Dro blew out a cloud of smoke and leaned forward. “The fake mentorship program he pitched… It’s a whole fuckin’ front. Scholarships, internships, programs for underprivileged kids—it’s all dirty as hell. Money laundering, ghost students, ID theft. Real ugly. And check this out…”
Silas didn’t blink. He felt more bullshit coming.
“His daughter Nuri Sinclair’s name is all over that shit.”
Silas gritted his teeth, jaw tight. The fire that had ignited behind Silas’ eyes was one that wouldn’t be kindled until Boyd and Tree got their issue by way of solitary confinement or the grave.
“He put her name on paperwork? Why the fuck would he do that?”
“Because he’s a grimy ass muthafucka that need to stop breathin’,” Memphis jumped in. “And a crooked-ass coward at that. He needed a clean face. A credible student with no priors and good grades. Nuri was a perfect prospect. Too fuckin’ perfect.”
"I have no idea, but I gotta admit... the shit feels real fuckin' personal. Dro added. “Ain't no real father gone do no shit like this to their daughter." Dro shook his head in disgust.
Silas stood and paced slow like a man trying to keep himself from exploding. He wasn’t the loud type. Never had to be. When he moved…Shit shifted.
“You want us to press him?” Dro asked, voice low and ready.
Silas turned to face both men. Eyes cold. Expression unreadable. “Not yet. We don’t touch him—unless we have to.”
“So what’s the move?” Memphis asked.
Silas walked back to his desk, opened the drawer, pulled out a folder marked with a gold S, and laid it flat.
“We protect Nuri. We move ahead of the leak. If anything drops, we’re ten steps ahead. Memphis, call Glover. She’s gonna need the best lawyer money can buy.”
“Say less,” Memphis replied, already texting.
Dro nodded, flicking ash from his cigar.
“You ready for war?”
“I stay ready for war,” he took a slow drag from his cigar, the cherry burning hot. “Now I got a reason to dismantle everything that nigga stand for.”
Silas’ plan was to put out the fire before the flames got a chance to touch Nuri, but the saying is true—it be your own family who fuck you the worst.Boyd had the right idea but the wrong nigga because his plan wasn’t going to flourish on Silas’ watch. When it came to Nuri Sinclar, it would forever be fucking war… or death whichever one came first, Silas didn’t give a damn.
The Grand Horizon Ballroom didn’t just sparkle—it bled Black excellence. Gold dripped from the chandeliers, velvet curtains kissed the walls, and the floor gleamed like a fresh check. The room was filled with culture and class, tradition and everybody was turnt. This was the Heritage Ball at Blake University—a celebration of legacy. However, tonight, it had a twist. The Heritage Ball was the pinnacle event of the semester. It was held in the historic Grand Horizon Ballroom just off Blake University’s east quad, the air lingered with elegance and culture. The theme wasMasquerade Royalty. That meant masks were mandatory, and not even anonymity could protect hearts from familiarity.
The student body showed out in true HBCU fashion. The ballroom was draped in black velvet and gold lace. Tables borenames likeThe Baldwin Table,The Tubman Circle, andThe Chadwick Booth. Faculty and students alike were dressed in black-tie excellence, but with unapologetic flair.
Nuri moved through the crowd like poetry in motion. Wrapped in a black dress that stopped mid-thigh and teased just enough thigh to spark curiosity. Her mask was gold and black, fringed with rhinestones and delicate tassels that clung to her face like a crown meant to veil her identity. However, it couldn’t dim her light. Her hair sat high in an elegant updo. Her skin glowed beneath soft uplighting. Her eyes were framed with kohl, and her lips were glossed like temptation. Every piece of her was intentional. From the curve of her wrist to the sway of her hips.
She wasn’t trying to be noticed.
She simply couldn’t be ignored.
Bre walked beside her, both of them bathed in compliments and clicks of camera flashes. The air was thick with pride and expensive scents, laughter, and old-school soul. It was like stepping into a different time. Donnell Jones played was going off, and H.E.R. played next. Somewhere near the bar, the crowd broke into a line dance without needing a DJ to announce it.
Nuri smiled, but she was distracted. Her mind wasn’t fully there. Not since she felt him.She hadn’t seen his face yet, but her instincts picked him up. The power of his presence was embedded in her memory. It was like blood rushing their under skin when her eyes scanned the crowd, and finally landed on him, it was confirmed.
He wore an all-black Tom Ford tuxedo, a black mask, and a fresh cut that aligned perfectly with his goatee. Though his appearance was disguised, he was still fine as hell. Despite all the masks that were worn, all the hundreds of students and administration that were present at the Heritage Ball… Nothing could stop Silas’ eyes from locking with Nuri’s, no matter how hard she tried to fight their bond. It was extreme,rare, and downright disrespectful. The chemistry Silas and Nuri had didn’t give a damn about defense mechanisms, walls, and boundaries. When their eyes met it was always checkmate.
Everyone danced, music played, glasses clinked; but none of it mattered. Despite what she felt, Nuri forced herself to glance away, pretending to laugh at something Bre said.
For two full hours, they played the game. He stood. She floated. He watched. She spun. They danced with the space between them, never touching, but never apart. Until she stepped away.
“Hey, I’m about to go to the ladies room. I’ll be right back,” Nuri discreetly whispered. Before disappearing down the side hallway where the restrooms were located.
“Okay. Do your thing,” Bre said, easing seamlessly back into conversation.
