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WELCOME TO SOUTHWAVE, CA.

I was always the cool one. The laid-back, say-nothing type.

Coast? That was my right-hand, but he was different.

Mean as hell when it came to the females, always had a slick mouth, bold like the ocean at high tide.

He’d crack jokes with the same lips he ordered hits.

Hurricane? Sensitive-ass bully. Big on muscle, soft where it counted—never could shake that fear of deep water either, after his cousin pushed him off a boat when he was ten and almost drowned in the middle of Sable Cove Beach.

Coast respected him, though. He kept him close, but we all knew Hurricane was out here for show.

Then, there was Yummi. Fine as fuck, always was.

Spoiled, but the kind of spoiled that could load a clip and aim it at your head if you tried her.

Slim-thick, long curly hair, with that "pretty girl from the block" vibe that made dudes stare and girls hate. She’d laugh it off, but she was no joke. Yummi was Coast’s little sister—forbidden fruit, and I never looked at her like that.

We were out on the beach after midnight.

Southwave was cold at night. The waves were black as ink, and the city lights barely touched the water.

That’s when we moved—after the world went to sleep.

Coast stood there like a general in the sand in an all-black fit, eyes sharp as razors, giving out orders like he always did.

“Y’all know the drill. Ain’t no fuck-ups tonight. Mula, you drive to The Shadows. Yummi, you got the pack.” He glanced at Hurricane. “You just stand there and look tough, nigga. Water ain’t your lane, right?”

Hurricane chuckled like it was a joke, but we all knew it wasn’t.

I geared up with a black wetsuit tight on my chest, black swim shoes, and night-vision goggles strapped on.

The pack was waterproofed and secured on Yummi’s back.

I glanced at her, and for a split second, my eyes drifted lower to her body in that tiny-ass, black one-piece she always wore under the suit.

I shouldn’t have been looking. She was Coast’s sister, a girl I grew up with.

I’d known Yummi since she was in pigtails, riding bikes in the Southwave Projects.

She was about to be twenty-five, and I was twenty-nine… damn.

I caught myself, but not before Coast caught me. He elbowed me in the ribs. “Eyes on the job, not my sister, nigga.”

I smirked, backing up. “Yeah, a’ight.”

We hopped on the jet skis. The path to Del Sombra was ours—we’d been running it since we were fifteen.

Del Sombra meant Shadow Island in Spanish, but we called it The Shadows.

The island was just thirty minutes off Southwave’s shore if you knew where to look.

Coast and I mapped it out years ago—how to cut through the chop, when to gun it, where the Mexicans waited with love and business.

We moved like shadows, engines slicing through the black water. I kept the throttle tight, focused…until I heard her.

“Mula! The pack! It fell!”

I turned back. Yummi’s voice was sharp and panicked. The water was swallowing it.

No hesitation.

I killed the engine, dove off the ski, and swam out fast as fuck. The ocean didn’t scare me like it did Hurricane. I was born in it; Southwave baby. There was salt in my veins and waves in my blood.

Yummi screamed my name as I went under. My lungs were burning, the cold biting. But I saw it, flashing from my flashlight clipped to my binoculars. I grabbed it, kicking hard with lungs on fire, but I wasn’t losing Coast’s money. Not tonight.

When I came up, Yummi was screaming, half-crying, and damn near losing it. “What the fuck, boy! You scared the shit outta me!”

I coughed, dragging the pack onto the ski.

“Man, whatever. I got the pack. You driving now—I can’t breathe.”

She grabbed the handlebars. Her hands shook, but she locked in. Yummi knew this path, too. We made the drop— quick exchange, no words. Then, we were headed back, cutting through the waves as city lights pulled us in.

Coast and the crew were waiting on the sand when we hit Southwave’s shore. They snatched up the money and product, ready to bust down and flip. Yummi and I didn’t say a word about what happened out there. Just a look passed between us. That was the start of it, though, but we didn’t know it yet.

Back atThe Decks, our warehouse in the dock area of Southwave, Coast was breaking down the stacks on stacks of money, the air thick with weed and cognac fumes.

Hurricane sat back with an unsatisfied look, flipping his cut. “Where the rest of mine at?” he asked.

Coast looked at him sideways, lips twisting into a grin. “You owe me, bro.”

That was it. No arguing. That’s how it was with Coast. He said what he said.

Yummi was hype with her stack in hand. “I’m headed to Velvet South with my bitches to spend some money. Then to the dealership in the morning!”

“Nah,” I told her, smirking. “Tonight on me for the gang.”

We left The Decks, and I hit one of my spots, my condo.

It was on the top floor, high above Sable Cove, with glass walls that showed the whole city.

I poured myself a drink, ice clinking in the glass while watching the waves I’d just stepped out of roll in under the moonlight.

This life... it wasn’t slowing down. Not for nobody.

I took a sip and leaned back in my chair. It was about to be a long summer.

I dressed in all-black Chrome Heart, and I hit the city. Velvet South was calling. And tonight? I was that nigga.