When I pushed open the warehouse door, the smell hit me: oil, sweat, stale liquor and the quiet that comes after a room holds its breath. Dre was there, suspended from chains. He wasn’t dead yet. My niggas stood around him like they were at a cookout, chopping it up, passing jokes. That laughter so casual made my stomach twist.
Surgeon pointed at a steel table laid out like a butcher’s altar. “Left you something,” he said, voice deadpan, eyes flicking to the kit of tools and the machine that hissed like it had teeth. Thesame machine that could restart a heart if anyone cared to use it. Surgeon had a way of making instruments look ceremonial.
I smiled. “Good looks,” I told him, and dapped him up. E clapped my shoulder. They moved out like ghosts. Rome and King came next, slapping hands with me like this was business as usual. “Next link we celebratin’ somethin’,” Rome said, grinning, the kind of grin that meant we all hoped it would be over for good.
Mega, Ivan, and Balblair switched their vests for jackets and tossed a smirk over their shoulders. “Call us if you need help dumpin’ the body,” Mega said, voice light but edged.
I stepped closer to Dre. He hung there like a puppet with the lights catching blood on his skin. For a second I let my head fill with a memory of Stormi her smile in the photo, the way S3’s fist had been curled around his hulk action figured he carried everywhere tiny things that had nothing to do with the blood we were about to spill. That picture was another kind of weapon; seeing their faces calm and safe kept the part of me that was still human from snapping completely.
“Stormi had Shiloh. Ten pounds. He a fighter just like her. You thought you could take her away, leave me broken,” I said, my voice steady but my hands trembling with the weight of everything I’d carried. I stepped closer to Dre, grabbed the chain holding him up, and yanked it so his body stretched out flat.
Rich slid the surgical bed under him, his face cold, he’d done this a hundred times.
“They had to cut her open. C-section,” I explained, remembering the whole scene play out, I pieced together the nurses and doctors orders. Southside handed me the blade without a word.I pressed it to Dre’s stomach and dragged it across, clean and deliberate, the way they did to my wife.
Dre’s scream tore through the warehouse.
“Damn, young nigga,” Southside laughed, shaking his head. “Can’t take what you dish out?”
Dre’s breath came ragged and uneven. He was trying to control it, trying to find rhythm in the pain, but I wasn’t about to let him. I dug my hands in, prying his skin apart. His eyes fluttered, rolling like he wanted to check out.
“No, Dre. Don’t die on me yet.” I caught his chin, forcing him to look at me. “You stay right here.”
Rich slid over the defibrillator, same one I’d stared at in a hospital while praying over Stormi. I pressed the paddles to Dre’s chest.
“Clear.”
The shock lifted him off the table. His eyes snapped wide open, fear and pain battling inside them.
“I know you miss Ronnie,” I whispered, leaning close enough he could feel my breath. “But give me a few more minutes, then I’ll let you join him.”
I laughed as his body jerked under another shock. “Damn, this shit strong,” I said, passing the machine to Rich.
Rich grinned, pressing the paddles back to Dre’s chest. Another jolt, another scream. His skin flushed red, like fire eating him from the inside.
“Shit, lemme try that,” Southside said, already reaching for the handles and shocking Dre again.
I held up my hand. “Wait. Almost forgot we got to remove the bullets you put in her. Two stayed in. Third went clean through.”
I pulled my piece, aimed, and fired. One in his shoulder. One in his chest. Dre convulsed, blood blooming across his shirt.
I leaned down; eyes locked on him. “Now we almost even.”
I set my gun down and picked up the tools, digging into the fresh wound, pulling for the bullet while Dre screamed so hoarse it barely sounded human. My mind drifted, not to him, not to the blood, but to Stormi. To where I’d take her when this was done. Greece was our last stop. Maybe Thailand this time. I’d caught her scrolling TikTok, eyes shining while people fed lions and elephants lifted folks off the ground like toys. She deserved that. She deserved more than any of this.
“You good, bruh?” Rich asked, snapping me back.
“Yeah,” I muttered, still working. “Thinkin’ Thailand when we get back.”
Rich smirked. “Bring me back a goddaughter.”
I chuckled, shaking my head.
“Damn, nigga, you tryin’ to catch up with me?” Southside barked out a laugh.
“Catch up with you, shit. You on a whole other level.”
We all laughed, even with blood soaking the floor. That was the thing. No matter what line we crossed, we always found a way to act like family. Southside had a kid for damn near every day of the week, but his household wasn’t chaos. He had some next level shit; multiple baby mamas, no drama, one roof. Not evenpoly, more like some sister-wives arrangement. And it worked for him.
