Page 19

ALLURE

My heart stopped the moment he opened the door and walked out.

The silence he left behind felt heavy and holy.

This was the first time since I was sixteen that I had been left alone—truly alone—with no one watching me, no eyes monitoring my movements, no threat lingering just around the corner.

It had been years since I’d had an entire house to myself, and even though I wasn’t the owner of this place, the freedom I felt inside it wrapped around me like warm silk.

I could barely contain the rush of excitement and relief.

With the MacBook clutched tight to my chest, I wandered slowly through the compound, careful not to go too far, mostly keeping to the inside rooms. I passed glass walls and expensive furniture, rooms filled with books and light and things that whispered wealth.

The space was beautiful—but what struck me most was the stillness.

No commands barked at me. No threats lurking in the shadows. Just space. Just breath. Just me.

I avoided going too close to the animal enclosures out back.

I knew the creatures were caged, and I didn’t want to look them in the eye.

Their captivity made my skin crawl. I wasn’t comfortable with the way they were held, even if they were being fed and cared for.

Exotic animals weren’t meant to be locked away like that, even in luxury.

Riot treated them well, I could tell—but it still felt wrong.

I hadn’t found the right moment to say anything yet, but I knew I would.

Eventually. If he listened—really listened—then I’d know he wasn’t like Boaz or Avi.

Those men took pleasure in control, in shrinking anything beautiful until it begged for freedom or died inside.

They caged women and animals with the same cold calculation.

Stripped the shine off living things and fed off the ruin.

While I was luckier than the women Boaz kept in the basement—my cage had more windows, more privileges—I’d still lost ten years of my life.

Ten whole years. That kind of theft doesn’t come with a refund.

There’s no receipt, no return. You just wake up one day realizing that your youth, your momentum, your future was frozen in time while the world moved on without you.

I want those ten years back.

And if I can’t get them back, then I damn sure want to live the rest of my life louder, bolder, fuller. I want every minute to matter.

Before Boaz took me, I was putting together my portfolio for fashion design school.

I’d always wanted to be a designer. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d turn my mother’s old clothes into new creations—chopping up old skirts, tying tops in strange ways, draping towels into gowns.

I made dresses for my dolls out of coffee filters and grocery bags.

I turned shower curtains into capes. I saw fashion in everything.

If it could wrap, pin, or fold, I could make it runway-worthy.

One time, when I was maybe seven or eight, I created an entire Barbie fashion line using nothing but cotton balls, glitter glue, and leftover gift ribbon.

I made my parents sit on the couch while I narrated each look like I was hosting my own version of Fashion Week.

They clapped and laughed and told me I was a genius.

That day, my father told me that when I got older, he’d invest in my first line.

At the time of my kidnapping, I had already started making custom prom dresses for a few girls at school.

I had measurements written on the backs of napkins, sketches tucked in notebooks, and a vision board taped to the wall beside my bed.

It was finally happening. I was doing the thing I loved—and about to be paid for it.

And then that bitch-ass nigga Boaz took it all from me.

He stole the dream right out of my hands.

Snatched the thread of my life and rewound it into something dark, cruel, and caged.

I will never forgive him for that. Not for what he did to my body, but for what he did to my time.

For the hours I’ll never get back. For the dreams that had to sit on a shelf and collect dust for a decade.

I hoped he died slowly. Painfully. Regretfully.

I hoped the cancer in his chest was only a preview of the hell waiting for him on the other side.

Eventually, after pacing the halls and quietly exploring the house, I settled into the theater room.

Grand wasn’t even the word. It was like stepping into a private cinema designed for royalty.

Plush velvet seating. A screen that stretched wall to wall.

Surround sound that made the whole room vibrate.

Riot was beyond blessed to live like this, but I knew—on some level—this life wasn’t clean.

This kind of wealth always came with shadows.

But I was used to that.

My father was a kingpin. I grew up surrounded by secrets, guarded by men with guns, and rocked to sleep by the lull of sirens in the distance.

I’ve seen too many men die and grown numb to the sound of a body hitting the pavement.

Fear was a part of my DNA. But so was comfort.

Daddy spoiled me. Elaborate dinners. The latest fashion dresses.

Exotic vacations when business was good.

There were moments when it felt like magic.

That’s why I couldn’t understand why he never came for me. Why he let them take me and never showed up to burn the world down to get me back. I needed a reason. A real one. And I was going to find it.

No matter what it cost.

The theater room was dim and cool. I didn’t know what new movies were out but I’d search after I finished perusing the internet.

I settled into one of the leather recliners and pulled Riot’s MacBook onto my lap.

The glow from the screen lit my face as I booted it up, fingers trembling as I waited for it to load.

My heart beat loud in my ears. This was it.

My first moment of true digital freedom in a decade.

No locked browser. No monitored emails. No eyes over my shoulder.

I created a new email address. A fake one.

Something no one could trace back to me if Boaz’s people were somehow watching.

Then I set up a Facebook profile using a name I used to give out to boys I didn’t trust—Tasha E.

Just enough fiction to protect myself. I uploaded a picture of a vintage Karl Lagerfeld design that I loved from his Chanel days.

The search bar stared back at me like a portal.

I typed in my brother’s name, Carmelo Jones but there was no profile. I tried different spellings. Nicknames. Nothing.

My chest tightened when I realized I couldn’t reach him. Then I searched for my mother. Anita Jones .

Several Anita Jones popped up but I kept scrolling until I landed on a picture of her.

There she was. I was a picture of her from over a decade ago.

It was taken by me when we were on a trip to Miami, just us girls.

It warmed my heart that she kept this picture up all this time.

However, she hadn’t posted anything in years.

No new photos. No recent check-ins. Just a stagnant timeline.

But as I scrolled, I felt my chest tighten.

A friend of her had written on her wall, “So sorry for your loss. Your husband was a great man. Sending you love.”

The words punched me straight in the gut.

I blinked at the screen, refusing to believe it.

Loss?

Your husband.

My father.

Gone.

Tears burned my eyes and spilled freely as I stared at those ten words, over and over.

Each one a nail in a coffin I never got to see.

I covered my mouth to muffle the sob that threatened to rise.

My chest was shaking. My whole body, actually.

My lungs fought to work. Like his death had sucked the air out of me too.

No. No. No.

I needed more.

I opened a new tab and typed in Lionel Jones. A headline popped up. Dated less than a year ago.

“Body of Man Identified as Lionel Jones Found in Passaic River—Gunshot Wound to Head, Police Suspect Gang Retaliation.”

I clicked it with shaking hands.

The article was short, but brutal.

He’d been missing for two days before someone spotted his body floating near a bridge. They called it gang-related violence, but I knew what that meant. Someone put a bullet in his head and dumped him like he didn’t matter. Like he was trash.

But he mattered.

He was my father.

He’d survived so much. He’d fought so hard to carve out a kingdom on the East Coast. I remembered how excited he was to move us to New York. Said it was our time. That this coast was where the real money moved. But something always held him back. Something… or someone.

And now I’d never get to ask him what happened.

I’d never get to ask why he didn’t come for me.

My tears came harder now, thick and hot and relentless. My hands pressed against my chest like I could hold my heart together with sheer will. But it was broken.

Shattered.

I had always believed—deep in the place where faith and delusion lived—that he would find me. That he was looking. That he had people on the street, asking questions. That he was one phone call away.

But now he’s dead.

And I would never know if he died thinking I’d ran away. If he blamed me. If he suffered.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy,” I whispered, voice hoarse as I shut the laptop and buried my face in my hands.

We were so close.

So fucking close to being reunited.

And now?

Now I would never know the truth.

I cried until the tears turned dry—until my throat burned and my chest felt bruised from the inside out.

I cried for what I’d lost. For what we’d both lost. For the reunion that would never happen.

For the years I spent praying that my father would storm Boaz’s gates with fire in his eyes and fury in his heart.

I used to believe in that so deeply it was almost religious.

But now… now he was just a headline. A body. Another Black man tossed into a river with a story that would never be fully told.

I leaned back in the plush recliner, the MacBook still sitting heavy on my thighs, and stared up at the ceiling.

I wondered if he knew how much I loved him.

How often I dreamed about hearing his laugh again.

About smelling his cologne when he hugged me.

I used to lie in bed at night and imagine the exact moment we’d lock eyes again—how I’d fall into his arms and tell him I never stopped believing he’d come for me.

But that moment died in the water with him.

Now all I had was questions.

Who killed him? Why? Did he go out alone? Was it fast? Did he suffer?

And where the fuck was my brother?

My tears slowed, replaced by a bitter kind of resolve.

Carmelo had always been the hothead. The one who didn’t hesitate to throw hands or make a phone call that led to consequences.

He was impulsive and angry and loyal to a fault.

If he knew someone put a bullet in our father’s head and dumped his body like roadkill, I know—deep in my bones—that he wouldn’t let that shit slide.

Unless he didn’t know.

Unless he was off the grid like me. Or locked up. Or worse.

I couldn’t think like that.

I had to find him. Had to find my mother too. I didn’t care how long it took, or what I had to do. I needed answers. I needed to know what happened. I needed to know if they were even still looking for me… or if I’d become a ghost they learned to live without.

That thought hurt the most.

The idea that maybe no one was still searching.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and opened the laptop again. My fingers moved faster now, more certain. I searched Carmelo again, this time with different keywords. Variations of his name. Street names he used to go by. I checked police blotters, mugshots, Instagram tags. Nothing stuck.

He was either underground… or laying low on purpose.

Either way, I’d find him.

Because I wasn’t about to mourn two people in one night.

I wasn’t about to let another piece of my soul slip through my fingers.