Page 12 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two
“Chicago,” Lakeland says, and I know he’s finally listening well to catch my reaction.
But I won’t let him capture how my heartbeat trips over itself, or how my leg starts to bounce up and down.
“How long do you think it’ll take?” I ask, my mouth dry. Lakeland hums.
“Shouldn’t be more than two months if you do things right,” he replies.
Fuck. Me. The thought of two months in Chicago feels like torture and a hit of pure dope after a long stretch of sobriety.
“Why so glum, Nephew?” Lakeland asks, picking up on my hesitation like a shark scenting blood in the water.
I grit my teeth.
“I’m fine. I’ll get it handled,” I reply, and Lakeland does that infuriating hum again.
“You worried about going home? You should feel like the king of that city,” he says, his tone light. “Unless you’re worried about something back there. Some old ghosts, maybe?”
The statement lands in my lap like a grenade, but I can’t react.
“Such as?” I ask, knowing the answer, but wanting him to say the words—wanting him to give me fuel to tear him limb by limb.
But only when the time is right.
“That pretty little thing you were chasing after,” he says.
I play his game a little more.
“Bambi? No, she’s married,” I throw out, keeping my tone casual.
“Nah, I know you weren’t clocking forBambi,no matter how much your mama and daddy wanted you to lock that down.”
Pain cuts sharply in my heart, the blood in my veins burning hot.
“Was her name Chantal?” He snaps his fingers a few times. “No, it was Shae. Right, Nephew?”
Static casts over my vision, blurring the high-rises in front of me.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, trying like hell to act unaffected. “I barely remember her. Nah, that’s real old news.”
Another. Fucking. Hum.
“Right, right,” he says. “Well, anyway. You’ll get this Keystone shit handled.”
He doesn’t say it as a vote of confidence in my abilities, but as a clear command. Get this done. Or else.
“All right,” I say, keeping my tone cool.
“And that leads to the second thing. There’s a gala at the end of the week, also in Chicago. You remember Trance Jackson, right?”
“Of course,” I reply. My father worked with Trance before he died.
No. Before my father’s brutal murder.
I grind my teeth and listen to my parents’ killer drone on.
“It’s a charity thing, so be sure to smile nicely for the cameras.”
A pause, the implication being I’m going to this gala whether I want to or not. Just more proof that Lakeland’s in control.
