13
Mecca
Here we go, I thought. I was preparing again to face these hardheaded man-children that I had inherited from my uncle, I mean, Raymond. They were getting the job done, I had to give them that much, but I’d had to stay on their asses enough that it was a miracle I hadn’t cleaned out their damn colons.
There was a rat or two among us that I was determined to find. Black Saints’ confidential information was seeping out the door and making it back to me via my spies. How else could we end up with two back-to-back shipments of our supply getting seized?
Authorities weren’t allowing us anywhere near the individuals that were arrested during the seizures, but I was convinced that the rat lived free and among us.
Recently, I’d had to send out a few orders that I wasn’t proud of, but that needed to be carried out: a show of force by brutally beating a few, or a display of authority by putting a permanent end to a few more. I didn’t like that part of the job, and worse, I didn’t like ordering others to do the dirty work. I would much rather get my own hands dirty, but there was too much, and too many to manage to continue to do all of my old jobs. Therefore, I was left with no choice but to disseminate duties.
The spies I had in place were finding secrets, and side deals with other groups that I had not been aware of, so progress was being made behind the scenes.
Sitting around the darkly varnished table in one of the three warehouses we owned and conducted our meetings in was ten of my street specialists. This was the fifth meeting I had called since Raymond had disappeared and left us holding a fifteen-million dollar tab and running low on our drug supply.
Thankfully, I had stockpiled money and befriended the right people during my years of working under Raymond’s tutelage. I copped a fifth of what we needed to keep us going, until I came up with a plan to bounce back.
I hadn’t let the men know the actual hell we would be facing if I didn’t fix shit and did my best to keep things on the streets moving, and the rumors from ruining us any further. Today, my plan was to introduce the crew to Arjen, who stood behind me against the wall like a tall, well-built bodyguard.
No one had mentioned him yet, only allowed their eyes to linger as they, with no degree of subtlety, fingered their weapons. Although our wedding was a big event, Arjen hadn’t invited the media, and any pictures taken at the event were screened before the guests were even allowed to walk away with them.
It didn’t matter, however, if the photos were screened because the guest were members of the syndicate or closely associated with it, so our wedding wasn’t getting out unless we wanted it to. Two cameramen were allowed to film the event, and they had signed agreements that only allowed them to release the recordings to me or Arjen.
Judging by their attitudes, it appeared that none of my men had recognized who Arjen was in person. His name sparked fire and fear, but he, his brother, and members of their organization had done one hell of a job of keeping their faces from the media.
Standing behind the chair Raymond usually sat in, my gaze locked with each man sitting before me as I prepared to make the introduction.
“I called this meeting to announce my recent nuptials.”
Eyes went wide, and all of the side-talking, ceased.
“What is a nuptial?” Brandon, ‘Bizzi’ asked.
Off a heavy sigh, my eyes fell closed on a silent prayer for those left behind. I shook my head while others laughed.
“I told you to stay your ass in school, but you wouldn’t listen.”
More laughter sounded, but Brandon and I was going to have a serious talk about his education.
“It means I was recently married,” I explained. The news lifted his brows as he peeked up at me before aiming his gaze at Arjen.
I had been married for over a week and had never been questioned or congratulated. It proved that no one from my crew knew about the knot I had tied. Aside from a few hard glares at the boulder on my ring finger every once in a while, no one had commented or questioned me about it.
Now, after a few words, I had their full attention. Ten sets of eyes, some thoroughly checking out my ring now, and others aimed at my face, were waiting for me to proceed.
“You. Married?” Marshawn asked. His tight forehead and pinched gaze cast doubt along a deep lip smirk. He had known me for years, knew that I dumped men faster than a newborn’s soiled diaper.
“Yes. I’m married,” I replied.
I turned and reached back for Arjen.
“Husband,” I called back to him in a sweet tone. The simple action caused mouths to fall open, eyes to buck, and glaring stares of disbelief. A few gasps and “Oh shits!” joined their awed expressions.
“Hell, no!”
“Why you playing, Mecca?”
“You’re fucking with us,” Marshawn’s frustrated tone sounded above murmurs of protest when he read my serious expression and realized I wasn’t playing.