King of Diamonds

The heat in Cressida didn't play fair.

It had that kind of late-spring weight-sticky, humming off the pavement, climbing inside your clothes, kissing your scalp with every breath. Mia Lennox had been in heels since 8 a.m., running through open houses in Northside condos where the air smelled like fresh paint and desperation. Clients with champagne wallets and beer budgets had wasted her whole afternoon.

Now she was on her block.

South Cressida was loud, alive, and real. Music spilled out of passing cars, corner boys catcalled from cracked stoops, and smoke from the jerk chicken stand on 143rd floated in the air like perfume. Mia walked with purpose, her purse bouncing against her hip, curls pulled into a messy pineapple puff, shades low over her almond eyes. She was still wearing her work fit-cream silk blouse tucked into high-waist slacks that hugged her thick hips like sin.

Every man she passed had something to say.

"Damn, baby-you workin' or walkin'?"

"Lemme sell you a dream, shorty."

She didn't even flinch. Cressida noise wasn't new. She hit the corner and spotted the hand-painted sign of Jasmine's salon-Crowned Royalty-glinting gold in the late sun.

Mia pushed through the glass door and sighed.

It smelled like hair grease, mango butter, and secrets.

"Finally," Jasmine said, grinning from her station. She was pressing a teenager's roots with one hand and texting with the other. "I was two seconds from pulling up on your job."

"Girl, I thought I was gonna body somebody today," Mia muttered, kicking off her heels near the door. "You know how many times I smiled at people I wanted to slap?"

From the corner, Raelynn lifted her phone and took a picture.

"This bitch been fine all day and mad about it," Rae said, legs crossed, baby hairs laid, acrylics tapping against her Starbucks cup. "Look at God."

Mia rolled her eyes and hugged her. Raelynn always smelled like sugar and something with a warning label. Rae was the type to curse you out and then send you a playlist about it.

Jasmine waved her toward the empty chair next to Rae.

"Sit yo' ass down so I can bless this head. You want curls or straight today?"

"Let's do curls," Mia said. "Big. Bounce. 'I make commission money' curls."

They laughed. It felt good. Real.

Mia sank into the chair and let her head fall back into Jasmine's expert hands. The feeling of warm water sliding through her scalp was better than sex. Almost.

"So," Rae said, watching them through the mirror. "Guess who slid in my DMs again?"

"Cash," Jasmine and Mia said in unison.

Rae smirked. "He said he missed my mouth."

"And what did you say?" Mia asked, already bracing herself.

"Told him I missed it too. Then blocked him."

Jasmine damn near dropped her flat iron.

"You are a demon."

"A demon with standards," Rae replied.

Mia laughed so hard she had to clutch her towel.

Moments like this were everything. She needed them. Between running listings, surviving commission checks, and holding her shit together since her mama passed, these two were her reset button.

They talked through everything-Rihanna's new Fenty drop, Rae's secret lingerie side hustle, Jasmine's latest sneaky link with a married dentist-until the door opened and someone else stepped inside.

Mia opened her eyes just as the bell jingled.

Alessia Moretti.

She floated into the salon like she belonged, dressed in denim shorts, oversized shades, and an off-shoulder white tee with a graphic of Biggie on it. Her dark hair was piled high, a few face-framing tendrils spilling down like calculated accidents.

"Bitches," she said in a mock-royal accent, arms out. "Bow."

"Bow these nuts," Rae said, grinning. "You late."

"Fashionably, hoe."

Mia sat up, letting Jasmine wrap her hair in a cotton tee. "Where you been, Lessie? You missed Rae's birthday brunch."

Alessia flopped onto the extra dryer chair and groaned. "I was in Montclair dealing with my mother's latest breakdown. Lucia wants me to marry a dentist. I told her I'd rather eat a bullet."

They all howled.

Jasmine tossed a comb. "She serious?"

"Dead. Said I needed someone 'respectable' in my life. As if I'm not the only Moretti with a degree."

At the name Moretti, Mia's stomach twinged-but she didn't show it.

Ro Moretti.

Alessia's older brother.

She didn't know him personally-just stories, photos, the low buzz of his name in South Cressida circles. The man who ran casinos like card tricks, who cleaned blood off money with white tablecloths. Rich, ruthless, and allegedly retired from the game.

Mia had never seen him in person.

But from the way Rae and Jasmine had described him-and from Alessia's random cryptic mentions-he sounded like trouble wrapped in Versace.

Still. That was Alessia's brother.

No big deal.

"Anyway," Alessia said, pulling out her phone. "Y'all trying to come out tonight? There's a soft opening for one of Ro's new spots downtown. Real lowkey. Invite only. But if I say y'all my plus-three..."

Rae and Jasmine both turned to Mia.

Mia hesitated.

She had work in the morning. She had laundry. She had... a hundred reasons to say no.

But then she looked around-at her girls, at the laughter, at the way the evening light made the salon feel like their own little corner of peace.

And the way Alessia said Ro's new spot lingered in her mind longer than she wanted it to.

"Fuck it," Mia said finally. "I'm down."

And just like that, the night started writing itself.

They left the salon two hours later.

Mia's curls bounced like she had a glam squad on payroll. Rae changed outfits in the back room, slipping into high-waist jeans and a cut-out crop top. Jasmine shut down the shop early, sliding on glossy red lipstick in the rearview of her phone. Alessia had an UberXL waiting, and as the girls piled in, it felt like the beginning of something. Not just a night.

The car cruised through downtown Cressida, past neon signs and food trucks, past strangers queuing outside velvet ropes. But when they pulled up to Velour, there was no line-just two thick men in black suits parting the door like scripture when they saw Alessia.

Inside, the air changed.

Velour wasn't loud. It was decadent. Low lighting. Deep red walls. Gold accents. Velvet booths. The bass thrummed through the floor like a heartbeat. Every server was dressed in black silk. Every guest looked like money. Mia's heels clicked soft against marble tile as they followed Alessia to a private lounge upstairs.

And there, through the glass wall-surrounded by men in suits and women in slinky dresses-stood the man himself.

Roman Moretti.

Mia stopped walking.

Ro stood tall, sipping dark liquor from a crystal tumbler, in a black-on-black suit with no tie. His hair was slicked back, his jaw carved like ancient sin, eyes a cool storm behind thick lashes. He didn't smile. Didn't need to. Every inch of him whispered authority.

He looked up.

Right at her.

And for a second-a breath, a blink-Mia forgot the city, forgot her curls, forgot who she was supposed to be.

Because in that moment, Ro looked at her like she was already his.

And he hadn't even said a word yet.