Page 102 of Invisible Bars

With a satisfied grin, I took a slow step forward. “See, Carter… I don’t just hire anybody to represent my name. Thatseat? It requires respect and discretion.” I tilted my head slightly. “And you... clearly lack both.”

Carter dropped to his knees.

“I’ve got money—stocks, savings! I’ll give you whatever you want! Please! You don’t have to do this!” he begged like a man drowning.

Chi scoffed. “Man, don’t nobody want yo’ Whole Foods money! Look at this kitchen—ain’t even a grain of Lawry’s in sight! You the type to think salt and pepper is spicy. What we gon’ do with you besides dispose of your colonizer carcass?”

“Chi,” I said simply.

Chi fell silent instantly.

I crouched slightly, leveling the gun at Carter’s forehead. “Carter, I don’t hire racists; I bury ’em. You should’ve wanted to keep breathing more than you wanted that job.”

“Please—”

Bang.

One shot. Clean. Fast.

Carter slumped over, wine glass shattering beneath him, blood pooling into the grout.

I stood up and slipped my gun back into my coat.

Chi stepped around the body, glancing down at the ruined tile.

“Damn. I bet you Martha Stewart didn’t putthatin her remodeling tips.” He looked over at me. “You want to torch the place or make it look like a robbery?”

My expression didn’t change. “Neither. Let ‘em wonder.”

Chi nodded. “Aight. I’ll grab his phone and wipe the logs. You wanna stop for tacos on the way back?”

I didn’t answer; I was already walking toward the front door like the devil clocking out after a long day.

I laid flat on my back, eyes open, jaw tight, and in my thoughts.

Frustrated wasn’t even the word—it was war inside me.

Naji hadn’t said more than a handful of words to me the day before, and when she did, they came wrapped in attitude, like every breath she took was dipped in fire just for me. Said she was tired and just needed space. But she had no damn idea the kind of chaos she left in her wake.

My gray sheets were wrapped around my legs like restraints, soaking up the sweat of a man doing everything he couldnotto snap. My boxers? Suffocating. Every shift made me wince… and harder. And it was her fault. Because she was downstairs—barefoot, yawning, and half-dressed in those soft little shorts that hugged her ass like sin. Her face was bare, hair was wild and skin was probably still warm from her shower... smelling like vanilla and soft disobedience.

I exhaled through my nose, slow and sharp.

Every single sound Naji made in that damn house felt intimate—like she was speaking directly to my restraint.

Her lazy footsteps. The mutter of her tics. The way she cleared her throat with a tiny grunt, like she was annoyed—but trying to be polite about it.

Naji didn’t even realize how sexy she was when she was mad. She didn’t know that storming off that day only made me want to drag her back or that her silence—those sharp little stares—lit a fire in me that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with ownership. I wanted to snatch her pretty ass up by the waist, haul her over my shoulder, toss her into my bed like she belonged there, and let her throw all that nervous energy into begging instead.

Face down. Ass up. Attitude gone.

I wanted to pin her body to my mattress and fuck her until she forgotwhyshe was mad, until her tics were moans, and until every sharp edge melted under me and she finally understood what she did to me.

Yeah. Because this? This wasn’t just frustration; this was torture wrapped in a vanilla-scented girl who didn’t even know she was dangerous. And I was one wrong move away from proving it.

I wasn’t the type of nigga who got a thrill out of beating my dick.Never had to.If I wanted pussy, it took one text—two if I felt like being polite. Options? Man, I had 'em like liquor in a kingpin’s cabinet.

Bad. Willing. Damn near eager.