Page 182 of Riot

And the second I held her, something in me cracked wide open.

I’d never held anything so small. So perfect. So goddamn fragile. I remember staring down at her wrinkled little face, scared to even breathe too hard, like I might break her. Like maybe I didn’t deserve something this pure.

But then her tiny fingers wrapped around min and just like that, I knew I’d burn down heaven or hell to keep her safe.

It’s been a month since she was born, and I still don’t sleep right. Not because she cries much. I want just want her life to be better than the one I came from. Better than what my father gave me.

I want her to grow up knowing softness without fear. Strength without violence. To feel safe in her own skin. To never question if she’s loved.

And I want the same for Jasir.

Because he’s mine now too. He didn’t come from me but that King blood flows through him.

Through both of them.

And I’m gonna raise them the way I wish I’d been raised, loved, protected, and free to become whoever the hell they want to be.

I owe them that.

I oweherthat.

Allure’s been glowing ever since the birth. Even on the days she’s exhausted and half-dressed, with spit-up on her collar and no idea what day it is, she’s still the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen.

She made me a father.

She made me real.

She gave me all the things I never thought I would have. I love her so much and I’m going to give her the word.

I finally had the family I always dreamed of but now I had to touch base with another family member.

The air inside Greene Correctional was thick with sweat and stale bleach. It smelled like rage and resignation. Years of it caked into the concrete walls. Creed and I were led through two sets of buzzed gates, each one slamming shut behind us like a coffin lid.

Our boots echoed against the tile as a CO with a gut full of attitude led us down the narrow hall toward the visitation wing.The low murmur of inmates drifted from cells like background noise, but I wasn’t paying attention to that. My head was on Cannon. The brother we never knew. The brother our mother left behind.

The one who might hate us just for breathing.

I’d read the file Denise gave us front to back, but nothing on paper could prepare me for the man who stepped into that visitation room.

Cannon was already sitting when we walked in, sprawled in the metal chair like a lion in a cage he knew he was too big for. Dude had to be 6’5, easy. Taller than both Creed and me, and broader too. His skin was the color of raw honey, but those piercing blue eyes cut colder than steel. His arms were covered in ink—sleeves of abstract shapes, fallen angels, old-school lettering and violence. His neck tattoo snuck up toward his jaw, a bold black crown tucked beneath the beard that framed his face like war paint.

He didn’t stand when we walked in.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even pretend to give a fuck.

Creed and I sat across from him. Three of Tessa King’s sons, all carved by the same legacy but shaped by different wars.

“Cannon,” Creed said first, voice low, respectful.

Cannon leaned back. “You the ones from Harlem?”

His voice was deep. Flat. Like gravel scraped across asphalt.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m Riot. This is Creed. Tessa—our mother?—”

“Your mother,” he cut in, tone razor-sharp. “Not mine.”

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