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“I know no one was supposed to be at the house—I just—” He started tripping over his words.

“Fuck did you do?”

He cleared his throat. “A couple of my boys came through last night. We was just smoking some Ls, drinking, and playing video games. I must’ve passed out. When I woke up, they were gone, and so were some of the assault rifles.”

“You a grown ass man that can’t stay by yourself for two days?”

I closed my eyes and counted to ten.

“How many?”

“Fi–five.”

My eyes flew open and my hands balled into fists.

He started rambling again when I didn’t respond right away.

“I can make this right. Let me⁠—”

“You still at the house?” I cut him off.

“Y-yeah,” he stammered.

“Stay there. I’m coming to you.”

“Dez—”

“Fuck did I say?”

I hung up and took a few slow breaths. Between this and the mess with Victor, I was two seconds away from losing my shit.

“Don’t let that young nigga get you riled up,” Jerome said, chuckling. He’d known me long enough to read the change in my demeanor.

“He about to make me put my foot up his ass.” I shook my head as I reached over to dap him before I left.

It was a thirty minute drive to the stash house. I didn’t bother calling Yomi or any of my other capos because there were some things you needed to handle in person. I pulled up and saw Deonte smoking a blunt on the porch steps. He put it out as my Lucid Air slowed to a stop.

I rolled down the window. “Get in.”

He looked around, uncertain.

“Deonte. Get in the car,” I growled.

He brushed off his dingy jeans as he stood and got in the car.

I peeled off and sped down the street until I reached a spot with no foot traffic. I parked and killed the engine.

“This is the third time,” I said.

“Look, D⁠—”

My fist connected with the side of his face before he could finish. He made a sound as his head bounced hard off the passenger window. I took off my seatbelt, grabbing him by the collar before he could make a move.

“How the fuck do five assault rifles walk out my stash house, Deonte?” I punched him again. “You so busy tryna impress your fucking homeboys, you can’t even see them niggas playing you.”

I shoved him and he slumped against the door. He whimpered, pressing a hand to his face. He was shaking but not crying. Guess he wasn’t that much of a bitch.

“You’re done,” I said. “If I hear your name again—from anyone, about anything—this will be a favor compared to what comes next. We clear?”