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Bedford Hills Correctional Facility.

The name alone felt like a weight pressing into my chest. It’s not that I didn’t know where I was going; I’d made this trip countless times, but each visit somehow made the reality feel sharper and more raw.

I pulled into the parking lot, the same grim lot with cracked pavement and the same dull red building looming ahead.

Most of the visitors here were either nervous, angry, or both.

For me, I didn’t even know what I felt anymore.

It was easier when I was younger. The guilt used to gnaw at me in waves, but after twenty years, it had settled into something more subtle, like a wound that had healed over but still ached when the weather changed.

I shut off the engine and sat there for a moment, staring at the facility’s high fences, the razor wire glinting in the sun. It was quiet now, the early morning sun cutting through the branches of the trees, but inside those walls, nothing was ever quiet.

I stepped out of the car, my feet hitting the ground with a hollow thud.

I grabbed the plastic bag with the food my grandmother had prepared.

Prison food was a joke, but I’d gotten into the habit of bringing my mother a taste of the outside world.

Rather, it was the latest magazines that my grandmother sent, or words of wisdom.

The walk to the entrance was always the hardest. Every time I made this trip, the closer I got to our meeting place, the harder it was to breathe. I wasn’t sure if it was the air inside the facility or the weight of the past that always seemed to get heavier every time I returned.

The guards checked my ID, and the usual cold smile of the officer at the desk didn’t make me feel any better.

She didn’t say anything as she handed me the visitor’s pass and pointed toward the door, her eyes already darting back to the screen in front of her.

I walked down the long hallway, my footsteps echoing against the walls.

The sound was too loud for my mental, and it always felt like the walls were closing in with each step.

The door swung open, and there she was. My heart lurched.

Even at fifty-two, she looked good—damn good.

She was now shapely, which was a far cry from the frail woman she was when she walked in here.

She stepped into the room, her braids falling neatly down her back.

The dark strands caught the light in a way that made her look regal, even in the dull orange jumpsuit.

She smiled when she saw me, her eyes lighting up like the way the sun breaks through dark clouds.

But there was something in that smile that was weary and hard to read.

I stood up as she made her way toward me, and for a brief moment, it felt like we were just two people in the world again.

Mother and son, before all of what happened made her a prisoner and me an orphan.

“Look at you…” she said, her voice soft and sweet like honey, but carrying a sharpness that made me pause. “Are you eating right? Taking your meds?” She sat down across from me, her gaze intent, scanning my face like she was searching for something hidden.

“Mama, I’m fine.” I chuckled, trying to brush it off. She asked me the same things every time.

Her eyes narrowed, studying me. “You don’t look fine. I mean, yeah… physically, you’re fine. But something’s off. Talk to me, son.” Her face had the same gentleness I remembered as a kid, but there were lines now. Tiny cracks on the mask she’d worn to protect us all were visible.

“Stop worrying, woman. I’m straight. Are they treating you good in here?”

“Boy, I’m good. Stop it. How’s Olivia? I noticed over the last couple of weeks on our calls that you haven’t spoken of her, or she hadn’t been at your house. Did you two have a fight?”

My mother knew all about Olivia. They even spoke over the phone.

Them meeting wasn’t intentional, though.

One night, O was at my house when she called, and my nosy mama heard her in the background talking on the phone with her best friend, Lexi.

She demanded to speak with my lady friend, as she called her, and they immediately hit it off.

It came to a point where my mother would call Olivia without my knowledge.

“Nah. Shit is complicated.” I ran my hand down my face.

“What did you do? Did you cheat on her? I may not have raised you on the outside these past twenty years, but I talked to you about being a good man and how to respect yourself and women.”

“Mama, it’s not like that. I already explained to you the situation between me and O. You’re the one that put it in your head that we were more than what it was.”

My mother was fully aware of what was going on between Olivia and me. Yet, in her eyes, Olivia was still considered her daughter-in-law despite the fact that she was already involved with someone else.

My mother and I talked about everything. I never lied to her or held back anything that was going on with me. The only thing I did keep from her was my dealings with Deuce and Boston. Outside of being their driver and part-time bodyguard, I handled some illegal shit for them as well.

After earning my degree in business management, I took the leap and founded my own security company.

At first, it was a modest operation, but I managed to land a few high-profile clients who required top-tier security for their events.

Slowly but surely, the business grew, and I poured everything into building a reputation for reliability and excellence.

Now, after years of hard work and persistence, Blackhawk Security Services stands as one of the premier security companies in New York, trusted by the city’s most influential figures.

I run a gun shop also, and both of them look clean on the surface. But I have my hands in some other shit too. Not everything I move goes through the books. If the money’s right, I make it happen.

“Okay. Whatever you say, son. Now, how’s your grandmother? Is she and your grandfather adjusting well in their new home?”

“Yeah, I dropped off some food for them yesterday. They’re good. Did your lawyer come by yesterday?” I asked, shifting the conversation.

A few years ago, I hired a lawyer to look into my mom’s case.

Even though she pleaded guilty to killing my no-good father, it always felt like twenty-five years was too harsh.

Her defense attorney at the time had mentioned the abuse and tried to argue it was self-defense.

However, the judge wasn’t swayed because there was no paper trail to back up the claim.

We didn’t understand how that was possible being that my mom had made multiple reports willing, and sometimes, unwillingly because of the numerous calls from neighbors.

As I got older, I started to understand the real story. Back then, my father was a police sergeant with a flawless reputation, and multiple of his peers helped cover up the paperwork showing the physical abuse my mother endured.

“Yeah, he did. But I turned him away.”

“Why?”

“Look, son… what’s done is done. If I could go back, I wouldn’t change a thing besides choosing who I picked to be your father.

I did what I had to do to save my son. You don’t deserve to be inside here.

It was my job as a mother to protect you, and I didn’t, so by giving up my freedom to save yours, I did the right thing.

” She shifted in her seat as the faint sound of the chatter in the background seemed to get louder.

“I was sure then,” she admitted. “But now… now I know I should’ve fought harder, and I didn’t.

I let him break me, and then I let him break you too. You don’t have to carry that anymore.”

The silence between us grew thick. Her words hung in the air while a mix of regret lay heavy on my heart.

For years, I fought with the fact that my mother was paying for the price of my sins.

How could I have let it get this far? How could I have let her carry this burden for so long?

My mother may have thought she failed me, but that’s further from the truth. I had failed her.

A few days later

“ S o, how do you wanna play this out with ole boy?” Deuce asked, loading a mag without even looking down. “’Cause you know that nigga not backing down from that ass whooping you put on him.”

We were out back behind my gun shop, the sun hanging low and hot over the open field I’d built out a year ago for this exact purpose—testing inventory, blowing off steam, and having the kind of conversations that couldn’t happen indoors.

I had just finished unboxing a fresh shipment of Zastava ZPAP M70 AKs. I was in awe; they were clean, powerful, and beautiful in a way that only serious hardware could be. The smell of oil, steel, and red clay hung thick in the air as we worked through the shipment.

“I don’t give a fuck about that nigga… but I ain’t stupid either. He definitely has a chip on his shoulder.”

Boston was adjusting his earmuffs, eyeing one of the rifles like it was a new toy he couldn’t wait to break in. “Whatever you on, you already know how we are coming if some shit pops off.”

“Thank you, but I’m sure I can handle this,” I muttered, checking the sight glass on mine. “Problem is… it’s not just about me. He’s going to fuck with my girl, and I can’t have that shit.”

Deuce looked up from the weapon in his lap, brow furrowed. “Your girl?” Deuce smirked.

“Hell yeah. Fuck that nigga! O been mine. The shit that happened at the club just confirmed everything I needed to know.”

“Facts,” Deuce added.

I lifted the rifle, took aim at a rusted metal target a hundred yards out, and squeezed.

Crack. Direct hit.

I lowered the gun, my heart still ticking like the shot hadn’t helped at all. “For one… I’m not about to let him keep her in a cage, scared of what he might do next. That’s not how this goes.”

Boston smirked. “So what you’re saying is… he’s got a deadline.”