“You don’t get to judge how I grieve, my nigga.”
“I get to judge what you do for the Knights and how you represent us.”
“Pops left this to us. This shit is just as much mine as it is yours. I can do what the fuck I want.”
“Wrong. Until the day I retire my patch, I call the shots, muthafucka. Don’t you ever forget that.” He reached out and swiped the white residue from Danger’s nose.
“You think Mo would want you back on that bullshit, fucking your head up again after she fought like hell to get you clean?”
Danger stepped back and knocked Crown’s hand away hard, but Crown ignored the sting. He let his little brother ride…let him vent.
“Mind your fuckin’ business and stay out of mine.” Danger spat.
That was strike two for Crown.
“Go home,” he said, still trying to keep his cool.
“Fuck you. I’m not going nowhere but to that clubhouse, so stop talking to me about it. Real talk.” In a sudden burst of anger, Danger shoved a nearby crate hard, causing guns to clatter across the floor, some landing on Crown’s boots.
That was it.
Strike three.
In an instant, Crown closed the distance. Danger, already bracing for it, swung first, but missed. Crown swerved his head and answered with a vicious uppercut that snapped Danger’s head back. A hard right hook followed, payback for calling Nivéa a bitch.
Danger lunged again. Crown caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted it hard, and drove his shoulder into his chest. They crashed into the shelving unit, the metal rattling as crates shifted and clanged to the floor. Danger fought back with everything he had, wild and angry, but Crown moved differently. Cleaner. Quieter. He used techniques he’d never shown him growing up. Because he believed some things you had to keep tucked, things a muthafucka couldn’t see coming.
Crown hooked Danger’s leg, sweeping him off balance, then snapped his forearm across his throat, pinning him to the floor. Danger thrashed beneath him, his movements sloppy and his timing off. The coke didn’t help, and the injured leg sure as hell didn’t either.
“You proving me right, nigga. You lucky you blood or I’d break yo’ fuckin’ face.” Crown seethed, reaching into Danger’s pocket.
His fingers searched until he pulled out a small baggie, and then his jaw tightened as he flung it at Danger’s face. The disappointment hit harder than any punch life had thrown at him.
“Get the fuck off of me!” Danger growled, shoving Crown away as he staggered to his feet.
“Aye, yoooo, come on. Chill! Y’all brothers. Chill the fuck out.” Smoky rushed in, tucking his blunt in the corner of his lips. He then grabbed Danger and forced space between them.
With a scowl on his face, Crown stepped back, his chest heaving. Danger pushed against Smoky’s grip, equally heated. They locked eyes across the space, both resembling their father at various stages of his life, neither one willing to back down.
“You can’t make a nigga sit at home and not avenge her death, bro. Put yourself in my shoes. What if it was Nivéa?”
That hit hard.
Crown froze and thought about it.
“That’s what I thought. If it were her, you wouldn’t give a fuck about healing. You’d be out there tearing shit up.”
“The difference is, I wouldn’t be high out my muthafuckin’ mind doing it.”
“Nah, you’d just be drunk as fuck, gone off that Don Julio. We all got a vice, my nigga.”
Crown bit down on his bottom lip, anger and worry colliding in his chest as he held his brother’s gaze. The pain on Danger’sface was raw. He understood it. Felt it, even. But understanding didn’t mean he would stand by and watch him self-destruct. He turned and walked away. He said what he said, and that was that.
And Danger knew it, too. The defiance drained fast as he realized his brother would knock his ass unconscious if it came down to it, preventing him from going anywhere. He watched Crown walk away, holding his breath, hoping he’d stop… turn around… change his mind.
But Crown never did.
So, Danger broke.
