Page 17 of Riot

“You think they’ll follow me?” I asked, my voice low, careful.

“I know they will,” she said. “All they need is someone to stand up first. Someone who’s not afraid to break tradition and burn the old shit down.”

I looked down at my son, now drifting off on her shoulder. His little chest rising and falling against her.

This wasn’t about just me anymore.

Mimi stood up, walked over, and touched my face again. Her hand was soft, but her eyes were steel. “You keep playin’ their game, you’ll always lose. It’s time to flip the board, baby.”

And just like that, I nodded.

No hesitation.

“All gloves are off.”

Chapter 5

ALLURE

Apparently, when some women get held captive long enough, they start to sympathize with the devil. They develop an attachment to their captor—start seeing them as human, even worthy of love. They forget who they were, forget their families, their favorite color, their favorite song. They let go of freedom and adapt to hell.

They call it survival.

But let’s be clear.

That is not me.

I will never acclimate. I will never adapt. I will never love Boaz Haim.

I hate him with every ragged, breathing, blood-pumping piece of me. Every time he walks past me, I pray he chokes on the air he sucks into his lungs. I pray for his death like it’s my religion. Morning, noon, and night. May his liver rot. May his tongue swell and his heart rupture mid-sentence. I pray every single person loyal to him drops dead before he can even blink.

And then, I pray I’m the one who gets to light the match.

I’ve imagined it a thousand times—drenching this godforsaken compound in gasoline and striking one, perfect flame. Watching those glass cages explode. Watching the women run free. Watching Boaz’s silk pajamas melt onto his skin as he screams for mercy that will never come.

He’s held me here since I was sixteen.

I still don’t know how he knew I was a virgin, but he did. Picked me like fruit. Sent his men to pluck me off the street like I wasn’t someone’s daughter. Someone’s world.

I’ll never forget it.

I was walking home from school. Backpack on. Headphones in. Thinking about what I was going to eat for dinner and if I had time to sneak in a nap before homework. Then a blue van pulled up and two men jumped out like I was a prize on a damn game show. They grabbed me so fast, so hard, I didn’t even have time to scream until the doors slammed shut. I kicked. Scratched. Bit one of them hard enough to taste blood.

Didn’t matter.

They were stronger. And they were on a mission.

Back then, I thought my father would come for me.

I thought he’d burn cities to the ground to find me. I thought my disappearance would be headline news, that his connections would stretch across borders, that my face would be on every phone and billboard until I was home.

But I never got found.

And it hurts. I won’t lie. That part still slices deeper than anything Boaz has ever done to me.

Because my father?

He wasn’t some broke, useless nigga. He was a boss. Ran his own operation. Had money, soldiers, power. Maybe he wasn’t international like Boaz, but he had enough to shake something. To make noise. And yet…

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