Bullets ripped through the car, shattering what little glass was left. Juste cursed, reaching for his gun, trying to shield me with his body. I felt the heat before I even processed the pain. A sharp, hot burn tore through my side, and I screamed, my body jerking from the impact. And that's when I saw it. The shoes. The same black, designer sneakers I'd seen earlier today. The same ones Maseon was wearing when he showed up at my office. The realization hit me hard.
Maseon.
Maseon hit us.
Maseon was shooting up the goddamn car. Everything started fading again, my body growing weak. The last thing I felt was strong arms wrapping around me, lifting me from the wreckage. The last thing I heard was Juste's frantic, desperate voice. "Stay wit me, baeeby. They comin'." Then—nothing.
JUSTE
The machines beeped, a steady, rhythmic sound that damn near drove me insane. The oxygen hissed, flowing through the tubes, keeping her breathing. I sat at the side of her bed, my elbows resting on my knees, hands clasped together, staring at her still body. Three days. Three fuckin' days. On top of the injuries from the crash, that fuck nigga Maseon shot my baby twice. Twice. They'd put her in a medically induced coma, hoping her condition would improve. But every hour that passed without her waking up, my patience thinned, my rage grew. I ain't never felt this helpless in my fuckin' life. Her face was bruised up and it was eating at me.
The door creaked open, and I barely looked up. Amina stepped in, her heels clicking softly against the floor, fresh off a flight. If I wasn't at Chiana's bedside, she was. She let out a small sigh before speaking. "P said Your people want you at the house." I stayed sitting for a second, staring at Chiana, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. Then, slowly, I stood, leaning over her, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "I love you, baeeby. Stay with me. I'll be back." I squeezed Chiana's hand, lingering for just a second longer before pulling away.
Leaving her at that hospital felt wrong, but I knew one thing—if I didn’t handle this, she wouldn't be safe. None of us would be. I pulled onto the road, my jaw locked tight, my mind replaying the events over and over again like a movie reel I couldn't turn off. When everything finally came out, it was worse than I thought. Maseon had been working both sides, playing my pops like a fool for my uncle Abel's ass. And the nigga that called the hit on me and Chiana was My own fuckin' blood. Uncle Abel. The weight of that realization sat on me like a boulder. A nigga I grew up calling family wanted me dead. And for what? Power? Territory? Ego?
I'd done what everybody begged me to do. I sat at Chiana's bedside. I played the grieving man, waiting, letting my brothers and my father do what they do best. But I also told them niggas, they had 72 hours to handle this shit. If they didn't, I was gon' burn all this shit to the ground. I wasn't thinking straight. Didn't give a fuck about the consequences. Chiana was my soft spot, my heart, and they had touched that not even knowing what they did. So now, I was gon' touch everything they loved.
When I pulled up to the family house, the tension was thick as hell. Pops, Jules, Noles, and Pierre were already there. Waiting. Pops sat at the head of the table, smoking a cigar, his face unreadable. Jules was leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression dark as hell. Pierre was sitting on the counter, gun in his lap, tapping his fingers against his knee, his leg bouncing. Noles had his head down, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was tryna keep his temper in check. And then there was me. A walking grenade, pin already pulled.
Pops exhaled a slow puff of smoke, watching me closely, like he was waiting to see if I'd explode. "Any update on Chiana?" he finally asked. I looked at him, eyes still burning with the kind of fury that ain't got no expiration date. "Any update on Maseon and Abel ass?" I shot back, pulling out a chair and sitting at the table, my hands moving methodically as I started rolling up a blunt. Silence stretched across the room. Everybody was watching me, waiting. Because they knew. You could see it in my eyes. This wasn't just anger. This was calculated vengeance, sitting just under my skin, waiting for the right moment to detonate.
Pops let out a slow sigh, setting his cigar down. "Juste, I know you pissed off. We pissed off too, but we got too much shit goin' on to rush hot-headed into a war we ain't ready for. Plus, this shit with the cartel—" I cut him off so quick the air in the room got thick. "That shit dealin' with the cartel is between you and Mama's gamblin' ass. My bitch is literally in the hospital, half-dead off some shit that got everything to do with you and ya wicked-ass brother." I flicked the lighter, the flame flaring up as I lit the blunt. "I ain't tryna hear none of that shit. And you know that."
The tension in the room shifted. Jules, leaned back in his seat, staring at me hard, while Noles and Pierre sat silent, both of them watching Pops, waiting to see how he played this. Pops picked up his glass, swirling the liquor inside. "You really think we just sitting on our hands, huh?" I took a slow pull from my blunt, exhaling the smoke through my nose. "That's exactly what the fuck it look like." Pierre chuckled lowly. "I mean, the nigga ain't wrong." Pops cut his eyes over at him before turning his attention back to me. "Abel ain't walking away from this. That's already been decided." His voice was calm, but there was something behind it. Some finality.
Jules finally spoke. "We put the word out. Nigga's on borrowed time." I tapped ash off the blunt, my voice flat. "That's not good enough." Pops sighed, rubbing his forehead like he was already tired of my shit. "You just wanna rush in, guns blazin', huh?" I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table, my voice cold, steady, final. "Nah. Ima start with that bitch Tianita—the one Abel got them two kids with that he think don't nobody know about." I took a slow pull from the blunt, the tip burning bright as I inhaled deep, letting the smoke settle in my chest before exhaling.
Jules and Pierre both stopped mid-sip, eyes cutting over to me. They knew what the fuck that meant. Noles smirked, shaking his head. "Oh, this nigga talkin' 'bout scorched earth. I'm wit' whatever you wit'." I tapped ash off the blunt, my jaw flexing. "Jules, call that hoe Jade. If I gotta find her my damn self, I'm pushin' her shit back. They said she was the last bitch fuckin' with Maseon." Jules frowned, his expression shifting like he had something to say but didn't know how to say it. "Fuck you mean fuckin' Maseon?" His voice had an edge to it, something unreadable, like he cared a little too much.
Noles scoffed, shaking his head as he lit the blunt tucked behind his ear. "Jules, kill that defensive shit like that's your bitch or some'." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes cutting over to Jules with nothing but amusement. "That hoe just blew up your life—you ought to want her ass dead. Find the bitch like he said." Pierre chuckled low, shaking his head. "Man, this nigga Noles talkin' reckless as hell to bro." Jules shot him a glare. "Man, fuck y'all."
I leaned forward, my tone even but firm. "You sittin' over there gettin' your feelings in it instead of pickin' up the phone. That bitch is a liability. And she got answers. So unless you plannin' on protectin' her?" I raised a brow, daring him to say some dumb shit. Jules let out a breath, his jaw working before he finally nodded his head. I pushed back from the table, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor. Pierre and Noles followed suit, their expressions mirroring my own—cold, calculated, ready to slide. "I got somewhere I need to be," I muttered to Pops, adjusting the gun at my waist. "Tell Mama I love her."
Pops didn't say nothing at first, just studied me with those same eyes that had seen more blood and betrayal than I ever could. Then, he exhaled slow, nodding. Jules sat up straighter, looking between me and the others. "Fuck y'all niggas goin'?" His tone was tight, like he already knew but needed confirmation anyway. Noles scoffed, shaking his head as he shoved past Jules' chair. "Nigga, you worry about findin' that bitch. That's what you worry about." Pierre chuckled low, running his palm over his chin. "Priorities, my boy." Jules' jaw flexed. "Man, fuck y'all." I smirked but didn't bother responding. Instead, I pushed open the front door and stepped into the night air. The wind had that late-season chill to it, biting at my skin, but I barely felt it.
Three Days Later
The last three days, I'd been on a fuckin' warpath. Spinnin' through the city, shooting up spots, touching everything Abel loved. I ain't slept. Ain't ate. Barely even thought straight. I was runnin' on rage and revenge, and I wasn't stoppin' until that nigga felt me.
Abel thought he could touch mine and walk away untouched? Like I wasn't gon' show him what that felt like? Nah. I was gon' touch his heart. I was gon' make him regret every decision that led him to put a hit on me and Chiana.
The black truck cut through the late-night streets, windows down just enough for the breeze to slap me in the face, keep me alert. Noles was in the passenger seat, Pierre in the back, both just as locked in as me. "You look like you runnin' on fumes, Jus," Noles muttered, rolling up, his lighter flicking in the dark. "You ain't ate, you ain't slept. This shit gon' get sloppy if you don't cool your ass down." I ain't respond. Just kept my grip tight on the wheel, my eyes scanning the road like a predator looking for his next kill. Pierre shifted in the back. "Nigga talkin' like we ain't already been sloppy. We been spinnin' three days straight, Juste ain't care 'bout that before."
"And I still don't," I gritted out, cutting the wheel hard down a side street. The spot we were headed to sat low on the block—one of Abel's old gambling houses. A nice little hole-in-the-wall where he washed money and kept his little goons comfy. "What's the play?" Pierre asked, loading his clip. "Same as the last," I muttered. "In and out. We send a message."
"How loud we sendin' it?" Noles asked, a slow smirk creeping across his face. I smirked back, finally feeling something other than rage for the first time in days. "Loud enough to wake a dead nigga up." We moved like shadows, sliding out the car, weapons drawn. The night air was thick, humid, but I barely noticed. My heart beat steady, fingers locked around the cold metal of my gun. The front door to the gambling house was unlocked—dumb move. We kicked it open, and the second I stepped inside, the room exploded into chaos. "Shit, Jus—!" I ain't let the nigga get the words out before I shot him dead in the chest. A couple others reached for they pieces, but Pierre and Noles let off before they could. Blood. Screaming. The smell of gunpowder in the air.
I found the man I was looking for—a nigga named Freddy, Abel's right hand. He was already trying to crawl toward the back exit. I took my time walking up to him, stepping over bodies like I had all the time in the world. "You know who I am, right?" Freddy gasped, his hand pressing against his bleeding stomach. "Jus— Juste, man, c'mon—"
I shot him in the knee. "I ain't come here to hear you beg." He screamed, clutching his leg. "You work for Abel," I said coolly, crouching next to him. "That mean you know where the fuck he at. So go head, tell me where to find that nigga, and maybe, just maybe, I'll let you breathe a lil' longer." He shook his head fast, eyes wide, terrified. "Man, I— I don't know where he at, Jus! I swear to God—" I shot the other knee. He howled, the sound ripping through the room. "You gon' think twice before you lie to me again?" I asked, tilting my head.
"Aight, aight, aight!" he panted, blood pooling under him. "Last I heard—last I heard, he was layin' low at some spot near the docks! I swear, Jus, that's all I know!" I studied him for a second. Then I stood, nodded at Pierre. Pierre ain't hesitate—he put one right in Freddy's head. I exhaled slow, rolling my shoulders back. "Let's go."
The truck was quiet, but the energy inside it was thick. Tense. I kept my hands tight on the steering wheel, my knuckles turning damn near white from how hard I was gripping it. The streets blurred past us, but all I could see was red—Abel's blood, Maseon's blood, every nigga who had a hand in touching what was mine. "We almost there," Pierre muttered from the back, breaking the silence. He was reloading, checking his clips, the metallic clicks blending in with the sound of the truck rolling down the dark streets. Then, Noles spoke. "Jus, when the last time you been to check on Chiana?"
I didn’t answer. My grip on the wheel tightened instead. Noles exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face like he was tryna figure out how to get through to me. "I already know what you 'bout to say," he continued. "You ain't goin' back till this shit handled, right?" Still, I ain't respond. "Nigga, you wildin'," he muttered. "You out here movin' reckless like slidin' gon wake Chiana up any faster."
That struck a nerve. My jaw flexed, my teeth grinding together as I turned onto a back road, heading toward the condo where Jules had Jade holed up. "You think I don't know that?" I finally snapped, my voice low, rough. "You think I don't hear them machines beepin' every time I blink? Think I don't see her laid up in that hospital bed, half-dead 'cause of me? My nigga I don’t know how to do that shit, I don’t know how to see her laid up like that fucked up."
