Page 2 of Her Royal Daddy
Azid grinned sardonically as he gave me a knowing side-eyed look. “Lisa and the girls out there?”
“You know it. And...” I hesitated to tell him about her, selfishly wanting to keep her existence to myself. I knew that wasn’t possible. Azid wasn’t blind, and neither were the rest of the guys.
Azid caught the hesitation. Friends since our first day of high school, he knew me better than anyone. His brow crinkled. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head, unsure where to start or what I was even thinking. “You’ll see soon enough—”
I was interrupted by the club owner, a big burly Scottish oaf of a man named Ezra. The name didn’t evoke images of six-foot-tall bikers with bushy beards, tattoos, and motorcycle jackets, but somehow it seemed to fit him.
“Mazi, this came for you, man. Delivered this afternoon. Certified mail. Lulu had to sign for it.”
I stared at both him and the envelope, so caught up wondering who even knew I worked here, much less who might send me mail, that I didn’t even try to take it from him. It was Azid who finally reached over my shoulder and snatched the envelope from Ezra’s hand. “Certified messenger, huh?” He flicked it over to look at the return address. “This is fancy ass paper.”
“You shoulda seen the dude who delivered it,” Ezra said, flicking me a curious look.
I tried to take it, but Azid moved faster than me. Planting a hand in my chest, he held the mail just out of my reach. Hesitantly, he sniffed the envelope. “Ma,” he said, in a tone that said he wasn’t sure if he ought to be worried or impressed. “It’s perfumed.”
Ezra snorted. “You shoulda smelled the dude who delivered it.”
Hiking his chin in a nod that said, “What’s up, bro? You ok?”, Azid narrowed his gaze on me.
I met his stare with a hard, unamused one of my own. “I have no idea what’s up, but I’m sure I haven’t done anything wrong. If I had, it would be the cops coming for me, not a certified letter on thick fancy paper, dumbass. Now, give over.”
I feinted a gut-punch, and when Azid doubled over to protect his stomach, I snatched the envelope from his grasp. It was heavier than it appeared, seemingly made from custom paper, but I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like I spent a lot of time hanging out in stationery shops.
Turning it over in my hands, I was expecting to see a gold bracket clasp, similar to the sort on any manila envelope. Instead the fold was stuck down by a thick glob of wax, embossed by a seal I didn’t recognize. It looked like a crest of arms with a half ring of vining leaves that wrapped up from the bottom on either side.
With Azid and Ezra watching closely, I worked the seal open and carefully removed the contents—a single folded sheet of paper—from inside. The paper was every bit as thick as the envelope itself. Already Azid was closing in to read over my shoulder as I unfolded it and began to read.
Dear Sir Mazi Tucker,
Sir Mazi? I snorted. Anyone who called me ‘sir’ had to be a scammer. But I’d never heard of one that sent their bullshit letters by certified mail, on paper that looked like it cost more than my entire working wardrobe, and with an embossed seal?
Please accept my deepest condolences on the recent death of your mother, Patrice. I would have contacted you earlier, but I have only recently been informed of her passing.
I frowned. My mother had died several years ago. The Big C. Cancer. I only started dancing when she was first diagnosed, hoping to help pay for her treatments. Years later, here I was, still paying those costs off only now without my mother and with a huge mountain of medical bills that I had no choice about paying off if I wanted to keep the little house I’d grown up in as a kid. That house was all I had left of her. I wasn’t about to let it go.
For many years, we had an agreement that I would not contact you, even after you came of age. With her death, I consider that agreement to be null and void.
“What the fuck?” Azid whispered, and I silently echoed the sentiment. My stomach was a nest of squirming anxiety as I continued to read.
What I am trying to say is that once, a long time ago, I knew your mother very well. So well, in fact, that I believe in my heart that you are my son. I would like to extend this sincere invitation for you to join me at my home on the Island of Osei, off the coast of Africa. Your airfare and accommodations are arranged and paid for. I would like you to stay for at least a month, but will understand if that is too long.
To accept this invitation, please call the number listed below and ask for my assistant, Jax. He will take good care of you, prior to and during the duration of your trip.
Please come. We have much to discuss, and the kingdom awaits your arrival with great anticipation.
Sincerely,
Your father,
King Ona-Mazi
King of Osei
My hands were shaking as I read that last line, and then reread it multiple times. The implication set in and for a moment it was everything I could do not to lose my temper.
I believe in my heart that you are my son...
