Scar didn’t answer, just stared him down until he looked away.
Pun scratched his beard. “Yeah, I was wonderin’ that myself. What the hell you ’doin out, man? You pull a fuckin Shawshank Redemption.”
“Opportunity presented itself…I took it,” he gritted.
Pun bumped his fist over Scar’s heart in a gangster’s salute. “That’s my fuckin’ boy.”
But the others weren’t smiling. The air shifted as eyes cut toward the new king’s table.
A woman in black skin-tight leather and a red halter top sauntered over, hips rolling, her perfume—sweet and expensive—approaching him before she did.
Drea.
Model-pretty, with a small, curvy frame that he used to mold with both hands. Honey-brown, smooth skin, long black braids hanging down her back, and a mouth he’d once sworn deserved a trophy for what it could do.
She was a rich, rebellious daddy’s girl, slumming it on the wrong side of town, fucking bad boys to get his attention.
She moaned as she slipped into his space. “Scar, baby. Damn, I missed you.”
Fuck. His lower half reacted on instinct.
Years without a warm, willing body making him feel good had his blood stirring and his cock thickening.
But now wasn’t the time to lose focus. Not with jealous eyes assessing, plotting, and deciding whether he lived or died at that moment.
Scar kept his face neutral and his fists clenched at his sides.
He wasn’t there for pussy, nostalgia, or sweet welcomes.
He was there for glory.
He pulled again at his beanie, careful not to let anyone see the unnatural white of his hair.
“Cool out, Dre,” he whispered, easing her off him.
The enforcer who’d questioned him sneered. “What kinda opportunity you talkin’ ’bout, huh? Like the informant kind? The bitch-snitching kind?”
Scar snapped his glare toward him. “The presumed-dead kind.”
The new king rose slowly, every part of him screaming ego as he came toward him.
His gold chains clinked against each other when he walked, his entourage clinging to him like lint. His personal enforcers preceded him, with their guns visible.
Scar stood to his full six foot one height.
The king stopped in front of him, women hanging off his arm.
“Look at this. The devil of the South Side, back from hell.”
“What’s up, King?” He knew the guy’s name, but he’d used the title deliberately, acknowledging it, letting him know he wasn’t there to dethrone him…yet.
King narrowed his eyes. “It’d take fuckin’ Houdini to walk outta Florence Pen and not be seen. Unless…”
Scar gritted his teeth. “Unless what?”
The room went quiet enough to hear the bus approaching the stop outside.
“Unless you the feds’ new bitch.”
