Page 20 of A Kingpin’s Weakness

Seth

“King, my nigga. What’s up?”

“Shit, trying to figure out why I gotta hear about your retirement through another nigga.”

“Retirement?” I repeated, frowning. The hell was he talking about?

King was one of my tightest connects out in Haiti; solid, never reckless with his words. So him calling me about some retirement shit? Yeah, that had me on edge.

“I figured you wouldn’t know what I was talking about,” he said, tone laced with frustration. “I’m flying in a few hours. I’ll call when I land.”

“Bet.” I ended the call and let the silence sit for a second.

Rich was already watching me from the passenger seat.

“What was that about?”

“King thinks I’m retiring. Flying in tonight to talk.”

Rich frowned. “Where the fuck he hear that from?”

I shook my head slowly. “Don’t know. But I will find out.”

Rich didn’t say anything else.

I’d left Stormi at my place last night and still hadn’t made it back to check on her.

That thought lingered, a tight knot in my chest. Ronnie’s ass was MIA.

We couldn’t find this nigga nowhere and that shit was gnawing at me like a damn rat.

My phone buzzed about an hour ago; Southside said he needed to meet, said it was important.

Ronnie was my main target now, but I decided to hear Southside out first, at least until I had eyes on Ronnie again.

We pulled up to the warehouse in Rich’s ride, the engine’s growl echoing off the cracked concrete. The air outside was thick summer heat trapped under a sickly yellow streetlight, mixed with the faint scent of gasoline and something burnt.

“Seth! Rich! What’s good, my boys?” Southside’s voice cracked the quiet as we stepped out. His grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. We dap’d up, the snap of our palms sharp in the thin air, then moved inside.

The warehouse swallowed us whole; it was dark, cavernous, smelling of rust and dust with a faint metallic tang that made my throat itch. Southside handed me and Rich joints as we stepped into my office.

“Damn, nigga,” I said, pulling my lighter from my pocket. The flame flickered, dancing across the smoke-streaked windowpane. “You think I need to smoke before this meeting?”

Southside’s eyes held a hard edge, cold and sharp like broken glass. “I don’t even think the joint’s gonna help you with this one.”

I saw it, then the quiet storm behind his stare. The kind of look that promised nothing good. The kind of look that said, this ain’t just a meeting .

Rich flicked his lighter, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he inhaled slow. I took a long drag, the smoke burning down my throat, the bitter taste clinging to my tongue. My heart was picking up pace, the silence stretching tight between us like a drawn wire.

Southside leaned against the wall, fingers tracing the cracked paint as he started talking. The weight in his voice settled over me like a shadow. Something was off. Something was wrong. And I knew, deep down, whatever it was, it was about Ronnie.

“Remember I told you I put one of my dancers on Ronnie’s ass?” Southside said, arms folded, posted up like he already knew what this would do to me.

“Yeah,” I answered flat. I was tired. Numb. Whatever. I didn’t expect much. Just figured he’d caught Ronnie lying or saying some dumb shit. But then he said, “Shorty gave me more than what the fuck I expected.”

That made me look up. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

Southside didn’t answer. He just pulled a phone from his pocket and placed it on my desk with the kind of care you’d use setting down a loaded gun.

He tapped the screen, pressed play, and everything shifted. The video lit up, shaky at first like it had been filmed on the low. But the image settled quick. A hotel suite. Velvet curtains. Soft lighting. Clean white sheets that probably cost more than most people rent.

Ronnie was sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed. Shirt off. Smiling like the world belonged to him. And behind him some thick redbone with long curls and honey-glazed lips, rubbed oil into his shoulders like she was worshipping him.

“Daddy, what got you so stressed tonight?” she asked, soft and slow, laying kisses on his neck like she cared. Like she didn’t know she was recording a damn confession.

I leaned closer. My stomach twisted.

“I told you I’m taking over this city,” Ronnie said, leaning back like he was in a movie. “This shit was always supposed to be mine. Seth should’ve never been throned king.”

My mouth parted. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath.

“You deserve to be king,” the girl purred. “You’re my king.”

Ronnie grinned. So smug. So damn blind. “Yeah. King is what I’m gonna be.”

She giggled, rubbing her hands down his chest. “What can I do to help you, baby?”

He paused, cocked his head, then shrugged like it was nothing.

“I got this under control. I took out Seth Sr. already. It’ll be nothing to take out the mini version of him.”

I froze. Everything in me stilled. It was like the room dropped out from under me, and I was falling but not moving. He said it like it was casual. Like it was just business. Like killing my father was just part of the plan.

“That slimy ass nigga,” Rich growled in the background, but I couldn’t even look at him.

Southside was still posted against the wall, head down, jaw tight. He wasn’t looking at me either. Maybe he couldn’t.

But me? I was staring at that screen like it was the last thing I’d ever see. Because it wasn’t just the betrayal. It was how comfortable Ronnie was saying it. How casual. Like my father didn’t save him. Like he didn’t eat at our table. Like he wasn’t at the damn funeral.

He killed him. My father’s right hand. His so-called brother.

His shadow. That man murdered him, then smiled in my face for years.

The taste in my mouth turned bitter. My hands started shaking; subtle at first. Then harder.

My nails dug into my palms, trying to ground me.

But there was no ground anymore. There was only rage.

Thick and hot, rising up from my chest, climbing my throat, settling in my skull like wildfire. And guilt. Because I let him get close.

The room was heavy. Not loud. Not chaotic. Just still. Like the moment right before a thunderstorm breaks a summer sky.

“Might not even kill him,” Ronnie said, like my life was some dice he could roll. “Might keep him locked up somewhere while he watches me fuck on Stormi ass.”

Stormi.

He said her name like it was a prize. Like she was something you take instead of someone you earn. Like he didn’t just sign his death certificate.

“Who’s Stormi?” she asked, voice syrupy and curious, like she wasn’t filming a federal-level confession.

“This bitch Seth think he can call play on. She was supposed to be mine.”

I clenched my jaw so tight my back teeth felt like they cracked.

“Who does she want?”

He snorted. “Damn woman, you ask a lot of questions. You the FBI?”

“I’m just saying,” she replied, casual like they weren’t plotting madness. “If she wants him and not you, how you gonna make her yours?”

Ronnie laughed. The kind of laugh that told me he really thought he had this in the bag. Thought he was smarter and inevitable.

“See, she’ll do anything for her little brother. And young blood owe me money and product. They broke asses don’t got the bread to pay up, but that sweet shit between Stormi’s legs?” He licked his lips. “That’s enough payment for me.”

My hands curled into fists slow. He was talking about raping her.

My girl. Like she was currency. A debt payoff.

A damn asset. This man wanted to kill me, take my throne, wear my father's crown, and break the only woman I care about? Niggas really don’t value their life.

And the crazy thing is? He smiled the whole way through.

“This nigga really think he’s gonna kill me.” I felt, the heat in my chest rising slow and hot. “Be with Stormi, and run my empire after putting a bullet in my father’s head?”

He was never loyal. Never grieving. Just waiting for his moment. Now it's mine.

The woman kept talking. “Seems like you got it all planned out.”

“Not all of it,” Ronnie said, rubbing his chin. “I’m playing that shit as I go.”

“Can I see you this weekend?”

“Not this weekend,” he said. “I gotta fly out. Meet with the connect. I need them supplying only me work so I can freeze all these niggas out. Make 'em come beg for product. Get all them under control.”

My crew didn’t flinch. They just listened. Every word Ronnie said was a shovel to his own grave.

“You think Seth’s boys’ll go for that?” she asked.

“They won’t have a choice,” he said like he was already king. “Might have to take Rich and Southside out too, his lapdogs.”

I heard Rich’s knuckles crack. Southside didn’t move a muscle.

“Baby,” she cooed, “I just want you to be careful out there.”

“You always thinking about me,” he muttered, then laughed low. “Sorry I can’t get it up. Don’t know what’s going on with me.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy. We’ll have plenty of time for that.”

Video cut. Southside snatched his phone back, face blank. The room didn’t move. My people didn’t blink. They were waiting. They knew the play. But not the plan. And they were looking at me for it.

I looked down at my hands. My father’s hands. The hands that held this city, carried this name, and now they were shaking. Not from fear from restraint.

Because I wanted to walk out of here, find Ronnie, and end him tonight. Not quick. Not clean. But I was raised better than that. Pops didn’t teach me how to throw a punch, he taught me how to make it count.

So, I took a breath. And when I spoke, my voice came out calm. Controlled. Deadly.

“He wants a throne so bad?” I said, eyes burning. “Let’s build him a cage that looks just like it.”