Page 13 of Rose

He met her eyes, steady. “I learned from the best. You and Ma were busting shit too. I see where Gold get it from.”

“That’s my baby. She need to bring her busy-body ass around more. She practically live in that damn restaurant now. Actin’ like I didn’t teach her everything she know.”

Savior laughed. He admired Sarai’s drive, respected the way she turned her pain into power. She was doing what she loved—and doing it well.

“At least Sinny come by,” Marley added. “Always high, but he come.”

They both laughed.

“I’ll tell her,” Savior said, already peeling back the foil and scooping into the mac and cheese.

He pulled a wad of hundreds from his pocket, tried handing them to her, but Marley backed away like the bills were dipped in poison.

“Don’t you hand me no money, boy. Between you, your brother, your daddy, my son, and this whole block—I’m set for life.”

Savior stuffed it into her palm anyway. “Go get your nails done. Or blow it on some shoes.”

Before she could argue, he was already walking off.

“I love you, hard head!” she shouted after him, her voice thick with pride.

Savior grinned.

Out here, he wasn’t Khaos—the ghost in the night, the most feared name on both sides of the law. He was just Savior Carter. Home. Fed. And—for a rare moment—at peace.

He stepped into Grim Kutz , greeted by the barbershop symphony: the hum of clippers, bass from the Bluetooth speaker, trash talk flying over sports debates, and that distinct smell of aftershave and ego.

A sanctuary where secrets were kept, fades were crisp, and men said what they couldn’t say anywhere else.

He dapped up a few regulars before making his way to Macho’s station.

“Aye Khaos, who you got winning the Super Bowl this year?” a voice called from one of the chairs, eyes flicking up from a phone just as Macho fastened the cape around Savior’s chest.

“Texans,” Savior said, cool and without hesitation.

The whole shop erupted .

“Ya’ll know this nigga a die-hard Texans fan!” Macho announced, laughing as he adjusted the chair.

“I got faith in my Cowboys,” someone shouted from the back.

Macho and Savior turned at the same time , hitting him with a look so sharp it should’ve came with a warning label.

“Man, get the fuck out my shop with that,” Macho said, and the whole barbershop howled in laughter.

The laughter didn’t even get a chance to settle before the bell above the door jingled again, and in walked A’Mazi—smooth, silent, composed like always.

He moved through the shop with quiet confidence, dapping up a few folks, nodding at Macho, then locking hands with Savior.

Though Sincere was his best friend, A’Mazi was family in every way that mattered.

Loyal, deadly in silence, an artist behind the needle and wheel.

He didn’t need a title or a spotlight—his presence spoke loud enough.

He and Sincere had been tight since college, and Savior respected A’Mazi’s calm, his code, his refusal to fold for anyone.

Savior had wrapped every car A’Mazi drove, putting his name on every engine with art and vengeance.

A’Mazi slid into the empty chair next to him, blending in as the shop’s banter picked right back up like no beat had been missed. They chimed in here and there, quiet smirks traded like inside jokes.

Then the bell rang again —and the room went still.

She walked in like she owned oxygen. Cocoa-brown skin kissed by the shop’s overhead light, curls twisted into a messy bun that laid against the nape of her neck just right.

Jean shorts molded to her curves like they were made in her honor, hugging every dip, every rise.

Heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a punctuation mark.

Conversations died mid-sentence. Eyes followed, necks craned.

Even Savior, whose heart rarely skipped for beauty alone, had to blink once, twice—but her eyes? Her eyes were already on A’Mazi.

But it wasn’t her that made Savior sit forward slightly in the chair. It was the woman still outside, straddling power on two wheels.

She hadn’t taken her helmet off yet, but her body told the story.

Tall. Confident. Deadly. Her chocolate skin shimmered beneath the unforgiving Miami sun.

Thick thighs flexed as she dismounted the blacked-out motorcycle like she wasn’t just riding it—she owned it.

And those gold heels? That wasn’t fashion. That was a statement.

Savior didn’t look away.

She was the kind of beautiful that didn’t beg for attention—it demanded it. She was presence and pressure in the same breath. And whatever it was about her stance, her energy, her defiance of everything soft and predictable—it reached straight into Savior’s chest and tugged.

Hard.

Savior’s attention snapped back when the first woman—Kyre—stepped through and made a beeline for A’Mazi.

He stood before she reached him, arms already open like he’d been waiting for her all damn day.

Savior caught it immediately—the look in his eyes, the way his body leaned into hers. That was his woman.

Savior recognized her right away. Kyre wasn’t just A’Mazi’s girl—she was sharp, well-connected, and had helped Sincere navigate the legal hell when the system tried to block him from opening his dispensary. Despite being a defense attorney, she maneuvered through contract law like a shark in heels.

“Hey, Sav,” she said, turning to give him a quick hug. Her tone was warm, casual, the kind of soft most people never dared to show him.

“Wassgood, Ky. Everything good on yo side?” Savior asked, still working on his plate, eyes steady but voice relaxed.

“Yeah, working like always,” she replied with a tired smile.

“Appreciate what you did for Sin.”

“No need. The wire transfer was more than enough thanks,” she said, with a knowing look. “I begged to send some of it back, but he’s stubborn—like his best friend over here.”

Savior chuckled, but his gaze slid past her—right back outside. That’s when the shift hit. The woman on the bike .

Helmet off now, head down, texting. But everything about her demanded attention.

The rich glow of her brown skin, the way her short pixie cut framed her face like it had been sculpted for the gods, and those tattoos—intricate, bold, stretching across a body that looked like it was built to ride and destroy.

She wasn’t loud. She didn’t need to be.

Savior didn’t even realize he was staring until A’Mazi spoke.

“Where y’all headed?”

Kyre answered softly, “Lunch at Gold, then shopping later.”

Savior didn’t know why the details of their day mattered to him—but they did now. Her plans suddenly had weight.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a thick wad of hundreds. Kyre immediately pushed his hand away.

“I don’t need your money, Maz.”

He didn’t budge. Stuffed it into her palm anyway. She rolled her eyes in protest, but she didn’t give it back.

Savior’s eyes pulled outside.

Now the woman was no longer texting—she was talking to one of the barbershop customers who’d just left with a fresh cut. The man leaned in a little too close for Savior’s comfort. He didn’t know her name, didn’t know her story, but something in him didn’t like it. At all.

And he wasn’t alone.

A’Mazi’s attention was locked on the same scene.

“She can’t speak?” A’Mazi asked, nodding toward the woman on the bike.

Kyre glanced over her shoulder. “She told me to tell you hi,” she said. “She’s just… not having a good day. I had to drag her out the house. She act like she can’t go nowhere without that damn bike—thanks to you.”

Kyre’s voice lowered, just enough to be heard if you were close enough. Savior was. And he didn’t miss the slight shift in her tone, the concern folded beneath her calm.

Savior caught it—the flicker of worry in A’Mazi’s eyes. Quick. Subtle. But it was real. That woman mattered. To both of them.

“She’s okay, Maz,” Kyre added gently, reading his face like a pro.

Savior tuned them out after that, attention fixed on the woman again. Her face was mugged up, clear irritation on display as she talked to the man by her bike. Whatever he was saying, she clearly didn’t give a damn. But it wasn’t just that.

Savior didn’t know her name, didn’t know her voice, or anything about her, but the tight pull in his chest told him one thing.

He hated seeing her talk to another man. And he didn’t even know why yet.

He could tell she was getting uncomfortable. Her body language was subtle but loud to someone like him. The way she shifted her weight, the tension in her jaw, the annoyance in her eyes. A’Mazi and Kyre were too deep in conversation to notice, but Savior? He noticed everything.

Macho had finished Savior’s lineup minutes ago, and the timing couldn’t have been better. Savior rose from the chair with a calm so cold it felt lethal, tossing his empty plate in the trash without a word.

“Aye, Sav—” Macho called out, halfway through removing the barber cape, but Savior didn’t stop. He pushed the door open and walked straight toward the storm.

“I said I’m good, now can you get the fuck on,” the woman said, her voice smooth but sharp. Calm, but pissed. Savior didn’t like that. Didn’t like the look in her eyes. Didn’t like the energy this man brought to her space.

“Come on, ma,” the man pressed, still lingering.

Savior stepped up.

“Didn’t she say she was good?” His voice was low, but lethal. Just loud enough to make the man—and her—look up.

And when she did, Savior forgot how to breathe.

Her eyes… golden brown. Not just beautiful— dangerous . They sparkled in the Miami sun like they’d seen heaven and hell and came back with both in their reflection. But even beneath that glow, he saw it—the darkness. The pain.

“Man, she good. We just chattin’,” the guy said, puffing up like he had something to prove.

Savior didn’t know him. Never seen his face before. Which meant he was new to this side of Miami—or stupid enough to be suicidal.

“I know she good,” Savior said, eyes locking with hers again.