Page 55

RIOT

Something was very wrong. I felt it deep within. Despite the victory over Boaz and now Carmelo, we weren’t out the woods. I was so afraid for my cousin.

It was the next day, and still no one had heard from Rollo.

Not me. Not Creed. Not Irina.

His phone went straight to voicemail and his socials were dead. Something had happened to him because he has never gone MIA for this long.

I barely slept. Sat in my brownstone’s office chair ‘til the sun rose, replaying the same three words over and over in my mind:

Havoc set it up.

And now Rollo was gone.

But today we were going to get to the bottom of this. If Rollo was dead, I was making someone pay for that shit. Havoc was already about to get a bullet to the dome for linking up with an enemy and trying to have me killed.

Creed met me in the driveway, already looking like he’d pulled an all-nighter too. Dressed in black. Eyes hard. Voice clipped.

“You ready?”

I nodded, jaw tight. “Let’s go.”

Rollo’s estate was tucked away behind a wrought-iron gate and a line of thick pines on the edge of Yonkers. Big-ass place with security cameras, tall fences, and a stone fountain shaped like a lion out front.

It was quiet when we pulled up.

Creed used the code Irina gave us. We stepped into the house and were hit with stillness.It was like he vanished mid-thought.

I made a beeline for his office. The MacBook was still open on his desk. A joint in the ashtray, burned to the filter.

Creed hovered behind me while I slid into the chair and tapped the spacebar.

The screen lit up.

Rollo’s desktop was a chaotic mess of random screenshots, files labeled “shit4later,” and downloads he never moved. But the browser was open but there was nothing to indicate where he was.

Then I opened Find My iPhone.

The map took a second to load, and when it did, a red pin dropped right in the middle of Brooklyn.

Flatbush.

I zoomed in. Tilted my head.

My stomach turned to concrete.

“Yo,” I muttered. “This address—this building?—”

Creed squinted. “Ain’t that where?—?”

“That’s Havoc’s spot.”

We both fell silent.

I hadn’t visited Havoc since he bought the little spot. Our business never really took me to Brooklyn, but I guess I was going there today.

Creed’s fists clenched. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “We gotta go check this shit out.”

We didn’t pack light.

I grabbed my Glock and two extra clips. Creed holstered a Sig and tucked a blade in his boot. No words needed, we moved in sync, like the brothers we were bred to be.

As we pulled away from the estate, my hands gripped the wheel hard enough to hurt.

I’d been willing to believe Havoc was just broken. Just bitter.

But now?

If he touched Rollo…if he even looked at him wrong…

He wasn’t gonna have to worry about forgiveness.

Because I was gonna make sure he didn’t have time to ask for it.

We pulled up in front of Havoc’s building.

It was a sleek, steel-and-glass high-rise that jutted into the Brooklyn skyline like it belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest .

Valet out front in pressed black suits. Doorman behind bulletproof glass with eyes like a hawk but the posture of a man who’d seen too much and didn’t give a fuck anymore.

One of those new-money buildings with rooftop herb gardens and keycard-only elevators.

The building had no character. It was one of those new soulless buildings. It had that tight, sterile feel—like a hospital room after a bad diagnosis. I scanned the sidewalk, the windows, every passing car, hoping, no, praying for something that felt normal.

But all I felt was dread. And guilt. And rage I couldn’t shake.

Creed leaned against the car for a second, eyes sharp as glass, jaw flexing. “He’s still in the penthouse?”

“Top floor. PH2,” I muttered, not looking away from the mirrored glass of the entrance. “Let’s go.”

We walked in like we owned the place, dressed in black from head to toe, boots heavy on marble, no smiles, no words.

Creed flashed the badge from one of our burner identities, some Homeland Security bullshit I paid good money for.

The doorman didn’t ask questions. Just pressed a button and buzzed us through like we were expected.

Inside, the elevator was sleek and cold. Mirrors on all four sides. Brass accents. Soft jazz playing from speakers overhead like it was supposed to soothe your nerves.

Didn’t work.

I stood there watching the numbers climb—34… 35… 36—heart beating like a fucking war drum. My fingers twitched at my side, itching for my Glock.

Creed said nothing. Didn’t have to. I could feel his pulse rising too.

Ding.

The doors opened into a private vestibule—clean marble floors, minimalist art on the walls, a single oak door with a brushed steel handle that looked like it hadn’t been touched in days.

I stepped forward and knocked. Hard.

Nothing.

I banged again. Louder this time. Still no answer.

Creed pulled out his Glock, thumb resting on the slide. His eyes met mine.

I nodded once. “Do it.”

The lock took me less than a minute. Havoc had taste, but not enough paranoia. I’d told him once he needed better security. But he was always too arrogant to think someone would come for him.

Click.

The door swung open into silence.

We stepped inside.

And instantly, I knew something was wrong.

Too neat. Too staged. The furniture was designer—sleek black leather, chrome accents, untouched. Bottles of scotch lined up perfectly on the bar like they’d just been cleaned. The kind of scene you walked into after someone wiped the place down. Sanitized. Covered their tracks.

But they missed something.

“Yo,” I said, voice tight.

Creed followed my line of sight.

Rollo’s phone.

Sitting on the marble island. Cracked screen. Tiny droplets of blood on the glass. A thin smear trailed from the edge of the island toward the back hallway.

“Fuck,” Creed breathed, already moving.

We followed the trail in silence. Past the hallway lined with blackout windows. Into the master suite.

The room was cold.

Not in temperature. In energy.

The bed was made. Closet shut. Everything in place… except that streak of dried blood that ended at the base of the nightstand.

Creed’s voice was quiet, but laced with anger. “He was here.”

I nodded, teeth grinding behind a locked jaw.

Rollo had been here. Bleeding. Possibly dragged. He was taken. Maybe tortured. Maybe killed.And I hadn’t protected him.

Creed crouched and ran a finger along the blood. “It’s dry,” he muttered. “Probably happened yesterday.”

“We were just a few hours too late,” I said, voice flat.

My eyes scanned the room again.

That’s when I spotted it.

Two MacBooks on a sleek glass desk in the corner.

Identical. New. One of them was open to the login screen. The other still powered off.

I walked over, grabbed both.

Creed looked at me. “Can you crack those?”

“Give me an hour. I’ve got tools back at my place.”

Creed stood slowly, tucking his Glock away. “If he’s dead?—”

“He ain’t,” I snapped, cutting him off. “Not yet.” I was in denial. He was more than likely dead.

We moved through the apartment fast after that. Didn’t touch anything else. Didn’t waste time pretending we didn’t know what was coming.

Because deep down, I already knew.

Rollo was gone.

And Havoc?

He’d just put a target on his back he couldn’t outrun.

Back in the car, we pulled out of the garage in silence. I set the laptops in the backseat and leaned my head against the window, watching the city blur past like static.

Then my phone rang.

I answered on speaker.

“Riot King?” the voice said—official, tight. “This is Gary Freedman from the lead investigation team. We completed the environmental assessment of your mother’s home. No lead in the paint. No contamination in the water supply. Not even trace levels.”

My spine straightened. “Then what the hell’s been making her sick?”

A pause.

“We believe… someone’s been poisoning her. Intentionally. Likely through food.”

Silence.

Then Creed, low and sharp: “Havoc.”

My fingers curled around the steering wheel.

It all made sense now. The dementia symptoms. The confusion. The sudden weight loss. The timing.

He’d been doing it. Slowly. Deliberately. This nigga was so bitter that he would be so cowardly to poison our mother. Cancer and lead poisoning. My mother was about to die because he was a little bitch. I swear my father’s sins will never stop haunting us.

Creed slammed his palm against the dashboard. “We should’ve fucking seen it.”

“He wanted us distracted,” I growled. “He wanted us broken.”

“Well, now we’re focused.”

I nodded slowly, rage boiling in my chest like a live wire sparking in water.

“I’m gonna find him,” I said. “And when I do?”

Creed glanced at me, eyes dead cold.

“He’s gonna regret the day he was fuckin’ born.”