I pinch the bridge of my nose as our ‘guest’ drones about past slights. As a show of good faith, I didn’t call my right and left hands to be present for this meeting, but if I thought the lack of Rath’s dead-eyed glare and Tristian’s chilly smirk would make our old arms dealer swayed to peace, then I’m sorely fucking mistaken.
“We know those feds were in your pocket,” Yolanda is saying, eyes narrowed as she sits across from me. “They took three of our shipments, which we’d personally delivered all the way from across the shore.”
We’re in the old refinery just over territory lines. It’s supposed to be neutral territory, but right now, it’s anything but. She has two guys behind each shoulder, each wielding a ridiculously massive rifle. Complete overkill. It’s how I know she doesn’t plan on killing me.
Yolanda isn’t someone I’ve ever done business with personally. She’s part of the criminal old guard I’ve been trying so desperately to dismantle. People like her, my dad, Lionel, Cartwright…they’re yesterday’s news. They don’t understand the world today.
“I didn’t have anything to do with that.” I tap my heel against the ground, lounged back in my rickety chair. Being King, I’ve discovered, is about twenty percent violence and eighty percent posturing. “I don’t have the feds in my pocket. I only deal local.”
She barks a humorless laugh. “Then why did your men ambush mine at the border?”
I give her lackeys a look. In my head, I’ve been referring to them as Thing One and Thing Two. They’re big and dumb and pretty. Actually, come to think of it, they kind of remind me of Nick.
I almost consider texting him about it, but a part of the negotiation to meet was that we turned off our phones. “You were selling guns to our rivals,” I reason.
Yolanda gives me a long, hard look. “I wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t reneged on our previous deal.”
“That,” I snap, nearly at my limit, “was a deal you made with my father. Not me. Daniel Payne might have been fine with seeing pieces all over the streets, but it’s not a good look for South Side. Look at this shit.” I gesture to the ridiculous rifles. “I’m not building a goddamn infantry. I just want to keep things moving smoothly. You know what makes things not run smoothly? Someone walking around with enough firepower to take down a fucking armada.”
Yolanda inspects her nails, looking bored. “That’s one opinion.”
Nostrils flaring, I lean forward, elbows propped on my knees. “Let’s cut the shit, Yolanda. You don’t like me. I don’t like you. I say the best course of action here is to steer clear of our respective paths, which is going to be a lot easier when you realize where mine is.” I lift my arm, pointing to our right. “South Side is mine. The guns that enter South Side are mine. The guns that leave South Side are mine. The fucking ammo is mine. If I see another one of your pieces in the hands of some low-level, shit-for-brains drug dealer, I’m going to make sure to send it back.” My voice drops to a low, deadly finality. “And you’d better trust that I’ll have someone behind it to pull the trigger.”
Thing One steps forward, tightening his grip on his rifle. “No one threatens Yolanda, boy.”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry,” I tell him, showing him my teeth. “I’ll make sure the two of you get it first.”
“Enough!” she snaps, and with a flick of her hand, Thing One falls back. “Once the guns are sold, I don’t control where they go. What do you expect me to do, follow them around?”
“You don’t need to follow them around,” I answer, trying to tamp down my temper. “Choose a better caliber of clientele and all of our problems are solved.”
She looks almost as irked as I feel, eyeing me up and down. “And just who do you expect me to sell them to?”
“I’m glad you asked.” Without missing a beat, I reach into my pocket, not even flinching when The Things jump to attention. I flash the paper I’d brought, blandly offering, “I brought a list.”
We go over it for what feels like forever. Yolanda has beef with half of my suggestions, and I have beef with half of hers. The entire time, I’m building this suspicion, though. She’s far too quick to make a negotiation. Who the fuck am I to tell her who to do business with? The Southern empire is formidable, but it’s not like my arm has much reach. Outside of the bounds of this territory, I’m jack shit, and that’s just the way I like it.
Yolanda wants something from me.
It’s really bristling her hedges, too, because I wasn’t lying before. I know she can’t stand me. She holds me to my father’s word, but she also holds me to his crimes. It’s not the first time I’ve had to answer for them, and I’m not stupid enough to think it’ll be the last. The Payne name hanging over my head can, at any point, be a crown or a storm cloud.
I decide to play it out, because she wouldn’t expect it of me. “Then we have a deal,” I say, ready to wrap this shitshow up.
“For now,” she says ominously. No doubt, a little realignment in the future will provide her a nice opportunity to bring up whatever favor is brewing in her eyes.
I’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.
The first thing I do when I stand up is retrieve my pistol, holstering it beneath my jacket. The second thing I do is turn on my phone.
52 unread messages.
15 new voicemails.
“Shit,” I hiss, already knowing something is wrong. I thumb open Tristian’s name first, watching his messages ping through, but all the words are a murky blur. Mostly, I just see the number.
T: 237 237 237 237 237 237 237 237 237 237 237 237 237 237 237
“Mayhem…” I bolt out of the warehouse so fast that Things One and Two assume a defensive position, like they’re expecting an all out assault. Guess I can’t blame them. It makes it really inconvenient when I get to the dilapidated, sorry excuse for a garage and find they’ve blocked me in.
“Motherfucker!” I growl, kicking the tire of their big, dumb, completely fucking predictable black SUV. I can hear them hoofing it behind me, probably confused and on high alert, but I don’t take this into question when I double back, belligerently demanding, “Move your five-door fucking cliché! I have to get out of here!”
“What is wrong with you?” Yolanda’s face screws up in baffled fury. “You said this was neutral territory, that no one would—”
“My…” Lady. Queen. Basically, wife… “Story! She’s at the hospital having the baby. I’m missing it!” I bark, fully prepared to push that SUV out of the way myself. God, please let her be having the baby and not something else.
But Yolanda’s face goes blank, eyes flying wide, and suddenly she’s the one stepping into action, grabbing my arm and directing me toward the cars. “Get in,” she says, wrenching the passenger side open. To The Things, she snaps, “Hurry up! And stow those rifles.” I’m panic-rushing so fucking hard that I obey instinctually. Someone’s telling me to sit so I can get to where I need to be—I fucking do it. Yolanda has us tearing out of there before I come to my senses. “You’d be a menace to the roads,” she explains, shooting me a quick look as she speeds toward my territory. “Tell me where to go and let me do the work.”
I rattle off the name of the birthing center, which means functionally nothing to someone who’s not native—and probably less to someone who is. Luckily one of the Things is ready, shoving up from the back seat to slam his phone into the dash holder. A GPS map comes up, guiding Yolanda to the place.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to reach Tristian or Rath, and having zero luck. “Fucking fuck of a motherfuck!”
Yolanda shushes me. “It’s just a few more minutes. I’m sure everything is fine.”
My voice is strained as I explain, “Story isn’t due for another week, at least.” I’d made plans to pull back with work starting tomorrow in preparation, staggering responsibilities with the Kings I don’t totally fucking hate. That means Tristian is probably freaking the hell out, Rath is likely lost without someone calm to direct him, and Story…
God, she must be losing her shit.
“Yolanda, I mean this with all due respect.” I turn to her, completely aware of what my face is doing. “If you don’t drive faster, then I’m going to shoot someone.”
She slams her foot down on the gas, sending Thing Two lurching back into his seat. “This is your first?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say distractedly, thumbing through the texts.
She makes a pensive sound. “Is it true what they say? You share your woman with two other men?”
My face screws up, because it sounds dirty when it’s said like that. “She’s not a goddamn gaming console. We don’t pass her around like an object. We’re family.”
She doesn’t seem offended by my tone, which doesn’t bode well for me. She must really want something big. She also seems to notice my skepticism. “I respect a man who knows the value of family, Payne. And I mean the real value of family. Not this pompous legacy nonsense all you Kings have such a hard-on for.” She glances back at the Things, snorting, “Kings. Can you believe it? Bunch of arrogant, privileged pricks who need to fantasize about leading a monarchy to feel important. Where I come from, we just call them politicians.”
“Turn left!” I bark, seeing the road up ahead.
The rest of the drive is lost to my mounting panic, because what the fuck? Is my first act as a father going to be my own goddamn absence? Probably for the best, anyway. I don’t know anything about being a father. I couldn’t even handle being the son to one.
I’ve spent months pushing aside this paranoia, allowing Tristian to be the one who worries and frets. I’ve thrown myself into my role—King—but I’m not scared of leading South Side. That’s easy. I can face down guns and politicians, pay off agencies and execute my enemies. But being a father? That’s the only thing I’ve found terrifying in a long time. What if it’s genetic? What if I’m like Daniel?
Finally, we arrive at the birthing center, and once again, I shove aside those negative thoughts. Tristian tied himself in fucking knots finding the right practice, but this one has been with us throughout the whole pregnancy. All the nurses, OBGYNs, doulas, birthing coaches, and technicians know me on sight, which is probably why when I roll through the doors like a lunatic with the biggest arms dealer in the region right on my heels, all the receptionist does is point to the doors on her left.
I fly through them, only vaguely noting that Yolanda and her Things have hung back. Hardly ten feet into my sprint down the hall, I hear it.
Story’s deep, agonized sob.
I jolt toward the sound, heartbeat thundering in my ears, vision narrowing down to a single point. Everyone violently jumps when I crash through the door, panting and terrified, but there they are.
Tristian and Rath are on either side of the bed, holding her hands, and I know I’m late—fucking unforgivably, insanely late—but there isn’t a baby. Not yet.
Story breaks down the second she lays eyes on me, chest hitching with a sob. “Where were you?!”
“I’m sorry,” I say, rushing to her side. I press a kiss to her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, chanting, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Is she okay?”
Story nods. “Other than deciding today is the day she’s evacuating my body.” She seizes and yowls, gripping Tristian’s hand so hard he grimaces in pain. “I’m peachy.”
The birthing coach is between her legs, saying, “It’s time to push again, okay? You think you can be stronger now that all the daddies are here?” It’s not said unkindly, but still makes my chest clench angrily. Not at the coach. Not at Story. Not even at Yolanda.
At myself.
She gives a tired nod, face red and damp with sweat, and Tristian puts her hand in mine, moving up to the head of the bed. No one blinks when he slips in behind her, taking her weight against his chest as Rath and I bolster her hands.
“You’ve got this, sweetheart,” he says into her ear, and she nods, seeming to steel herself.
“I’m ready,” she says, determination flashing in her eyes.
What happens next is something too magical to put into words. I don’t mean magic in the cutesy, Disney sense. I’m talking deep, dark sorcery. Something ancient and primal. It’s in the tenor of her screams and the snarl on her face. It’s the sheen of sweat on her forehead, glistening. It’s the cut of her teeth as her lips pull back with the ferocity of her pushes. It’s the way her hand trembles in mine—not out of weakness, but out of the pure magnitude of her strength. It’s life, but it’s also death. The death of something I might think to grieve later on.
That sweet, innocent, doe-eyed girl I fell into a fatal obsession with is gone.
But in her place is a woman.
A warrior.
A Queen.
Our daughter arrives thirty minutes later, screaming into this world in a rush of angry cries. She’s the only thing I can bring myself to look at, but I can still feel Rath and Tristian’s awe as the doctor places the baby on Story’s chest.
Story folds her into her arms without question or concern, giving an exhausted, breathless laugh as she lays eyes on our tiny, writhing, furious daughter. “Hello there,” she greets, eyes heavy and wet. She runs a gentle knuckle over her wrinkled cheek, and before she looks at us—before she even registers anyone else is in the room—she presses a kiss to her head and whispers, “I have so many promises to make.”
The first time Tristian holds her, he looks like someone just asked him to solve all of the world’s problems in the next seven hours. He looks overwhelmed and a little crazy, but there’s a warmth in his eyes I’m not used to seeing—not even with his little sisters.
“She’s perfect.” He says this with a hint of shock, as if she’s been in this world for mere minutes and she’s already done something incredible. Quieter, he tells the baby, “You’re perfect,” and gently brushes his lips over her forehead.
The first time Rath holds her, he looks all shifty and nervous, as though he’s done some indescribable criminal act. It makes Story give a slow, tired laugh, which seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders. “So you’re what all the fuss is about, huh?” Rath asks the baby, carefully cradling her head. Her little fists, which had been squirming around, stiffen before going still. Rath’s head snaps back as he observes her. “You recognize my voice?” She responds by essentially going limp in his hands, and Rath is a pretty stoic guy most of the time, but right now, there are too many emotions on his face to quantify. He presses a kiss to her forehead, whispering something that’s almost too low to hear.
Almost.
He tells her, “I’d definitely go commercial for you.”
I don’t know what that means, but it makes Story’s lip wobble, like maybe she wants to start crying again.
When it’s my turn, I shove my hands into my pockets and back away. “Uh, maybe later.”
Rath gives me a long, dark look. “Later.”
I shrug, avoiding his gaze. “I’m all dirty and my nerves are shot. What if I drop her or something?”
There’s a quick beat of silence before Rath replies, “Shut the fuck up and hold your daughter, you gigantic pussy. Jesus Christ, you’re a quarterback. You won’t drop her.” He thrusts her at me, but in this really slow, tender way that makes my stomach seize with anxiety, because he’s right.
I’ve never been so terrified in my fucking life.
Sweating bullets, I pull my fists from my pockets and reluctantly put a palm beneath her back. Luckily, Tristian is there to coach me. “Support her head,” he says, moving close to guide me. He keeps a palm beneath her, too, even when I finally have her in my hands—seven pounds of absolute terror. When Tristian goes to pull away, I blurt, “Wait!”
He rolls his eyes, but stays close, which is a slight comfort.
She’s so tiny, but so inexplicably huge.
The size of my hands dwarfs her, and for a long second, all I can think is that these are dirty hands. Hands that have killed people. Hands that have beat men to a gruesome pulp. Hands that have pressed bruises into her mother’s flesh. It feels like all it’d take is a twitch for me to ruin everything.
Then her little mouth opens in a wide yawn, and she burrows deep in the blanket, toward the protection of my palms. Just watching her, feeling her after all these months, causes my heart to flip-flop in my chest and I just snap the fuck out of it.
I look up at Story, and she gives me an exhausted grin. I lift an eyebrow, “We still good on the name?”
“Yes,” she says. “I think it’s perfect.”
“She’s going to flip,” Rath says, running a hand over his worn, exhausted face.
“She’ll love it,” Story says.
Tristian smoothes the blanket over Story’s legs. “We may never hear the end of it.”
Story lifts her arms, asking for the baby, and carefully I hand her back over, making sure to support her head. Although I won’t admit it, Rath’s not wrong. It kind of is like holding a football.
Story peers down at the baby’s pink, pinched face and says, “Melody Delores.”
We all agreed on giving the baby the middle name Delores. Without her, we never would have survived that night of the home invasion. Story picked the name Melody, though. She said stories are better when they’re set to a tempo, a voice, an expression, and a melody to bring them together.
It’s how I know I could never be my father. We were a lot of things, but never this. Never family. It took blood, sweat, and tears to build my own. Over the years, we’ve weaved together the pain of love, the wrath of loss, and the mercy of forgiveness. This is what it means to love something more than yourself, and this is what we’ve created with it.
Our own little Kingdom.
