1
PRIME
First time I caught a body, I was thirteen years old. Now here I was at thirty-two, standing over another body, praying this would be the last one.
Colombian nigga. Still warm. Blood seeping into his expensive-ass rug—the kind you see in magazines, not the kind you supposed to bleed out on.
The funny thing? Wasn’t even my beef. Wasn’t nobody’s beef but the man who paid me. And that man? The dead nigga’s father-in-law. Head of one of the biggest cartels moving weight up and down the eastern seaboard.
You’d think he’d handle his own family business, right? Got a whole army of shooters on speed dial. But nah, when it’s your daughter’s husband you need gone, you can’t touch that yourself. Can’t have the streets knowing you move like that on family. Bad optics. Bad for the brand. So you call a professional. You call me.
I was expensive as hell. And worth every penny.
As I stood there looking down at what used to be somebody’s son, somebody’s husband, I shook my head. These bodies stopped meaning something to me a long time ago. They were just dollar signs now. Transactions. And business had beengood.Good enough that I had more money than I knew what to do with.
Good enough to walk away.
The question was whether this life would let me.
I wiped down everything I touched, not that I touched much. I was too good for that amateur shit. Gloves stayed on the whole time, shoe covers too. I moved through the penthouse like a ghost, checking angles, making sure nothing pointed back to me.
The Colombian would be found eventually. Probably by his mistress, the one his father-in-law definitely knew about. Another reason daddy wanted him gone. Can’t have your daughter disrespected like that. Not when you’re supposed to be a man of honor.
Honor. Funny word for what we did.
I slipped out the service exit, took the stairs down twenty-three flights because elevators had cameras and I wasn’t about to let some grainy footage be the thing that finally caught me slipping. By the time I hit the street, I was just another nigga in a hoodie walking through Manhattan at 9 PM.
My phone buzzed before I even made it to my car.
It was my oldest brother, Quest.
I almost didn’t answer. I was tired…dead tired. The kind of tired that settles in your soul and makes you wonder what the fuck you’re doing with your life. But it was Quest. And I never told my brothers no, especially since they rarely asked.
“Yeah.”
“Prime.” Quest’s voice came through tense. Always business with him. “Need you at Onyx. Got a situation.”
“What kind of situation?”
“The kind that needs your skills. Some niggas trying to shake down Levi, talking about protection money. Won’t leave.”
I stopped at my car, key fob in hand, and closed my eyes. I could feel the weight of it already, another night, anotherproblem, another body if it came to that. My brothers had enough pull to handle that shit themselves. Why were they bothering me about this shit?
“I’m in New York.”
“How far?”
“Four hours, maybe three if I push it.”
“Push it.”
The line went dead.
I stood there for a second, looking at my black Bentayga like an annoyance. I should’ve said no. Should’ve told him I was done, that I was trying to be done. But Quest didn’t ask for much. None of my siblings did. And after everything, after what Vivica did to me, after the years I spent away, they were the only family I had that was worth a damn.
I got in the car and pointed it south toward DC.
This was supposed to be my last night in the life. But I guess the life had other plans.
