Page 47

ALLURE

Tonight was going to be one of those nights where I didn’t get any sleep.

Not just because of the gunshots that still echoed in my ears or the blood I’d seen splashed across cream-colored linen.

Not because of the senator screaming or the shattered wine glasses crunching beneath my heels as I ran from the chaos.

No.

It was his face. The man who recognized me.

I saw him for maybe two seconds—if that. But it was enough to freeze my spine. He had a very familiar look in his eye. There was something about it that I knew that I should’ve recognized but I didn’t.

There was so much behind that look. It said: You're not safe. Not anymore.

Now I sat cross-legged on the edge of Riot’s couch, wrapped in one of his hoodies that swallowed me whole.

The brownstone was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the distant whoosh of cars on the avenue.

Riot was sprawled in the armchair nearby, still in the shirt he wore to the open house, sleeves rolled up, the top two buttons undone.

It had been hours since the whole ordeal went down but I could still smell the violence on his skin.

It both scared me and intrigued me.

“His face is still in your head?” Riot asked, his voice low, raspy.

I nodded, my arms wrapped around myself. “His face was so familiar. I just don’t know who it was. And he knew my name.”

“You sure it wasn’t someone from Boaz’s camp?”

I frowned. “I don’t think so. Boaz had lots of men coming in and out though. Different drug dealers he supplied weapons to. I mean, he could’ve been someone I’d seen at the compound but I don’t think so.”

Riot leaned back and dragged a hand over his face. His jaw was tight. “Then he’s new. Somebody Boaz hired to do his dirty work. Which means Boaz is getting sloppy or desperate.”

I rose from the couch and sauntered over to him, each step slow, cautious.

My fingertips found his shoulders. Tension radiated off him like heat from a brick wall in August. He was stiff, jaw clenched, muscles coiled like springs.

I started to knead his traps gently, and for a moment, he didn’t move.

Then he exhaled, long and slow.

“People died,” he murmured. “At my event. My fuckin’ vineyard. I tried to do something clean. Something elevated. I invited politicians. Business owners. Press. I had fruit trays and cello music and printed menus with grape pairings.”

I let my fingers press deeper into the knots at the base of his neck. “You were trying to show them another side of you.”

“Yeah, and Boaz painted the bitch red.” He let out a bitter laugh. “They’ll never forget that shit. King’s Vine will be the new cautionary tale. Articles already poppin’ up. ‘Urban Luxury or Organized Crime?’ I saw a fuckin’ headline say ‘Mob Hit on the Merlot.’”

I winced. “That’s tacky.”

“It’s fuckin’ ghetto. A black man can’t do some classy shit without someone shootin’ it up. I’m cooked!”

“Baby, you can bounce back.”

“Ion about that.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But I def gotta make sure the next headline reads: Boaz Haim Found Dismembered in a Fuckin’ Ditch. ”

His voice didn’t rise. If anything, it got calmer. Colder.

But me? My stomach twisted at the name.

Boaz.

Just hearing it made my heart stop.

I should’ve been comforted by Riot’s promise. His rage. The fact that he would burn down the world for me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the man in the crowd.

Something about him didn’t fit.

His face wasn’t from Boaz’s compound. It was from a different era of my life. But when?

When else could I have known a man like that? Of course my father. But my father kept his lieutenants away from me. And besides, that guy was too young to have worked for my father when I was still around.

“You okay?” Riot asked, looking up at me.

I nodded. Lied. “Yeah.”

But my thoughts kept circling that face like vultures.

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to the back of Riot’s neck, whispering a vow to myself I couldn’t say out loud.

Whoever he is… I’ll remember. I’ll figure it out. Before it’s too late.

The vibration startled me.

I blinked, glanced down at the name flashing across the screen.

Carmelo.

My chest hollowed out.

“brB,” I said to Riot, holding up my phone. “It’s my brother.”

He nodded without looking up, still scrolling through whatever headlines had his jaw tight and his temple ticking.

I stepped into the hallway, heart already racing.

“Hello?”

“What the fuck were you doing at that vineyard today?”

His voice was low, furious. No “hey,” no small talk. Just a bullet to the chest.

I swallowed. “How do you know I was there?”

“Don’t fuckin’ play me, Allure,” he snapped. “You know I got eyes everywhere. You were walking around like you belonged there. Smiling. Laughing. Like shit was sweet.”

“I—”

I didn’t even know what to say. Because I had been smiling. Had been laughing. I’d let myself pretend. Just for a second. That Riot’s world could become mine.

“That’s our fuckin’ enemy!” he barked. “You got any idea who those niggas are?”

I froze. “Who?”

“Riot and Creed King,” he bit out. “Those two are responsible for our father’s death. You cozyin’ up to a killer.”

I went still.

My brain couldn’t even form a response.

“What are you talking about?” I finally breathed. “That’s not true.”

“It is true,” he snapped. “You think I don’t check shit? They had beef for years, Allure. One of the brothers, Havoc, admitted it to me. That’s who you’re fucking with now. The same nigga who put a bullet in our daddy’s head.”

My throat clenched.

“No,” I whispered.

But he’d already hung up.

Silence swallowed me whole. My hand fell to my side, phone sliding from my fingers and landing on the hardwood with a dull clack. My pulse throbbed behind my ears. My head buzzed. The floor tilted. Nothing felt real.

I turned—slowly.

And there it was.

Riot’s Glock.

Sitting on the edge of the dining table like it had been waiting for me all along.

My legs moved before my brain did. I crossed the room, each step louder in my head than the last. I wrapped my fingers around the grip and lifted it. Heavy. Cold. Real.

“Yo, you good?” Riot’s voice drifted from the kitchen.

I raised the gun.

He looked up.

And everything slowed.

His eyes dropped to the barrel, then back up to my face. His expression didn’t shift. Not a flinch. Not a wince. Just calm.

And then that motherfucker smiled.

“Damn,” he said. “Guess the call didn’t go well.”

“You killed my father.”

It came out hoarse. Barely above a whisper. Like if I said it too loud, it would become permanent.

“Who the fuck is your father?” He asked.

“Lionel Jones!”

His head tilted. “I didn’t know Lionel was your father.”

“That makes it okay?”

“No.” He stepped toward me, slow and deliberate. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.”

My hand shook. Just slightly.

“He was gonna kill mine,” Riot said flatly. “We found out. We acted first. It wasn’t personal. It was war. And war gets messy.”

He stopped when the barrel was pressed to the center of his chest.

“Go ahead,” he murmured. “Do it.”

“Don’t test me.”

“I’m not.”

He leaned in closer. Eyes burning. Jaw flexed.

“I’m giving you a choice.”

My finger grazed the trigger. My entire body trembled. A tear slid down my cheek and I hated that he saw it.

“Be a good girl,” he said, voice like velvet and sin, “and put my gun down.”

I didn’t move.

His lips curved into something dark. Arrogant. Dominant.

“Now,” he said. “Put. The gun. Down. And go to the room.”

My heart cracked wide open.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t beg. He didn’t even explain. He just stood there, proud and powerful, as if he hadn’t just admitted to killing my father.

And still lowered the gun.

Because deep down, I knew I didn’t want him dead.

I wanted answers.

I wanted control.

I wanted him to suffer the way I was suffering.

But most of all…

I still wanted him.

I placed the gun back on the table with a trembling hand.

And then, without a word, I turned and walked to the bedroom like he told me to.

Because tonight wasn’t about justice.

It was about power.

And neither of us were ready to give it up.