He Who Is a Friend (Sadik Book 1) Read online

  by Love Belvin

  MKT Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 by Love Belvin

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination.

  Cover design by Visual Luxe

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Love Acknowledges

  Other Books by Love Belvin

  Extra

  ∞1∞

  “Oh, she’s lovely!” The dark-haired woman glanced above her shoulder to her beaming husband. “Isn’t she lovely, Matteo?” His smile deepened and he nodded, eyes low to the topic at hand. The woman’s hand moved to Lia’s belly. “Oh, my! You’re small, but tight in there. When are you due?”

  “This July.” Lia smiled, elated.

  The woman’s chestnut eyes rose to mine. “Do we know what’s in here?”

  Lia’s glossy blonde mane rolled back as she lifted her head to peer at me behind her. She couldn’t hide her excitement as she turned back toward her parents’ guests. “It’s a secret for now. I want to do a reveal party. I’m sure Mamma will be inviting you.”

  The woman leaned in, the silk strands of her dark hair fanning over thin shoulders. “As in gender reveal party?” Lia nodded with enthusiasm. This was news to me. “Is that something—” Her eyes roved up to me towering over Lia. “—something they do in Sicilia?” Her expression was aghast.

  Lia chuckled nervously. “No. That’s just something that’s been done here lately…”

  The woman’s face folded tightly. Her husband, Matteo, who I’d seen in a meeting or two with Salvatore over recent years, recognized her expression of displeasure. For a minute, his smile faded, but hers recovered with another, wider than before.

  “It was nice catching up with you, Rose.” Lia wrapped up the chat in passing. “Give my love to Nikki.”

  Rose nodded, lashes batting as she turned and sauntered into the crowd aside her husband. Lia turned to me, taking a deep breath as she rolled her eyes.

  “Such a fucking bitch,” she grated, thin lips gripping her teeth. “Racist cunt. And could he be a bigger dick?”

  I shrugged with my brows, then caught the oncoming server approaching with a silver tray in the air.

  “It’s your father’s birthday party. Play nice, Lia,” I partially joked.

  I didn’t want to be here at all. This was an obligatory appearance in the name of my family.

  “Mauve and room temperature green tea,” the server called, lowering his tray to hand us the drinks.

  Lia took a sip, then inhaled deeply. My eyes circled the large and celebratory ballroom of the banquet hall. A live band was arranged on the stage, playing beautifully. The lighting was mild and energy spirited as I downed half my brandy, taking it all in.

  “Fuck…” A soft hand at my chest had me glancing down, so unaccustomed to such an intimate touch. “My cousin, Teresa, is on her way over,” Lia whispered conspiratorially. “I’m going to make up an excuse to go to the bathroom. When I’m done there, I’ll be ready to go. I want that pie Iban promised we’d stop for.” I peered down on her long and wide nose as her lashes fanned her cheeks.

  “Lia! There you are,” a woman chirped. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Lia’s eyes rolled up to me, and a faux smile spread on her face as she turned around. “Teresa! Papá told me you were coming. And here you are… just as I need to hit the ladies’ room.” Lia began to move, lifting her gown to do so. “Be a dear and give me a minute, will you?”

  And she was off. As I swallowed back the last bit of Mauve, I caught Teresa’s eyes crawl over to me. They melted as she took me in from head to toe. After a soft snort, I raised my empty tumbler to an oncoming server. Once my glass was collected, I offered a nod and strolled off in search of the men’s room. A text from my brother had me opting for a stall instead of a urinal. It was business as usual, but the nature of that topic was always private.

  Iban: Warehouse at eleven.

  Me: Copy. About the boat?

  Stowing the cell in my jacket pocket, I handled my business. While assembling my pants, I heard a set of hushed voices.

  “Salvatore wants everybody down at the seaport on Thursday.”

  “Why?”

  I couldn’t make out the voices right away, and it didn’t help that they went suspiciously silent. A few footsteps sounded in search of intruders. I didn’t move. The wooden doors reached to the floor, leaving total privacy in the stalls.

  “Anybody in here?” A voice barked, now more familiar but still unidentifiable.

  I didn’t speak. My interest was now piqued.

  After a few more seconds of silence, the shoes clacked away.

  “I think he’s got a plan,” was delivered in more of a secretive murmur.

  “About the hit the other week?” Silence. “Shiiiit,” the same voice continued. I was now believing it to be Luigi, a worker from old man Salvatore Rizzo’s crew.

  “He’s not letting that shit go.” That was definitely Marco, Lia’s brother and Salvatore’s son.

  “How did he miss that?” Luigi asked. “He was working that night. Right?”

  There was a pause for the answer. “He missed it...” Marco hesitated. “You swear on your lives to keeping this shit between us?” He tried his best to whisper.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, man!” Luigi whispered.

  “He was in the back of the lot…way back there, between two of the three big ass Hanjin containers. He has a small trailer he uses for…” Marco coughed, revealing the missing details. “He was entertaining that night, and no one was watching the cameras in the front office when the hit happened.”

  “It could be any fucking body,” Luigi argued. “The Russian fuck, Lopez—shit, somebody from out of town. These are the ports; prime real estate!”

  “He’s right,” was one I couldn’t quite grasp…yet. “We’re doing business with every fucking body now. Clean…even dirty, like that fucking Haitian, Pierro.”

  “I don’t think it was him,” Marco murmured lowly as though his thoughts were traveling.

  “But we don’t fucking know. Shit! It’s like a goddamn backyard barbecue now with Salvatore’s new way of doing business.”

  “What the fuck are you saying, Matteo?” Marco’s tone was now agitated.

  Matteo…

  The smiling, nodding fuck with the racist wife whom Lia had just talked to minutes ago.

  “I’m saying, I just spent two hundred-forty seconds in the Ellis kid’s face, indirectly talking about how he knocked up sweet Lia. The son of the same Ellis that Salvatore has been in business with like we’re all on the fucking rainbow!” He groaned.

  A smile spread on my face as I faced the toilet, wondering what my piss would look like dr
aining from his face.

  “Shit, Matteo.” Marco laughed. “You and my father are racist fucks. One thing this new generation like me and Sadik, out there, knows is in business, there’s only one color: green. As long as we understand that and respect each other, we’re good.”

  “Bullshit! No, I am not. My kids have friends from decent families, but what about when they taint our good Sicilian bloodline like he did with our precious little Lia out there?” Matteo wasn’t backing down.

  “Ahhhh…” Marco dismissed the argument with a sigh. “Like my father says, ‘if Lia likes to fuck niggers and is stupid enough to get pregnant by one, let it be one from a solid standing family. That’s what the Ellises are. And if she’s gonna do it with any of the Ellis boys, better it be that educated nigger than the crazy one!”

  A shower of laughter boomed through the room, raining over my stall even. Then it passed in the distance, telling me they were leaving. I gave it two seconds to really know before I stepped out of the stall. Slowly, I went about washing my hands, observing myself in the mirror. As fine, rich, and superiorly astute to those remedial Sicilians as I was, I was still a nigger.

  Chuckling, I grabbed a paper towel and dried my hands. My phone vibrated against my chest in my inner jacket pocket.

  Iban: We’ll cover it at the meet tonite. Hows it going?

  I chuckled.

  Don’t you wanna know…

  Me: Easy. Still being a nigger.

  My mirth followed me outside, where the party was still flowing. Lia wasn’t too far off the hallway when I spotted her waiting on me.

  “Ready to blow this bullshit ass gig?”

  Biting her lip, she nodded with a giggle. I took her at the small of her back, and we began toward the doors.

  “Lia! Sadik!” boomed from my left as we weaved through bodies. It was Salvatore Rizzo. He looked stately in a black tuxedo and gloss oxfords. “I’m glad to catch you before you kids skid out of here.” He greeted me with a firm handshake. “Lia said she was tired and you two are leaving. Thanks for helping an old man bring in sixty in a grand old way, huhn!” He grabbed me into a hug, one I wasn’t too keen of.

  I was sure to keep it brief.

  Pulling back quickly with a cool smile, I offered, “Grazie per l'invito. Mi dispiace mio padre non ha potuto partecipare. Molti ritorni, Salvatore.”

  “Ah!” He beamed. “You’re teaching him, Siculo!” He slapped my shoulder boisterously.

  After my eyes trailed his grasp, they swept over to his daughter, whom I threatened through my eyes not to lie. I could participate in the shits, but to a fucking degree.

  “Papá, you know Sadik is a Blakewood man.” Lia snickered, but with tact. “His teachings are above my head.”

  You better fucking believe it…

  “Well, I’m sure mia principessa has taught him lots about our culture.” Salvatore kissed her temple dotingly as she gushed. He turned to me. “Grazie, Sadik. Give your father my best.”

  I offered a nod as I patted my chest as a gesture of gratitude. Then I swung my arm out, prompting his daughter. Lia moved into me, backing up to my palm. She smiled at her father before we turned away to leave.

  I could feel Salvatore’s derisive gaze on my back as I led his daughter away.

  With concentrated rapt focus at the bottom of the cheesecake sitting on top of the cooling rack, I poured warm ganache with measured movements. From my peripheral, I could see two figures arriving at my worktable. I couldn’t tend to them just yet. If the presentation was going to be flawless, I had to stay here and observe my technique.

  When done, I spun the tray carefully to be sure the casing was smooth and blemish-free. Across from me was an imposing stature, perched on a barstool, observing my work, too; my boss, Nicky. My chest swelled with pride as my lip twitched, fighting a boastful smirk. Then I turned and found Pedro and Maria standing just behind me quietly, but with impatience, holding small metal bowls.

  I started with Maria first, taking the bowl. My finger dipped inside the burnt-orangey mush, and I dabbed my tongue with it. A hum pushed from my nostrils as my eyes danced against the ceiling.

  “No nutmeg.”

  “No, Bee-lon!” she argued passionately. “I put the nutmeg.”

  I shook my head. “You OD’d on cinnamon. Remember, there are dos brown spices.”

  Maria’s face fell, likely realizing the error in her sweet potato pie batter. She took her bowl and backed away on a bow.

  “You’ll get it, Maria. Just try again.” I tossed my chin to Pedro. “Let’s see what you’re working with.”

  He approached me with his bowl. I dipped a fresh index finger and tasted it. This mixture was better, but not as I instructed them for the past two days when teaching the new bakers how to make my sweet potato pie recipe. It was actually my mother’s, one of many that got me the job at this diner years ago as an assistant baker to one of the two owners.

  “Good, but you forgot the pinch of salt.”

  Pedro slapped his forehead, telling me I was right. I handed him back the bowl, snickering with him. Then my attention went to my boss.

  “What do you think?” I used my forehead to point to the chocolate-covered cheesecake.

  Nicky snorted, face its usual expressionless state as he gazed my way. He was rather large and round. His face and body were heavily wrinkled, like a Neapolitan Mastiff.

  I nodded with hiked brows. “I nailed it, and you know it.” My attention went back to my gorgeous creation. “I think last time, it was just as you said; I didn’t chop the chocolate up small enough. I was impatient.” I shrugged, then peered over to him again.

  “When you get married?”

  I froze, quickly sifting through his thick Italian accent.

  A smile bloomed on my face. “I need a man first—or woman.”

  He grunted, motionless on the stool. A displeased sound of his tongue suctioning the roof of his mouth had me chuckling hard.

  “No. Man only. You need to get married. A pretty girl like you…smart, can cook, still a budding rose.”

  “Awwwww…” I smiled charmingly, shoulders lifting. “Thanks, Nicky, but it takes two people to get married and so far, I’m the only subject in the equation.”

  “What you do after the graduation?”

  “It’s a month from now. Hard to say.”

  “You leaving me?” His demeanor was as it always was; droopy and without expression.

  His Santa Claus belly moved more than the muscles in his face did.

  My arms stretched into the air before dropping to my hips on a slap. “Gotta have somebody to go with before I leave you, Nicky.”

  “You get another job?”

  “Not yet.” He grunted again, belly vibrating in response. “I’m sure something’ll come through.”

  “What about the other job?”

  “My teacher’s assistant gig?” I had the coveted role at my school for two consecutive years. “It expires when I get my degree.”

  “Then you need more money,” he guessed.

  “You going to pay more?” He snorted, rolling his eyes. Nicky knew I was showing sass. Michelle’s Diner, named after the brothers’ deceased mother, had been generous to me over the years. My job here came with its share of annoying elements, but I couldn’t say they didn’t compensate me better than anyone else here who wasn’t a relative of theirs or Italian like them. “Nicky,” I sang, wanting him to drop it. “I’ll be fine.”

  I knew what he wanted. The man who hardly spoke past giving me instructions, I’d now been giving two new and cheap hires like Pedro and Maria, didn’t want me to quit the diner when I graduated in less than two months. He also didn’t want me to go broke by working here. It was a bag of contradictions with this guy.

  Gino, Nicky’s nephew, came bustling through the swinging doors into the kitchen. “Bilan, they need you up front for a few minutes!”

  “Ugh!” I groaned, closing my eyes. “I have to get out of here. I’m already runn
ing late.”

  “You should hurry.” That was Nicky’s humor…no smile attached, though.

  I rolled my eyes and pushed from the table, shooting Nicky a wry smirk. Quickly, I washed my hands and grabbed my assigned apron by the double swinging doors. Inside the front kangaroo pocket were a pencil and pad for orders.

  Here at Michelle’s Diner, I was a baker, cooking up a specific menu of items for customers of a particular culture—skin hue, too. Only on a few occasions was I called up front. To act as a waitress when unruly Blacks were patronizing the place, or when there was a severe shortage of help on a shift. Each time I was called to the floor, it was met with anxiety because they used little me as a bulletproof vest from time to time.

  “Down at the end of the counter,” the girl at the register informed me in a rush as I took off onto the floor.

  I backed up, rerouting my steps. My eyes shot to my left, and all the way at the end of the counter was a familiar face, causing me to push a puff of relief from my lungs.

  “He’s so fucking hot, B,” Marta, a Polish waitress holding a tray of drinks, muttered as I passed by her.

  I rolled my eyes, fighting a serious beam. Then the usual wistful anxiousness kicked in as I neared him.

  “Hey, there,” I greeted with a soft smile, then pulled out my pencil and pad.

  “Hey, Bilan,” his voice was soft, kind…deceptive, considering his reputation.

  But everything about Damien’s appearance contrasted with who he was known to be in the streets of Paterson. His warm umber skin tone dazzled with his thick, wavy jet black hair that was as dense as a carpet, and as sheen as the moon. Damien’s hairline and cut brought Denzel Washington to mind. He swung his arm out from his lap to place his elbow on the countertop as he peered into my eyes with unknown intent.

  “Haven’t seen you in what…two weeks?” I could hardly meet his eyes.

  I never knew how to take Damien. He was inarguably handsome and charming, quiet spoken, and dressed to the nines. But he was also known to be dangerous and because of that fact, I couldn’t decide which persona to rest safely in.