Page 33 of Real's Love

"N-n-no, thank you. I'm good right?—"

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Aaqil raged. “And you let the dog on the couch? He knows better! Traitor,” he hissed before cursing poor little Assad in a rapid-fire blend of Arabic and French.

"Ay, leave my lil’ homie alone. And um, I'm sorry you thought that was optional, baby girl," Targen said as we ignored Aaqil’s protests. "Come sitcho ass down and let me hold that driver's license. Insurance in case you don't forget whatever you see tonight."

Slowly, she made her way to Targen, sitting as far away from him as the small couch would allow. Aaqil was busy making spluttering sounds as I watched him, bored by his dramatics.

"How the fuck did you get in here? Where is my security?" he finally demanded.

"Is that what you called the two fools we laid out? I got news for you, Aaqil. You not very secure."

"Swear. They obviously trained at Topflight Security with Day-Day," Targen theorized.

Aaqil turned furious eyes on him. "Always the jokester, but nothing is as amusing as your ruined face," he hissed.

Chuckling, Targen leaned forward, causing the terrified woman next to him to whimper.

"I spare you because Real asks me to. Keep running your fucking mouth, and I'll line your face up like I'm tryna pass state boards for my barber's license. We can see whose face is funnier then."

Targen's voice was low and unbothered as he spoke. He smiled at Aaqil's date as he settled back into his seat.

"You gotta excuse Aaqil's manners, shorty. His refrigerator and pantry got somma everything. Would you like something?” he inquired, gesturing toward the fruit and nuts he had assembled on the coffee table.

I laughed. “It is sad how all he offered was that weak-ass dick.”

Aaqil made a noise that sounded like a growl as he mugged me. He was practically foaming at the mouth.

“Weak-ass dick? Not everything runs in the family. Do not project your issues onto me,brother,” he snarled.

I straightened real fast, and I knew my expression probably mirrored his now. I didn’t play that shit he was talking about at all.

“I’m not your fucking brother, bitch ass nigga,” I spat, striding toward him, ready to separate his head from his neck.

“You should not be. You should not exist. It is unfortunate that my father let himself be seduced by an American?—”

My fist connected with his eye socket, sending him stumbling backward. I grabbed the lapel of his jacket and pulled him back toward me, pressing my Glock against his temple. He went still, but he didn’t cower.

“An American what, mothafucka? Don’t you ever speak ill on that one. Yo’ daddy is a lying ass bastard who took advantage of her being so innocent and trusting. Spun her a whole lot of dreams while pumping her full of babies. Then you got the nerve to be mad cuz the nigga finally shared the wealth?” I scoffed.

Aaqil was breathing hard, his chest expanding and contracting quickly as his eyes met mine.

“He disrespected my mother.His wife. Each time he lay with your mother. Each time he claims to love your mother. Each time?—”

I didn’t want to hear his bullshit, had heard it all before.

“Yo’ mother is seven thousand miles away. My mama didn’t know about her until after Chennai. Blame yo’ father. Ismail don’t love nobody but himself,” I cut him off.

Somehow, despite all the bad relations between Libya and the US in the 1980s and 90s, Ismail al-Saleh from Benghazi, Libya, had been allowed into the country as a student. He met my mother, a naïve nineteen-year-old, and decided to go after her. Mama fell for him and got pregnant with Cairo quickly. Her parents were pissed when Ismail agreed to take care of her but not marry her. They saw the red flags, but Mama was too in love to listen. He was with her almost constantly during her pregnancies with Cairo and me. Then, he started to claim he had to go back to Libya for blocks of time. He never could take us. Too dangerous, he told her. He’d come back and they’d pick up where they left off.

Ismail was arrested when Mama was pregnant with Chennai. He'd gone to medical school just long enough to make him extremely valuable in the illegal organ trade. He dabbled in some other dark shit, too. Once he was caught, his skeletons started to fall out of his closet. He had a whole other family in Libya, a wife and three kids. Aaqil was the oldest, the product of his parents’ arranged marriage. Ismail had never been in love with his wife Zeynep, he told my mother. Marrying her was a duty. My mom was the wife of his heart, even though he broke hers with all his fucking deception.

Ismail had not given us his last name, but he had never denied us. That and the fact that he’d finally begun blessing us financially while doing his thirty years pissed Aaqil off. It was more evidence of disrespect to his family. The nigga would probably explode if he knew Ismail still wrote Mama. She never responded, but I knew she read his letters.

Aaqil had made up his mind that he was going to take everything we’d built with the little money Mama had saved for us and the lucrative trade Ismail had introduced us to as adults. He hoped to throw dirt on our names in the process, which was why he’d recently contracted Gerard to spy. For years, we ignored his ass. I didn’t acknowledge him as a brother, but the blood tie made us hesitant to kill him. Mama had begged us not to. But he was getting mad annoying now.

“I am going to take back—” he began, breaking me from my reverie.

“You ain’t gon’ take shit. You gon’ stay the fuck away from my family and my property, or I won’t be just holding this gun on you,” I warned him. “I hope yo’ stupid ass understands.”

---