Page 6 of A King’s Obsession

That only made the shit worse. Malachi lowered his head, his broad shoulders shaking as he tried to contain his laughter. I dragged my palm down my beard, already knowing whatever enjoyment I'd been getting was officially over. I looked down, tapped the woman's shoulder, and told her to get up.

She hesitated for half a second before rising to her feet. Her dress had ridden up around her hips, and she tugged it back into place while reaching for the purse she'd tossed onto my couch earlier. I adjusted my clothes, watching Malachi make himself comfortable against the wall like he hadn't just walked into my fucking office without knocking.

The woman lingered beside my desk, smoothing her hair as though she expected me to say something else. When her lips parted, I lifted one hand before she could get a word out.

“Don't,” I repeated, giving her a look that should've made my meaning clear the first time.

Her mouth snapped shut. Whatever she'd been about to ask, I wasn't interested in hearing it. She'd come upstairs looking for one thing, I'd allowed it, and now our business was finished. That didn't make us friends, and it damn sure didn't mean I planned on seeing her again. I nodded toward the door, my patience already wearing thin. “You know the way you came in.”

Embarrassment flashed across her face before irritation took its place. She snatched her phone from my desk, grabbed her purse, and walked out without another word. I waited until the door closed before turning my attention back to the oversized problem still standing against my wall.

Malachi hadn't stopped grinning.

“Something funny?” I asked, leaning forward and resting my forearms against the desk.

His grin widened before he caught the expression on my face. That wiped some of the amusement away, but not nearly enough. The nigga had known me too long to scare easily, which was unfortunate because I was genuinely considering making an example out of his left foot.

“Keep laughing,” I told him quietly. “I'm trying to decide if twenty years of friendship is enough reason not to shoot you in the fucking foot.”

Malachi raised his eyebrows, studying me for a moment as though he was trying to determine whether I meant it. That was the entertaining part about knowing somebody as long as we'd known each other. He understood that sometimes even I didn't know how serious I was until somebody tested me.

“Man, you need some fucking help,” he muttered, finally pushing away from the wall.

“Probably. But you still standing in my office, ain't you?”

He shook his head, laughing under his breath as he dropped onto the leather couch. Unlike the businessmen I'd spent most of my afternoon dealing with, Malachi looked exactly like where we came from. Black hoodie, dark jeans, fresh sneakers, and a watch that cost more than some people's cars. No briefcase, no unnecessary paperwork. Just two phones and the kind of calm that came from knowing violence personally.

At thirty-nine, Chi still had one foot planted firmly in the streets.

Truthfully, so did I.

Mine was just harder to see.

My gaze shifted past him toward the smoked glass overlooking the club below. VICE stretched beneath us in pieces. Plastic covered the unfinished booths, construction dust dulled the black marble floors, and boxes sat stacked behind a half-built bar. Loose wires hung from the ceiling where expensive lighting would eventually go. Right now, it didn't look like much, but I could already picture what it would become.

More importantly, I knew what it represented.

Another piece of my money that didn't need a fucking package attached to it.

“What happened?” I asked, bringing my attention back to Malachi.

The amusement disappeared from his face. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his palms together before looking up at me. It was a small change in his demeanor, but I'd known him long enough to recognize when street business had followed him through the door.

“Tone short,” he answered.

I waited for him to finish, watching the slight tension settle around his jaw.

“Forty bands.”

My jaw shifted. Forty thousand dollars wasn't enough money to disturb my sleep anymore, but the principle behind it damn sure could. Money didn't simply disappear from my organization. Somebody took it, spent it, lost it, or lied about it. Whichever one it was, I had a problem with it.

“Where he at?” I asked.

Malachi's eyes flickered toward the glass overlooking the club, and that single movement told me everything I needed to know. I slowly pushed my chair back and stood, watching his expression change when he realized where my mind had gone.

“Tell me you didn't bring that motherfucker here.”

“He outside,” Malachi admitted, lifting one hand before I could say anything else. “He ain't in the building, E.”