The word bitch hit like a hammer to the back of his head.
An enforcer edged forward, hand on the butt of his Glock. “Talk, Scar.”
Scar didn’t speak, moving before anyone blinked.
He snatched the half-full vodka bottle from the bar and smashed it over the enforcer’s head. The man dropped like dead weight, shards of glass and alcohol raining over his shoulders.
Scar yanked Pun’s lighter from his jacket pocket—knowing it would be there—flicked the flame to life and held it inches from the puddle.
“Anyone else want me to talk?” Scar growled, scanning the room. “Call me a bitch again, and I’ll have plenty more to say.”
The flame rose higher, as if the fire itself wanted to satisfy his anger as much as he did.
Pun stepped between them. “Yo, everybody fuckin’ chill. This is Scar. He ain’t no narc. Y’all remember the shit he handled? The bodies he dropped for this crew? He don’t flip. Never did, never will.”
The king’s jaw flexed. For a long, taut moment, no one moved. Then he finally spat on the floor.
“I don’t give a fuck what he’s done before. Right now, he better get the fuck outta my bar before I put a bullet in his head for every life sentence he was supposed to serve.”
Pun scowled, positioning himself in front of him. “Then you gonna’ have to shoot through me, King.”
Pun wasn’t just any soldier. He was an OG. A legacy. His father and grandfather had been personal enforcers for the Kings, long before any of these new clowns learned how to hold a gun. If the king dropped Pun, there’d be real backlash. The kind that started block wars.
“I’m the fuckin’ king, remember that shit. Now get him outta here, Pun, before I change my mind. Scar, you can tell the fedsthat the only thing you’ll get from my crew for them is a bullet in your goddamn skull.”
Scar stared him down, pulse steady, but his mind murderous. He’d forgotten how much restraint it took not to kill a man for disrespecting him.
Pun’s hand was on his shoulder, grounding him.
“C’mon, Scar. It ain’t worth it. Let’s roll out, bro.”
Scar exhaled through his nose and handed Pun back his lighter.
He looked around at the people who’d once sworn allegiance to him, the ones who’d followed him into shootouts and lived because of his decisions.
Now they wouldn’t even meet his eyes.
Gage had been right. His gang life was over.
He pushed away from the bar. Pun, his little brother Smoke, and Drea fell in behind him. They walked out together, silence pressing heavily between them.
The cold outside didn’t slap him as hard as his crew had.
His breath came out in white clouds and his hands shook as adrenaline crawled beneath his skin like biting insects.
Pun lit a cigarette.
“You need to lay low, man. You got ’em spooked by popping up like this. Word spreads fast, and King won’t stop gunning for you till’ he has a truth he can accept. Best disappear a while.”
Drea’s stiletto boot heels clacked loudly beside him.
“My dad’s new girlfriend has a house in Palos Hills. She’s in the Keys with him for the rest of the winter, so you can crash there if you want.”
Scar gritted his teeth. He hated hiding. But Pun was right. If the Kings thought he was a snitch, the hit on him was already out.
“Fine,” he muttered.
They piled into Drea’s Jetta—that smelled like honey and smoke—and he told her to circle the block a few times before heading to the freeway to ensure they weren’t being followed.
