Christmas with My Enemy (Feuding Hearts Christmas)

Chapter 2

two

TATIANA “TATI” REYNOLDS

Christmas is in twelve days. There are snowmen, trees, and fancy lights in the streets. Carols are being played everywhere. All around me are joyful faces. Everyone is caught up in the festive mood. But I think this will be the worst Christmas of my life.

I’d like to believe I’m not the only one not feeling the Christmas spirit. That behind their smiles lurks unsolved problems and worries about the future. I’m no different it just sucks that the fine pseudo-trainer at the gym had to get a tasty of my holiday gloom. But he interrupted me. It wasn’t the other way around.

My father has always created a world that portrays me as someone who always needs help. I hate it to my core, so whenever someone treats me with kid's gloves, I double down to remind everyone to let a sista breathe.

I had no intention of working out, until Mr. Delicious came over. He stood before me, his muscular frame dominating the space, sweat glistened on his deep mocha skin, emphasizing his broad shoulders and powerful chest. His height made even my father seem small in comparison.

And his eyes… His dark brown eyes held an intensity that had me tongue tied. So much so, that I thought I recognized his voice.

The man was so fine that I almost lost my train of thought. I had to scramble to pretend I belonged while I waited for my father’s thugs to get lost.

I watched from the storefront window until they left in one direction, and I went in the other.

Joining Metro Flex cost me twelve hundred dollars, but I had time to myself for the first time since I returned home to my parents acting more protective and hovering than usual. They forced me to return home for the winter break.

After I lost my bodyguards, I spent the rest of my day aimlessly driving around in circles, my thoughts racing as I tried to evade the inevitable confrontation with my parents. The city whizzed by beneath the dim winter sun, but my mind was trapped in a loop, replaying every moment that led me to this suffocating point in my life.

My father, Rodney "Kingz" Reynolds, ruled our family with an iron fist, orchestrating his power plays like a mobster. He wants to control everything—his crew, his empire, and, most importantly, me.

As the perfect daughter, I always believed that if I excelled in school and followed the rules, my parents would finally grant me the freedom I desperately craved.

But Nate, my older brother, warned me that it wouldn’t be so simple. He always insisted it would be college that offered an escape from this stifling existence, a ticket to a new life beyond my father’s grasp.

And then there was my mother, Phylicia. She wore her dutifulness like a badge, always ready to please my father and suppress her own identity to maintain the peace in the family. Her blind acceptance of his ruthless ways infuriate me.

I longed for her to stand up, to show me that it was possible to break free from his oppressive control. But instead, she often turned a blind eye, as if her quiet resignation made everything okay.

With every step I took toward independence, it felt like she only enforced my father’s grip, convinced that rebellion was something I couldn't comprehend.

With every rebellious thought I entertain, it feels like the grip around my neck tightens, reinforcing my parents’ belief that I don't know what was best for me.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, its last rays fading behind the sprawling skyline, I reluctantly leave the Detroit city limits and turned toward the family estate in Grosse Pointe Shores.

The mansion is less like a home and more like a cage. That's the sad reality of my life. Growing up, I never enjoyed my life because my father ruled the family like he ruled the Detroit Kingz–with an iron fist.

It wasn’t until I entered high school that I realized I was different. The other kids didn’t have bodyguards. The other kids didn’t live in a gilded cage.

The few friends that tried to ignore the fucking obvious eventually stopped inviting me to hang out because I was never available for anything fun. So, all I had was my big brother Nate.

Nate was more than just a sibling. He was my confidant and my protector. He understood the stifling pressure weighing down on me, often encouraging me to pursue my dreams.

"You’re too brilliant to be trapped here, Tati," he would say, inspiring me with visions beyond my father.

But since his death, I’ve become a loner, and it wouldn't have been a problem if my dad had no part to play in it.

College was much of the same until I entered grad school at Howard. And my life truly became my own.

Initially, I applied to buy myself more time to create an escape plan. But while there, I met my girl Jash, and she’s back at Howard working on her final thesis for Chatterbox.

The only time I get to breathe is when I’m in school or enjoying a long drive, like today. But I’m back by force and have another reason to hate him. I’m twenty-four, and he’s still controlling my life, and I’m fucking tired of it.

I approach the guard outside the subdivision, and he nods, opening the gate with a practiced motion that feels all too familiar. As I drive through, the pristine streets are covered in snow, glistening under the early evening sky that fades into a palette of blues and purples.

My eyes slide to the largest house on the street, the Reynolds estate, a sprawling mansion that looms over the landscape like a fortress. Its elegant facade of white marble and glass glimmers with the soft glow of lights from within, while intricate wrought-iron balconies overlook meticulously landscaped grounds.

The mansion that should feel like home instead fills me with a sense of dread. I wish I had someplace to go other than here. But I don’t.

For a second, I think of DaBeast. He’s somewhere in Detroit, too. But I’d never want to ruin our friendship or allow my father to destroy another relationship.

My hand tightens against the steering wheel as I gaze at the colorful sky, making its departure for the day, taking its warmth.

I sit in my car not wanting to go inside and my phone chirps, and I know it's the Chatterbox app.

I reach for my cellphone, ready to think of something other than my parents, I open the app.

DaBeast: 112. Cupid.

“That’s a good one,” I whisper, knowing he can’t hear me.

I open the Apple Music app to see where he’s added the song to our joint playlist. Then, I press play and turn up the volume.

I close my eyes and let the melodic sound soothe the anxiety swirling through my body. Graduation is in under six months, and my relationship with my folks is worse than ever. I’d rather die than return to Detroit and live under their roof again. But they won’t let me live my life.

What am I supposed to do?

The song continues, and my thoughts shift from my predicament to the man without a face or a name that seems to occupy my every waking thought.

Unlike most girls I didn’t date, I didn’t have a hoe phase, and I’ve never been given the space to have a real relationship.

DaBeast is a friend from ChatterSpot, a social media platform created by my best friend Jash and her team. I joined to support Jash, whose ambitions extended beyond just coding. She wanted to build a community around hobbies.

I met DaBeast in a 90s R&B group, where our love for the smooth melodies of classic artists like Boyz II Men and Brian McKnight sparked an instant connection. As we bonded over music, our conversations grew deeper, ranging from our dreams and aspirations to the struggles we faced in our lives.

We’ve developed a relationship built on trust, laughter, and mutual understanding, although it’s tinged with a bittersweet shadow. We’ve never met in person or exchanged real names, keeping our identities private.

I know the moment he discovers my dad is Kingz, he'll vanish like the others. My father's notorious reputation as one of Detroit's most infamous kingpins has a way of chasing away even the strongest of friendships.

My eyes dart to the house next door, and I’m not surprised to see our neighbor.

Rosa Mancini’s snow-white hair seems to glow. I can’t count the number of times she told my father about my late-night escape attempts.

Ms. Phyllis waves at me, and I wave back. She’s fussing with the garlands on her banister, watching my every move. But I know what’s up. Her Christmas lights and shining ornaments were professionally designed and hung to perfection. She’s fiddling because she’s nosy, Rosie . I’d bet my trust fund that she ratted me out today.

"Hi, Ms. Rosie," I call out rubbing my hands together after stepping out of the car.

"Hello, Tatiana. Where is your jacket, bella ?”

I force a smile. “Inside, in my haste, I forgot to grab it this morning. So, I should get inside.”

“Yes, of course. Merry Christmas."

"You too."

I’d give her a piece of my mind, but her son is mafia boss, Rocco Mancini. She nods and slips back inside.

As I rush up the concrete footpath that demarcates the garden in front of the building, I notice the giant Christmas tree in the front bay window of the sitting room my parents use for entertainment.

“Fuck.” My stomach drops. I crane my neck toward the back of the house and see the caterer’s van. “They didn’t tell me we’re expecting guests.”

I stop and consider jumping back in my car, but I see the ground guards when I turn around.

“Your parents are waiting for you inside.”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes and make my way to the side entrance.

After several rapid strides, I climb the stairs and enter the house, careful to listen to gauge the location of my parents.

I shut the door behind me and hurry down the hallway, and up the stairs, tiptoeing as quickly as I can. Just before I reach my room, I spot my father standing at the end of the hallway.

I freeze. He raises a brow. I swallow, patiently waiting for him to hand me my ass as if I’m not grown.

His clean-shaven head gleams under the harsh glow of the yellow bulb, adding an intimidating sheen to his imposing presence.

Rodney “Kingz” Reynolds is the founder of the Detroit Kingz, a crew steeped in power and menace. Respected and feared throughout the streets, he commands a presence that makes my heart race and palms sweat.

From drug trafficking to illegal operations, he moves weight that sends shockwaves through the city, establishing his dominance in a world where loyalty is often bought and sold.

He’s my father, but the truth is, I fear him like everyone else. The authority he wields is suffocating, and that power creates a rift makes me long for my daddy but I know Nate's death ensured I'll never see the father I loved again.

"Tatiana, where have you been?"

"The gym."

"Why? What’s wrong with the one in this house?" Veins pop on his forehead.

"Dad, I'm not a kid anymore. And you can stop clocking my every move." Even though I try to control my temper, my voice still quivers in frustration.

"That's not an answer."

"Because I’m tired of looking at the same four walls. I needed some air and privacy ."

"Don't disrespect your father, Tatiana ."

I glance toward the stairway. Mother's wearing a knee-length black gown that perfectly outlines her slender figure, draping gracefully as she moves.

Her hair falls in soft waves just past her shoulders, framing her oval face with a classic elegance. Her warm caramel complexion glows under the subtle lighting, while her soft brown eyes glint with a sense of calm.

I'm standing between them, listening to them scold me like a child .

This has to stop!

"You know I'd never disrespect him. I'm just fed up with all these questions about my movements. This is the second time I've gone out in a week. Do I need permission to go to the local gym now?"

"Your father has provided everything for you, and you should appreciate that,” Mom speaks calmly, and I'm not surprised. She's the blindly submissive wife who turns a blind eye to all her husband’s evil deeds, and I’m no exception.

Call me disrespectful, but I never want to be her.

Mother thinks it’s about what my father does for a living, but it’s more about how she doesn’t have a voice. Everything is his way.

She’s not the kind of woman I want to be. Never .

"Mom, I understand, and I appreciate everything he’s done for me. But that doesn’t make me a prisoner."

“Prisoner? You drive a G-Wagon, dress in designer clothes, and live in a mansion. Your tuition is paid, and you have a quarter of a million dollars at your disposal. You’ll be a billionaire when you gain your inheritance. What kind of prison is that?”

I hear this every time I want my own life. Every time I ask them to back the fuck up and let me live.

“That just means my freedom isn’t cheap. I didn’t ask for this. You did.” I point my finger in his direction, knowing I’ll pay for this later. But I don’t give a fuck.

"You done lost your fuckin’ mind." The growl in his voice is a clue that I’m talking to Kingz, the kingpin, not my father.

He walks closer. His shoulders are so broad that they span the hallway's width.

My daddy was the best daddy ever until we buried my brother, and I met Kingz.

It’s like my brother’s death killed us all. My mother is a shell of her old self, my father is a tyrant, and I’m stuck in a life most would kill to have.

But I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.

My father’s jaw muscles tighten as he looks at me. “As my prisoner , you will tell your mother when you come and when you go. You will have two guards with you at all times.”

I cross my arms over my chest and stare back. At this point, we’re two unmovable objects about to crush under the weight of our stubbornness.

Why's it difficult for him to understand me? Or am I speaking a different language?

My father’s phone rings, and he pulls out his phone from his jacket.

"She's here, and the next man that loses her is six feet under," he says into the phone and returns it to his pocket.

A chill snakes down my spine. He’d kill them because of me.

He takes another step, and I can see the specks of honey gold in his eyes.

"Those guards would give their lives for yours, and their blood will be on your hands if you run off again."

"I'm sick and tired of your bull–"