At the time of my kidnapping, I had already started making custom prom dresses for a few girls at school. I had measurements written on the backs of napkins, sketches tucked in notebooks, and a vision board taped to the wall beside my bed. It was finally happening. I was doing the thing I loved—and about to be paid for it.
And then that bitch-ass nigga Boaz took it all from me.
He stole the dream right out of my hands. Snatched the thread of my life and rewound it into something dark, cruel, and caged. I will never forgive him for that. Not for what he did to my body, but for what he did to my time. For the hours I’ll never get back. For the dreams that had to sit on a shelf and collect dust for a decade. I hoped he died slowly. Painfully. Regretfully. I hoped the cancer in his chest was only a preview of the hell waiting for him on the other side.
Eventually, after pacing the halls and quietly exploring the house, I settled into the theater room. Grand wasn’t even the word. It was like stepping into a private cinema designed for royalty. Plush velvet seating. A screen that stretched wall to wall. Surround sound that made the whole room vibrate. Riot was beyond blessed to live like this, but I knew—on some level—this life wasn’t clean. This kind of wealth always came with shadows.
But I was used to that.
My father was a kingpin. I grew up surrounded by secrets, guarded by men with guns, and rocked to sleep by the lull of sirens in the distance. I’ve seen too many men die and grown numb to the sound of a body hitting the pavement. Fear was a part of my DNA. But so was comfort. Daddy spoiled me.Elaborate dinners. The latest fashion dresses. Exotic vacations when business was good. There were moments when it felt like magic.
That’s why I couldn’t understand why he never came for me. Why he let them take me and never showed up to burn the world down to get me back. I needed a reason. A real one. And I was going to find it.
No matter what it cost.
The theater room was dim and cool. I didn’t know what new movies were out but I’d search after I finished perusing the internet.
I settled into one of the leather recliners and pulled Riot’s MacBook onto my lap. The glow from the screen lit my face as I booted it up, fingers trembling as I waited for it to load. My heart beat loud in my ears. This was it. My first moment of true digital freedom in a decade. No locked browser. No monitored emails. No eyes over my shoulder.
I created a new email address. A fake one. Something no one could trace back to me if Boaz’s people were somehow watching. Then I set up a Facebook profile using a name I used to give out to boys I didn’t trust—Tasha E. Just enough fiction to protect myself. I uploaded a picture of a vintage Karl Lagerfeld design that I loved from his Chanel days.
The search bar stared back at me like a portal.
I typed in my brother’s name, Carmelo Jonesbut there was no profile. I tried different spellings. Nicknames. Nothing.
My chest tightened when I realized I couldn’t reach him. Then I searched for my mother. Anita Jones.
Several Anita Jones popped up but I kept scrolling until I landed on a picture of her.
There she was. I was a picture of her from over a decade ago. It was taken by me when we were on a trip to Miami, just us girls. It warmed my heart that she kept this picture up all this time.However, she hadn’t posted anything in years. No new photos. No recent check-ins. Just a stagnant timeline.
But as I scrolled, I felt my chest tighten.
A friend of her had written on her wall, “So sorry for your loss. Your husband was a great man. Sending you love.”
The words punched me straight in the gut.
I blinked at the screen, refusing to believe it.
Loss?
Your husband.
My father.
Gone.
Tears burned my eyes and spilled freely as I stared at those ten words, over and over. Each one a nail in a coffin I never got to see. I covered my mouth to muffle the sob that threatened to rise. My chest was shaking. My whole body, actually. My lungs fought to work. Like his death had sucked the air out of me too.
No. No. No.
I needed more.
I opened a new tab and typed in Lionel Jones. A headline popped up. Dated less than a year ago.
“Body of Man Identified as Lionel Jones Found in Passaic River—Gunshot Wound to Head, Police Suspect Gang Retaliation.”
I clicked it with shaking hands.