Page 23

I was sitting in a private room at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility, elbows on the cold steel table.

The chair beneath me was uncomfortable as hell, but the thoughts running through my head kept me seated.

I was waiting to see the woman responsible for my brother being six feet under, and nothing could get me to leave.

The walls were off-white, but there was nothing soft about them.

They felt like they’d absorbed every scream, every confession, and every prayer that never made it past the ceiling.

My foot tapped a slow rhythm on the concrete floor, steady and controlled.

It was the only indication I wasn’t as calm as I looked.

Then the door opened. I didn’t flinch, but my chest tightened when Zora stepped inside. She moved cautiously like her legs had forgotten what freedom felt like, eyes darting around the room until they landed on me.

Her whole body froze. Her lips parted slightly, the air leaving her lungs. Her eyes went wide, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if she was going to collapse or turn around and run.

I licked my lips slowly, eyes dragging over her frame as she stepped more into the room.

Even in the orange DOC-issued jumpsuit, Zora still had that damn presence that stopped every man from moving on after first glance.

Her curves jumped out even through state-issued fabric.

Skin like polished bronze, smooth and glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights, she looked as if she’d been getting her daily dose of vitamin D.

Her eyes, deep brown and sharp enough to cut through a man’s defenses if he stared too long, landed on me and never left.

Now I understood why my brother stayed tangled up in her, even when he should’ve walked away.

“Have a seat,” I said, voice low.

She crossed her arms over her chest and stayed near the wall. “I’ll stand. What do you want, Otis?”

Damn.

Zora still had that fire—that attitude. The same one that probably turned my brother on and maybe pushed him over the edge more than once.

I leaned back in my chair and let a smirk spread across my face. “Mmm. Still got that slick mouth, huh? I see why he had to check you sometimes.”

Her jaw clenched. A flicker of rage flashed across her face, but she didn’t bite. She just continued to stare through her now hardened eyes. She was daring me to come at her sideways again, and the cat-and-mouse games were assuming to me.

I dragged a slow breath through my nose, then shifted my tone. “Let’s cut the bullshit. I didn’t come here to trade insults.”

“Then why did you come?” she asked coldly.

“To let you know… I know you didn’t pull the trigger that night,” I said, voice calm but pointed. “I know it was your son.”

She didn’t react at first. Not a twitch or a flinch. But I saw it; the way her fingers tensed where they were crossed and the way her shoulders stiffened before she rolled them back like she hadn’t just been hit with a sucker punch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said after a beat—too smooth and quick.

I chuckled. “You don’t have to play dumb, Zora.

I just wanted to look you in your face and let you know.

I see you. I see him. And I’ve been quiet, but that silence…

it has an expiration date. I’m coming for your son.

He is going to pay for killing my brother.

And then I’m coming for anyone associated with him. An eye for an eye.”

She shifted her stance, a flash of panic in her eyes before it was buried under that wall she’d spent years perfecting.

“You can keep protecting him if you want,” I added. “But just know… secrets don’t stay buried forever. And when it all comes out—and it will—I want you to remember this conversation.”

For the first time, she didn’t have a comeback.

And I didn’t need one. Instead of waiting, I stood up ready to exit.

Hitting the table with my knuckles, I stated the final words I needed Ms. Zora to hear.

“Oh, and I heard you are being released early. Enjoy your freedom while you can. You will be back in that orange jumpsuit real soon. But this time, your son will be wearing a matching one.”

I gave her one last look and walked out, leaving the air dense and her conscience louder than anything I could’ve said.

I didn’t want Boris or his mama dead. Death was too easy. Too clean. I wanted them to rot in a cell and feel every second of what they took from me and my family. I wanted them to wake up every day with the burden of my brother’s ghost pressing down on their chest.

I knew my brother wasn’t perfect. He indeed had a hand problem.

But so what? A lot of women run their mouths and push buttons and need to be disciplined.

They play victim until the moment they’re backed into a corner.

Then it’s all “self-defense” and “I feared for my life” bullshit like that erases everything that led up to it.

My father taught me from a young age that women are here to serve men, not the other way around. Zora should have obeyed her husband and just stayed in her place, just like my mama had done until she died.

So no, I didn’t want Zora and Boris gone. I wanted them to be held accountable publicly while feeling miserable about their lives. I needed the world to know they weren’t innocent. I wanted to strip away the sympathy they wrapped themselves in like armor.

Because pain like mine doesn’t fade—it festers. I planned on making sure they felt every ounce of it, piece by piece.