Strip off that coat and go clear dirty plates in the banquet hall, Nia—you're staff tonight, not family, my mother-in-law Evelyn snapped, her voice echoing across the candlelit grand ballroom.
The auction had proceeded, but the air remained thick with unspoken tension. Evelyn sat stiffly at her table, refusing to meet my gaze, her jaw clenched.
She knew. She saw the shift in Tariq’s demeanor, the subtle deference from the enforcers. She knew that my presence on the dais, holding the master keycard, was not mere theatrics.
I left the Obsidian Vault under the protection of two silent, unblinking security guards. Tariq had insisted.
“Madam Hollis,” he’d said, his voice flat and professional, “until the charter holder’s status is officially ratified, this building operates under unusual protocols.”
The moment I stepped out onto the rain-slicked Atlanta street, the illusion of safety shattered. My burner phone buzzed, a flood of anonymous messages hitting it. Digital blasts, circulated across every illicit channel in the city.
_Nia Hollis: Federal Informant._
_FBI Asset Spotted at Obsidian Vault Gala. Beware._
_She’s Wearing a Wire. Snitch._
The words scrolled across the small screen, each one a death sentence in this city. Evelyn hadn’t just been embarrassed; she was moving to neutralize me. Branding me a federal rat was her ultimate weapon. It turned every street corner, every shadow, into a potential ambush.
I navigated the wet streets, the messages burning in my pocket. Every pair of eyes felt like a threat.
When I reached my modest studio apartment near the old Bankhead neighborhood, the door hung ajar. The cheap lock had been splintered, wood chips scattered across the threadbare hallway rug.
A cold dread settled in my stomach.
Inside, my tiny space was a disaster. Clothes ripped from the closet, cheap furniture overturned. The mattress had been slashed open, stuffing spilling onto the floor. My few personal effects—the faded photos, the worn Bible—were tossed carelessly aside.
They weren’t looking for money. They were looking for paper.
Specifically, the physical 2014 covenant papers Deacon had told me about. Evelyn wasn’t taking any chances.
A chilling thought struck me. Had Deacon’s information been confirmed? Did Evelyn know I had *actual* leverage, or was this a fishing expedition?
I pulled out my phone, fingers fumbling for Deacon’s number. I had to know. Did she really miss that deadline? Was Section 14B truly active?
His voice was thin when he answered, but steady. “Nia? You’re safe?”
“My apartment,” I whispered, my voice tight. “It’s been ransacked. Evelyn’s calling me a snitch on the streets.”
A pause. Then, Deacon’s voice, grave and low, delivered the blow I simultaneously feared and hoped for. “She forgot, Nia. The ten-year renewal rider on Section 14B. She failed to execute it last month. She sent the junior paralegal to file it, but the old man at the county clerk’s office, he recognized my original seal and held it up. Called her office, got no reply. The deadline passed.”
The world tilted. It was real. The reversion clause wasn’t just a possibility; it was a cold, hard fact. Evelyn had slipped up. And now, she was unleashing hell to cover her mistake.
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