Page 217 of The Fire We Make

Her lips spread into a sinister smile before she spoke again. “You know I’ve done a lot of bad shit. But I’ve never killed father and son before,” she mused, staring into his eyes.

Jermaine froze. His eyes narrowed then darkened. “What did you just say?” he asked.

Joy put on a fake pout. “I guess he never got a chance to tell you we ran into each other in New York. He was so disrespectful. And violent.” She shrugged. “Guess the rotten apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

With a snarl, Jermaine lunged, wrapping his hands around her throat in the same fashion he’d done the night before their wedding.

Short bursts of that night flooded her memory.

The anger. The anxiety. The terrifying feeling of her autonomy slipping from her.

Joy was prepared for him this time though.

Her vision was clear and her mind was sharp as she took hold of his wrist, breaking it with a swift yank.

His cry of pain and the resounding crack of bone giving way filled the air.

Joy took that moment to knee him in his groin. He dropped to his knees and with a heel to his chest, Joy kicked him onto his back.

“Pathetic,” she spat. She stood above him, driving her heel into his chest, one foot anchoring him to the floor.

He reached to grab her ankle and she fired a shot into his hand.

He cried out again, cradling his mangled hand. “Fuck!” he shouted. “Evil fucking bitch!”

“Thank you,” Joy smiled. “If a nigga like you is calling me evil I must be doing something right.”

Without another word, she aimed, firing a shot at point blank range, the bullet going straight through his skull.

Joy released a heavy exhale. “I feel so much better,” she said to no one in particular. She did feel better. She felt lighter.

Finally she whirled on her father, the last man standing.

“This is crazy,” Byron said, his eyes frantic in a way she’d never seen from her father before. “You are fucking crazy.”

“Yes,” Joy nodded once. “I am.”

“Have a seat,” Joy ordered, gesturing to the conference table with her gun.

“I don’t th⁠—“

“I didn’t ask you anything,” she cut him off while taking a step forward. “I said sit. Down.”

Ace’s hands clamped down on Byron's shoulders, guiding him to the table and down into a chair.

“Thank you,” Joy smiled.

She leaned forward, placing both hands on the table.

“This makes twice now that you’ve offered me up to Jermaine for your own gain,” she said, her voice eerily calm. “I can’t even begin to count the amount of times you’ve put your ambition over my wellbeing, and made me do things no kid should do.”

“You wanted to,” Byron protested.

Joy slammed her hand down on the table. “I was a child,” she nearly growled.

The room went silent as Joy stared Byron down, daring him to continue to justify his actions.

“I built this cartel,” Joy straightened. “And yet the minute you couldn’t control me… The minute I scared you a little, you threw me away.”