Page 9

HAVOC

I’ve been thinking.

Thinking too damn much.

This kind of thinking don’t happen in daylight—it brews in darkness. It sharpens itself in the corners of the room when nobody’s around and the only thing you can hear is your own heart beating like it’s got secrets it’s dying to tell.

And lately, I been having the same thought over and over:

I can’t bring the Kings down from the inside.

That shit would be suicide.

Too many eyes. Too many people willing to kiss Creed’s ring or take Riot’s word as gospel.

They talk about brotherhood like it’s sacred, like blood washes sins clean.

But I know better. I lived in the shadows of that family while they dined in the sun.

I know their routines, their weak points, their arrogance.

But I also know that if I go sniffing around, trying to find cracks within the network—someone’s gonna snitch. Somebody’s gonna run back to Riot or Creed. And then it’s checkmate before I even move my first piece.

Nah.

If I’m gonna tear this empire apart, I need outsiders. People who ain’t blinded by loyalty. People with a reason to hate. People like me —broken, cast out, forgotten.

Because that’s what I am.

Forgotten.

Even though I carry the same goddamn blood as them.

Even though the man they called a father— my father—broke me in ways they never had to endure. That’s the part that twists the knife the deepest. Riot and Creed… they didn’t just take Silas’s crown. They took my justice .

They killed him.

Fast. Quiet. Painless.

Without ever giving me the chance to look him in the eye and say:

You destroyed me.

You were supposed to protect me, and instead, you used me.

Because Silas?

He was a sick motherfucker.

But he was smart about it. Strategic. He never laid a hand on Riot. Never touched Creed. Not in that way. No—he saved the worst of himself for me. His bastard son. The one outside the circle. The one whose mother he barely claimed. The one nobody looked too closely at.

And I think I know why.

Because he knew no one would believe me.

Because I didn’t matter enough to be protected.

I was just a boy when it started.

Eight. Maybe nine. I don't even remember the exact age anymore—just the coldness of the room, the way the door would click shut behind him, the way his voice would go soft, like he was doing me a favor. Like it was love.

He told me it was our secret. That the pain meant I was becoming a man. That this is how loyalty was earned in our world.

I still remember the burn of his breath. The sound of the leather belt unbuckling. The weight of shame that sat on my chest like a cinderblock every time I looked at myself in the mirror.

I tried to tell my mother once.

Just once.

She slapped me so hard I saw stars.

Told me not to speak that man’s name in vain. Told me I was just angry because Silas didn’t come around enough. Told me boys like me needed discipline.

That was the last time I spoke on it.

I learned quick: silence was safer than truth.

But silence turns into rot.

And now that rot is all I have left.

I walk around with it inside me, poisoning everything I touch. Every laugh. Every woman. Every fake-ass smile I give when I’m around those so-called brothers.

And the worst part?

They don’t even know.

They don’t know what Silas did to me. They don’t know that while they were learning how to shoot and fight and build kingdoms—I was learning how to survive a monster in the dark.

And they took him from me.

They took the one person I needed to face. To confront. To destroy with my own hands.

They robbed me of my reckoning.

And now?

Now they’ll feel what I felt.

Betrayed. Unseen. Powerless.

I don’t care that I’m a King by blood. I don’t care what the last name on the paperwork says. That legacy? It was never mine to begin with. They made sure of that.

But I’ll carve a new one.

Out of ash. Out of vengeance. Out of fire so hot not even memory will survive.

And the next time they look at me?

They won’t see a brother.

They’ll see their reckoning.

By the time I pulled up to the office, my jaw was still sore. The swelling had gone down some, but the bruising was a slow, deep ache—a reminder of Riot’s favorite way to communicate when he didn’t feel like listening. I flexed my hand once, imagining how it would feel to return the favor.

The King Security and Logistics building sat dead in the heart of midtown Manhattan—glass and steel and arrogance stacked thirty floors high. Our name was etched across the front like a signature on a contract you didn’t get to refuse.

Inside, the walls were sleek. Cold. Monitors flickered. Guards nodded when I passed. Everyone knew who I was, but nobody greeted me the way they did Riot or Creed.

I wasn’t one of them.

Not really.

The boardroom was already half full when I got there.

Creed sat at the head of the table, looking like a CEO cover model—sharp suit, sharp jaw, eyes like a loaded weapon.

Riot was posted on the far side, dressed down in a black tee and diamonds but somehow still commanding the room without saying a damn word.

His body language screamed dominance. That was the thing about Riot—he didn’t need a crown. He was the storm.

Abra sat to Creed’s left, tapping away at her tablet like she was running the whole damn company from that one device. A few other department heads were present—guys who used to run numbers for Silas, now repurposed into Creed’s clean-cut lieutenants. Everyone quieted the second Creed spoke.

“This quarter, we’ve seen a thirty-seven percent uptick in gross from our European accounts.

Amsterdam is back online, and Berlin’s expansion is ahead of schedule,” he said, flipping to the next slide like he was talking about real estate, not global power moves.

“Domestic operations are stable. Contracts are clean. Government heat is nonexistent.”

The room nodded. I didn’t.

I leaned back in my chair and watched him.

Creed had everything I wanted—respect, control, reach. And Riot? Riot had everything else—fear, loyalty, and that untouchable energy that made soldiers follow him without question. Together, they were gods to this empire.

And me?

Still sitting in the fucking pews, waiting for a miracle.

Riot leaned forward, voice low and casual.

“As y’all know, I’ve been focused more on the vineyard these days.

The King’s Vine is doing well, real well—but it’s pulling me out of some of the heavier stuff.

We’ve got distribution deals locked up already.

That open house is gonna set shit off, put us on the map. ”

A murmur of agreement. Even Abra gave a nod of approval.

Riot continued, “Because of that, I’m scaling back on the animal smuggling. Too many moving parts. Too many liabilities. No lie, it’s hard to market wine to millionaires and be the nigga selling snow leopards on the side. So I’m closing that chapter.”

Laughter. Light, easy. Everyone was vibing.

Except me.

I felt like I was watching a throne room from the back of the chapel. I’d shed blood for this family. Killed for this family. I had scars in places these people didn’t even know about. And yet here I was—again—on the sideline. No legacy. No crown. No say.

Riot glanced at me then, like he just remembered I existed.

“Havoc,” he said. “We need solid security at the open house. Big names’ll be there. Investors. Politicians. Influencers. We can’t afford a single slip. It’s yours. You’re head of security for the event. From now until the last champagne glass is packed up, it’s your show.”

All eyes turned to me. Waiting. Expecting thanks or some humble-ass nod of approval.

I gave neither.

I just said, “Copy.”

Inside?

I was already moving the pieces.

Finally.

Finally, they gave me something.

And now I was going to use it.

Let Riot and Creed keep their glass castles. Let them toast their overpriced vintages and pop bottles for investors who didn’t give a fuck about their bloodline. Let them soak in applause and pretend like their daddy wasn’t a rapist and a tyrant.

I’d make sure that vineyard went up in flames.

Not literally— yet.

But the open house? That was the first domino. And I’d already started planning who I’d bring into the fold to help me knock the whole damn empire down.

Let them crown each other Kings.

I was building the guillotine.

The meeting wrapped, folks peeled off—Abra muttering something to Creed about Dubai contacts, Riot dapping up one of the logistics heads, half the room buzzing about the damn vineyard like it was some sacred birthright.

I started to make my exit when I saw Riot cut across the room.

He moved like he always did—shoulders squared, grill gleaming like he owned sunlight itself. There was something about Riot that just commanded space, and I hated that it still worked on me, even after everything.

He stopped in front of me and crossed his arms, the tension still sitting just beneath the surface, like it never really left since the tailor shop.

“You got a second?” he asked.

I nodded.

He looked around, then gestured for me to follow.

We stepped into one of the smaller conference rooms—a glass box meant for quick strategy talks and quiet power plays.

He closed the door, leaned against the wall, and exhaled through his nose like he was dragging the weight of our bloodline up from his ribs.

“I ain’t gonna lie,” Riot said, his voice lower now. “I shouldn’t have hit you like that.”

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

He shrugged. “My temper gets the best of me sometimes. You know that. But when you came for Ma like that…” His eyes narrowed, a warning flickering behind them. “You crossed a line.”

I stared back, face unreadable.

“She ain’t perfect, but she’s been nothin’ but good to you. She took care of you. She made sure you were always fed, always had clothes on your back. She didn’t have to do that shit, but she did. You may not see it that way, but I do.”

His words cut, not because they were true—but because they were a reminder.

A reminder of how easy it was for him to rewrite history.

To pretend the love I got was the same as his. That Tessa hugging me once in public erased the years she wouldn’t even look at me when no one was around. That a few bags of hand-me-downs meant I was chosen.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I want us to do better, man. Pops is dead. Silas is gone. The most toxic shit in this family has been buried. But we can’t move forward if we keep tearing into each other.”

I nodded once. “You’re right.”

He gave a short nod of his own, like we just closed a deal. “So, let’s keep it clean from here on out. Disagree? Fine. But don’t ever speak on Ma like that again.”

I let a beat pass before answering.

“I won’t. I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I let my mouth get reckless. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Riot clapped me on the shoulder with the kind of weight that said family, then gave me a chin nod and walked out the room.

And as soon as the door shut behind him?

I clenched my jaw until I felt my molars grind.

Sorry?

I wanted to strangle him with the word.

I wanted to take that shiny, smug-ass grill and knock it straight down his throat.

Fuck his apology.

Fuck his fake concern.

And fuck Tessa.

He had no idea what that woman was really like. No clue how many years she went out of her way to treat me like a stray dog Silas forgot to put down. She didn’t raise me—she tolerated me. She smiled for show and turned cold when nobody was looking.

They think the poison died with Silas?

No.

Riot thought we were good now. Thought that little conversation fixed things.

All it did was light the fuse.

Because the moment I left that room, I knew the next time I saw that grill gleaming at me under some spotlight?

It wouldn’t be in celebration.

It would be in ruin.