Page 47

The night was hot as hell. Southwave didn’t cool off, not even when the sun went down. The beach house was packed—loud, reckless, hood as fuck. Music blasted, doors were open wide, weed smoke was thick in the air, and the smell of fried fish and gunpowder lingered like it belonged there.

Niggas were rapping over the beat, girls twerked on tables, popping pills like candy. It was one of them nights when you felt the tension in the air like static.

I was drunk as fuck, leaned back in my chair with a bottle in one hand and a lil’ thing bouncing on my lap like she ain’t see my wedding band. She was giggling, twisting her hair around her finger, and grinding slow like she thought she was about to be somebody.

My crew was huddled closely with low voices in my ear, talking business and whispering about the next hit.

“That nigga Rivera on his block right now,” Tory muttered, eyes sharp. “Sittin’ in a Rolls like he some god or sum’. Like he is untouchable.”

I took a slow sip, and the burn slid down my throat.

“Oh yeah?” I smirked, licking my lips. “Well… we ‘bout to send that nigga to God.”

I shoved the girl off my lap and stood up, my chain clinking heavy against my chest. She looked up like she wanted to say something, but I was already moving—me and my squad slid out the party like shadows, leaving the heat and the noise behind.

We piled into the black Tahoe, unmarked, dark as night. The back was loaded with drums and sticks, Ars, and Glocks.

I rolled down the window, let the wind slap my face as we pulled up to Rivera’s block.

There he was. Just like they said—sittin’ in a Rolls Royce with the doors open and lights on, like he was a king on a goddamn throne.

We ain’t say much.

I nodded once. That was it.

The Tahoe doors cracked open, and my crew lit that bitch up. A hundred rounds easy. Windows shattered, glass rained, and metal screamed as bullets tore through that pretty-ass car.

But I wasn’t done.

I hopped out, gun in hand, walked up to the wreckage, and yanked the door open. Rivera was slumped, wheezing, and trying to hold on. Blood was all over him, but he wasn’t gone yet.

Then, I saw her.

Storm.

Laid out in the back seat, body riddled with bullets, eyes open, gone.

I stared for a second, but the only thing I felt was a cold, dull ache. She wanted me to care, wanted her little revenge story, but she was never gonna get it.

This wasn’t about her.

This was about Rivera.

Last time I spoke to him, I told him, “Since you can’t hear, I’m gonna make you feel.”

Tonight, I meant that shit.

I gripped his shirt, dragged him halfway out of the car, pressed the barrel to his head, and ended it.

One clean shot.

I stood there for a second, watching the life drain out of him, then turned and walked back to the Tahoe like it was just another Tuesday night.

We pulled off slow, tires crunching over shells while the music from the party still echoed in the distance.

I looked at my hands and the blood on my wedding band. I was still in the streets, heavy, with no out in sight. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t be a father and husband before the sun came up.

As we disappeared into the night, I leaned back in my seat and wiped the sweat from my forehead.

WELCOME TO SOUTHWAVE