Page 68 of Malachai
“Put the gun down, little sis. Don’t nobody here mean you no harm, jit.”
I turned instantly on my heel.
Zaire stood right in the bathroom doorway behind me, a heavy pistol already trained directly on my chest. He had those same hard, unrelenting eyes as Daddy. The exact same unreadable face. It had been six long years since I’d last seen him, and looking at him now, I felt absolutely nothing. He was the one who let Daddy marry me off like property, and he left me for dead when I finally ran from Malachai. The only time I’d even heard from him in those six years was when he was begging me to talk Malachai out of putting a bullet in his head.
I slowly lowered my Glock, though my grip didn't loosen. “What the fuck is going on here, Zaire?” I demanded.
Zaire completely ignored the question. “Daddy’s downstairs,” he said flatly, his gun lowering but remaining in his hand. “He wants to see you.”
I looked back over my shoulder at Cooly. He was watching me entirely too closely, his eyes tracking my face like he already knew exactly how this conversation downstairs was about to go.
Zaire jerked his chin toward the open hallway. “Give us a minute,” he told Diamond and Cooly.
Cooly nodded once, his expression shifting back to that calm mask. Diamond still wouldn’t look me in the eye. Zaire reached out, grabbed me firmly by the upper arm, and walked me down the grand staircase.
The double doors to the study were already thrown wide open.
Daddy sat behind the massive, dark mahogany desk, lazily smoking a thick cigar. The gray smoke curled toward the ceiling. And standing right behind his chair—with long waist-length braids hanging down her back—was Nadege.
My favorite cousin. Looking exactly like the blurry traffic cam pictures Kael had shown me in the hospital room.
Zoin Creole meant bones. That’s what everybody in the family called her, because she was cold down to the marrow of her bones. She was always right there with me and my brothers growing up—climbing gates, fighting boys in the street, learning how to shoot targets before either of us were even old enough to drive.
Until around eighteen, when she suddenly stopped moving like she cared about life and started moving more like Zaire. Dangerous. Lethal. Dead inside. She was the type who would shoot you dead before having a conversation if you crossed her line. Daddy started sending her out to handle the family's heavy business after that. Little enforcement jobs at first. Then bigger ones. Collection runs. Deep-south punishments. Problems that could only be solved in blood.
She was so beautiful that nobody ever expected her to be so entirely vicious.
I snapped the Glock up, pointing the barrel straight at her face instantly.
“You know I’m 'bout to fuck you up about my husband, right?” I said, my voice dropping. “You know that, Nadege?”
Chapter 39
Indigo
Zo didn't respond. She just stared right through me with those dead, glassy eyes.
Daddy answered for her, his voice entirely too calm. “Sit down, Indigo. You're not going to shoot your own flesh and blood.”
I didn't move an inch, the Glock still heavy and steady in my grip.
“I said sit down!” he barked.
Something in the sudden violence of his tone made Zaire step closer behind my chair. I cut a glance back at him, and to my surprise, he gave me a slight smile and a reassuring nod. It was jarring; Zaire and I hadn’t been friendly since we were children—long before Momma died.
I sat down slowly, the Glock still hanging loosely at my side.
Daddy leaned back in his massive leather chair, thick clouds of gray cigar smoke curling through the office air. “Yuh embarrass me,” he said finally, his Jamaican Patois thick as molasses. “Three year. Three bloodclaat year yuh disappear, mek chaos everywhere yuh go, an' now look.” He pointed the glowing cherry of the cigar directly at my face. “Dat white bwoy threaten me because yuh run from him like fool gyal. I know he killed my son too.”
My jaw tightened. I hadn’t really allowed myself to think about Kemar in a very long time. “I don't care about any of that,” I said quietly. “Just tell me why you shot him.”
Daddy barked out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Dat man threaten everybody. Me. Zaire. Business associates.” He waved his hand dismissively, cutting through the smoke. “Running ’bout love, acting like terrorist.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the dark mahogany desk. “But it okay now.”
The chilling certainty in his voice caused a cold dread to crawl straight down my spine.
“That African boy,” Daddy continued, “him waan marry yuh.”
