe. He slammed the door behind us, grabbed me by the arm, and pinned me to the nearest wall.

I gasped, my breath leaving me in a rush as my back hit the cold wall. His body caged me in, towering over mine, his grip firm but not painful. His scent wrapped around me, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like something I wanted to sink into. For the first time, I wasn’t sure if I was safe. His blue eyes burned into me, unreadable and furious.

And then, before I could stop myself, the words slipped out. “Are you gonna kill me too?”

It was a whisper. A whimper. And it destroyed whatever restraint he had left.

His grip tightened just enough to make me suck in a sharp breath. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as his eyes darkened with something lethal. Then, just as quickly as he grabbed me, he let me go.

I staggered slightly, my heart racing as I pressed my palm to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. My whole body was tense, waiting for his next move, but Shooter just took a step back and tilted his head at me.

“If I wanted to kill you, ,”

he said lowly. “You’d be dead already.”

My stomach twisted violently. His words weren’t a threat. They were a fact. I stared at him, my pulse hammering in my throat, my body still pressed against the wall as if it could protect me from him. Then, he gestured toward the living room. “Go sit down.” I hesitated, eyes darting toward the door. He scoffed. “Try it, and I’ll make you regret it.”

I believed him.

With slow, shaky steps, I moved toward the couch, lowering myself onto it hesitantly. My fingers curled around the fabric of my sweatpants as I tried to regulate my breathing, tried to ignore the way my hands trembled. Shooter rolled his neck, letting out a long, controlled breath before making his way to the bar. He grabbed a bottle of Remy, poured himself a shot, then downed it in one go.

The silence stretched, and I hated how uncertain everything felt. How every moment stretched into something unbearable, how I didn’t know if I should be bracing myself to fight or preparing to beg for my life. Shooter didn’t look at me right away. He just poured himself another shot, then turned slowly, leaning against the counter as his icy gaze finally locked onto me.

I swallowed hard. The weight of his stare was suffocating, and he didn’t say a single word. He just watched me, and I sat there, waiting. Dreading. Wondering what the fuck was coming next.