Page 4

I SEE EVERYTHING

It was after midnight atThe Decks. The warehouse lights were low, and shadows stretched long across the concrete. The smell of money, weed, and saltwater clung to the walls.

I sat at the table as stacks of cash lay out in front of me, and rubber bands popped as I counted. The weight felt real good in my hands. I ran my thumb across a thick stack. I couldn’t even count correctly because of my gut. That shit was tight.

Hurricane.

I wasn’t a dumb nigga.

I’d been checking his temperature for a minute now…

little shit. The way the product moved, the way the numbers didn’t quite add up.

The way Hurricane had been talking, like he was bigger than what he was.

Like he had something to prove. I knew that type.

The muscle that thought he was a boss just because he stood next to one.

I had known Hurricane since my early twenties, and I was pushing thirty now.

He grew up in Southwave with us, but always did his own thing, always bought product from me until he realized he would get more money by getting on my team.

He had always been solid, up until I let him get too comfortable next to me.

I leaned back in my chair, blunt hanging from my lips, eyes on the camera’s feed from Velvet South.

When I said that club was mine, I meant it.

I had money moving in and out of there, and I had access to the tapes.

So, I was watching what happened when I had left.

I knew once I left scenes, niggas moved funny.

Hurricane’s face popped up on the corner screen, caught outsidethe clubtwo nights back. That nigga was moving funny, high as fuck off X—talking to one of the side runners who didn’t even come up through us. The fuck was he doing talking to him?

I shook my head, lips curling into a cold grin.

“Niggas get too comfortable... start thinking they made the wave instead of just riding it.”

I grabbed my phone, flipped to the messages. One caught my eye—anonymous number, no name saved.

Unknown: You know, Hurricane movin’ weight behind your back, right?

I stared at the screen for a beat, then let out a low, dangerous chuckle.

“Oh, a’ight. That’s how we playing it?” I uttered to myself.

I scrolled back to the books and ran the numbers again from Hurricane. Shit wasn’t adding up, and now it was clear why. Hurricane was out here trying to build his own little current under my ocean, like I wouldn’t notice. Like I ain’t been watching.

I tapped the ash off my blunt as smoke curled up in front of me.

See, Mula? That was a solid nigga. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t move funny, didn’t touch what wasn’t his.

Mula been down since my jet ski days—when it was just me, him, and Yummi moving packs across the water, building this shit from nothing.

He was quiet, but the streets talked about him like a fucking legend at his young age.

Women loved him, but Mula didn’t even like the attention.

He was focused. That’s why I fucked with him the way I did.

Hurricane? Nah. That nigga was too loud. Always had been. He knew that made him a bullet sponge, but he walked around like he didn’t give a fuck.

I saw him on the cameras with Yummi, too, but before I left, I saw the way he was lurking, watching her like she wasn’t my family. She was my lil’ sis. I didn’t give a fuck how grown she thought she was, she was off limits. Hurricane knew that. Or at least, he should have.

I sat up, grabbed my Glock off the table, and spun it in my hand slowly. The metal felt cold, heavy, and familiar.

Niggas forget I built this wave. I’ll drown a nigga in it if I have to.