Girls Love Beyoncé

82

THIRD POINT OF VIEW

Self reflection was something Onika had found herself doing more often as of late. She thought best when alone a glass of rum in her hand with quiet chatter in the background.

Her mind was full of thoughts about her life. She thought about what she had wanted as a young girl, wondering if this was where she had seen herself.

She used to play with Barbie dolls and cuddle under blankets. She'd give her shelf space to a girl she had a crush on without blinking twice. She used to be sweet, gentle, kind.

And now... this was who she had suddenly become.

A cold-blooded killer. A liar. A cheater. A manipulator.

Reflecting on the conversation she had with Beyoncé, she realized she was right. All of this—the violence, the scheming—was because Onika had chosen it.

Yes, she wanted to take care of her mom and Beyoncé. Yes, she wanted to spend money on Solange and make her happy. But she could have done it the easier, more realistic way. She had chosen instead to do what her blood was best at doing.

She had seen her dad do it when he was younger. Now he acted as if that weren't him anymore. Like Polito, they swear they've turned over a new leaf, but in reality, they were the same.

And maybe Onika was just like them. Maybe she loved the crime, the violence. Maybe she enjoyed everything that had to do with pain. She told herself all of this was for Beyoncé or her mom—but in reality, it was for her.

Because sometimes she couldn't help herself.

Because power was the one thing no one could take from you. It was something she wanted. Something she craved. She was in the midst of a battle, trying to figure out if she wanted exactly that—power or love. Should she give it all up for Beyoncé? Give it up and go back to being normal?

Go back to high school, stay around her peers. Walk across the stage. Go to parties, get drunk. Was that the life she wanted again? Or did she want to stay in the life she had created? The long meetings. The drugs. The craft. The workers. Corners. Dancers. Businesses. Partners. The nightmares. The trauma. Did she want this?

Waka slid into the seat across from her, calm as always. He set his phone face down on the table and leaned forward slightly.

"Your uncle sent me something," he said evenly.

"Information about the boys in Houston. I checked into it myself. Saw it firsthand."

Onika's eyes narrowed. Snapping back to her reality. "And?"

"They call themselves the Third Ward Kings. Young, reckless, no structure. They're silly with it—loud, sloppy, and worst of all, they don't respect anything. Last week they jumped one of our runners, took his money and chain. Left him bloody in the street."

She tilted her head, finally taking a slow sip of her drink. "They wanted to send a message."

"Exactly," Waka said. His voice stayed level, but there was weight behind his words.

"They're not just playing anymore. If we don't move on this, it spreads. One group testing us turns into three. Before long, it's chaos."

Onika set the glass down with a soft clink, her expression unreadable. "And you? What do you think?"

Waka held her gaze. "I think they're beneath us. But disrespect grows if you don't cut it early. You've built too much to let kids with no discipline chip away at your name." He leaned back slightly, pausing before he added.