Page 7 of A King’s Obsession

“I don't give a flying fuck if he's sitting on the moon.” I planted both palms against my desk, staring at him. “Why is he anywhere near my club?”

Malachi exhaled through his nose and rubbed a hand over his beard. I could see the irritation flashing across his face, but he didn't argue because he knew exactly why I was pissed. VICE wasn't open yet, but I'd already made one thing clear. Nothing from the streets was supposed to touch this building. No product, no collections, and damn sure no meetings with niggas who couldn't explain where forty thousand dollars went.

“Aight,” he finally said, giving a short nod. “That's on me. I should've handled that shit somewhere else.”

I held his gaze for another second before sitting back down. That was one of the reasons we'd lasted almost twenty years. Neither of us needed to spend ten minutes arguing when one of us already knew he was wrong.

“Handle him,” I said, reaching for the bottle of water sitting beside my computer.

“He saying one of his young niggas took—”

“I don't care what he's saying, Chi.” I twisted the cap off the bottle and took a slow drink before setting it down. “If I give you something, you're responsible for it. What you do with it after that is your business. Tone owes forty, and I expect my forty.”

Malachi studied me for a moment, then nodded. There wasn't anything else to discuss. He knew what needed to happen, and I trusted him to make sure it did. He'd been handling shit for me since we were barely old enough to understand what we were building.

I was twenty-two when I met him. Hungry as fuck, broke compared to what I wanted to become, and already smart enough to know I didn't plan on spending my life standing on somebody's corner. Malachi was twenty, reckless, loyal, and always ready to put hands on somebody who looked at him wrong.

I thought ahead. He moved when it was time to move.

Somewhere between our first few plays and our first real money, business had turned into brotherhood. Thousands became hundreds of thousands, hundreds became millions, and eventually I'd built enough connections that I didn't need to be seen at all.

Malachi handled the streets while I controlled what moved through them. That arrangement had made both of us rich.

What I did afterward made me a billionaire.

I bought property, buildings, land, and invested in businesses most of the men we'd come up with didn't even know existed. I understood early that money wasn't worth a damn if the only way to keep making it was to keep risking my freedom.

Yara had a lot to do with that realization.

The first time she'd gone through my finances, she'd stared at me like I was the dumbest rich nigga she'd ever encountered.

All this money, Ezra, and you don't own enough shit that pays you without you touching it?

I'd wanted to put her ass out of my office that day.

Instead, I listened.

Best financial decision I'd ever made.

The vibration of my phone against the desk pulled me out of my thoughts. I glanced down at the screen and saw Yara's name lighting it up. Across from me, Malachi immediately turned his head toward the wall, suddenly finding something interesting about the paint.

I narrowed my eyes.

“What you do?”

He looked back at me, his forehead creasing. “Why I gotta do something?”

“Because you suddenly fascinated with that fucking wall, and the only time you act like that is when you done pissed Yara off.”

His jaw tightened as he fought a smile. He shifted against the couch, pulling one of his phones from his pocket before sliding it right back in.

“She been calling me,” he admitted.

“And you ain't answer?”

“Nope.”

I picked up my phone, watching the realization spread across his face.