Junaid Uncle ignored everyone else, his eyes fixed on my face. “This entire neighbourhood is nothing but an ethnic slum,” he announced.
That did it.Drama, consider yourself embraced.I stood up slowly, fists clenched at my sides. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re Brown!”
Aydin turned to his father and, in one last effort to broker peace, said in perfect Urdu, “This is not the time or the place. We came here to meet the community, not to make enemies.”
Rashid took a step towards Aydin, and for a moment I thought my cousin was going to punch him. Instead he clasped Aydin’s arm. “Bhai, your Urdu is very good. Did you grow up in Pakistan?”
“No, but I took weekend language classes,” Aydin said, smiling at him.
Junaid interrupted before they could exchange phone numbers or start following each other on Twitter. “There is no point making friends with the people we will soon put out of business.” He glared at the rest of the BOA members. “Your neighbourhood will become gentrified soon. The signs are already there. Rents will rise beyond your profit margins, and every last one of you will be bankrupt within five years.”
Aydin closed his eyes. “Dad,” he said.
“You disgust me,” I said to Junaid Uncle, but my eyes were filled with angry tears. I quickly walked out of the room, hands shaking as I climbed the stairs. I would not cry in front of them.
Outside it was twilight. I took deep, gulping breaths. My eyes were drawn to Golden Crescent, to the commercial strip where my mother had so proudly started her own business, to the neighbourhood where we had set down roots and built a life. I noticed how shabby it looked under the street lamps, the grime and the disrepair. And I hated Aydin and his father even more.
I WASN’T ALONE FOR LONG.
“That wasn’t how I wanted our first BOA meeting to go. My father can be... difficult,” Aydin said stiffly.
Difficult. He thought what Junaid Shah had said inside had been “difficult,” that I was upset because his unpleasant father had hurled a few insults at some strangers. He really had no clue.
I took a deep breath. “That hundred-dollar bill you paid, the first time you came to our restaurant. Was that pity for your competition?”
“You’re not really my competition.”
“Ass.” We stared each other down. When he looked away first, I wanted to pump my fist in the air, as if I had won something.
But when he spoke, I realized he hadn’t backed down an inch. His voice was wintry. “Your mother’s restaurant is in trouble, and the best biryani in the world won’t help her. Whatever happens between our stores is just business, nothing more. If you want to keep up with me, I will enjoy the competition. If you can’t, and your restaurant closes as a result, that will be your family’s choice.”
He meant my family’s fault. “Your father said we’ll all be gone in five years. Are you planning to help that process along?”
Aydin shrugged. “There’s incredible growth potential for a well-run halal restaurant. Even my father recognizes that.”
A well-run halal restaurant. He clearly did not include Three Sisters in that description. My fist tightened at my side. He hadn’t answered my question, I noticed. “Do you and your father plan to shut down every business in Golden Crescent, or just mine?” I asked.
Aydin again sidestepped my question. “Have you heard of Shah Industries?”
The name rang a distant bell. So he was a spoiled rich kid from a rich family. I already knew that.
“Dad wants me to follow in his footsteps. Mergers and acquisitions, property development in target markets—basically grown-up Monopoly.”
Grown-up Monopoly.Target markets.He sounded like Marisa, intent on exploiting a new demographic. “Is this all a game to you? You’re playing with my family’s livelihood. We don’t have another business or family money to fall back on if you force our doors closed. You’re a suit with deep pockets. We’re a local fixture in anethnic slum.” The anger must have been clear on my face, because his gaze dropped. “Why are you really here?” I demanded, stepping closer.
“I like food,” he said simply, and his words finally felt honest. “I like the idea of building a business, a lasting brand. Something that will bring halal food into the mainstream. Your mom’s biryani really did remind me of my mother’s. She died when I was five.”
I remembered how vulnerable he had looked that first time we met at Three Sisters, the gentle surprise on his face as he ate Mom’s biryani and talked about his mother. I would not feel sorry for him. Lots of people have dead mothers and dick fathers. That didn’t mean he got a pass for being arrogant and underhanded.
Aydin’s voice was soft in the descending darkness. “Shah Industries buys and sells companies, but we don’t hold on to them for very long. We don’t build anything real. I wanted something real.”
He stood so close I could smell his aftershave, a subtle cologne tinged with sandalwood—and money. I inhaled deeply. So this was what deception smelled like.
Footsteps, and then beautiful Yusuf eased his long body next to mine. He glared at Aydin. “You and your father are no longer welcome in the Golden Crescent Business Owners Association. I’m going to petition City Council to revoke your food licence. We don’t need big business trying to pave over the character and traditions of our neighbourhood.” He put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder.
Aydin looked at Yusuf’s arm and then at me. “I’m not the villainhere, Hana,” he said, ignoring Yusuf. “I’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much to stop now.”
I shook off Yusuf’s arm. “You know nothing about sacrifice,” I said.
