I recognized my ex-husband Marcus the second he stepped out of room 1402 at the Grand Monarch Hotel, holding hands with his new fiancé.
The hidden apartment was on South Shore, a cramped two-bedroom unit Devonne had set up years ago, a relic from his street days. The air smelled faintly of dust and old newspapers. Empty pizza boxes were stacked precariously on a small table.
I sat hunched over a laptop, sifting through Malik’s encrypted files. Devonne watched over my shoulder, a hand resting lightly on my back. The only sound was the whir of the computer fan and the distant rumble of the ‘L’ train.
“Malik was smart,” Devonne murmured, pointing at a line of code on the screen. “He knew Duke had eyes everywhere. This encryption… it’s military grade.”
“He didn’t trust anyone,” I said, a pang in my chest. “Not after Duke started changing.”
We worked in silence for a few more minutes, the weight of Malik’s absence heavy in the air. Devonne cleared his throat, his voice softer now.
“About the baby, Lisa,” he began, his hand moving to my shoulder. “Malik… he would have loved this. He would have wanted us to be safe.”
I looked up at him, meeting his gaze. My heart fluttered, a mixture of fear and profound tenderness.
“I know,” I said, a tear pricking at the corner of my eye.
“He made me promise,” Devonne continued, his voice thick with emotion. “If anything ever happened to him, I was to protect you. And any family.”
He squeezed my shoulder, his eyes unwavering. “This child… it’s ours now. Mine and yours. And I’m going to make sure Duke never lays a hand on either of you.”
A lump formed in my throat. Devonne, Malik’s best friend, had been my shadow for three years, a silent guardian. He never asked for anything, just honored a promise to a dead man. This baby, this miracle growing inside me, was a testament to that loyalty. Not Marcus’s, who had folded under Duke’s pressure. But Devonne’s.
Just as the truth of his unwavering commitment settled over me, a sharp, insistent knock rattled the apartment door. Three precise, heavy thuds.
My blood ran cold.
Devonne instinctively reached for the Glock holstered at his hip, his face tightening. He moved to the peephole, weapon raised.
He peered through, then slowly lowered his gun, a look of disbelief on his face.
“Lisa,” he whispered, turning back to me. “It’s Sondra.”
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