Page 16

Deuce chuckled, his drawl thick as ever. “Nah. What he’s saying is… she’s got a protector—and homeboy just ran outta time.”

I looked out across the field, the weight of everything sitting deep in my chest. Seeing that nigga choking Olivia in the middle of the club, trigger everything in my soul.

Suddenly, I was a kid again. Standing in the hallway of my apartment, barefoot on cold tile, peeking into the living room as my father loomed over my mama while she was crying.

He was yelling and spitting words I didn't understand back then, but I felt the hate behind them.

It was the first time I witnessed my father putting his hands on my mother.

Then came the slap. The sound of skin meeting skin. The way her body jerked. The way she just took it, like she didn't have a choice. I stood there, frozen.

Powerless.

Useless.

That night changed me, and watching some nigga put his hands on Olivia like that—watching her eyes scream even though her mouth couldn't, flipped a switch I didn't even know was still wired.

By the time the last shell casing clinked to the ground from the gun I was holding, my chest was tight and soaked in sweat. My hands trembled, and not from the weight of the piece, but from the weight of everything else.

I pulled my ear protectors off, breathing hard, trying to bring myself down.

“Damn, nigga. You feel better?” Boston stated as he and Deuce laughed.

Before I could respond, my store manager came running out back, calling my name. “Mr. Anderson…”

I turned, still gripping the pistol, adrenaline pulsing through my veins like a second heartbeat. She looked shaken, eyes wide, like she’d seen a ghost.

“The shop… it’s flooded with police,” she said, breath hitching. “They’re inside asking for you. Squad cars out front, unmarked units too. It’s like… deep.”

Deuce and Boston began placing the guns we used inside of the crate. We all were licensed, and the guns were legal, so I wasn’t worried about shit. My shop was legit.

I walked through the back door and into the front of the shop with Deuce and Boston right behind me.

The second I stepped into view, I saw a bunch of men with ATF jackets spread throughout the store, flashing their badges and asking questions to my staff and customers.

I noticed how most had their hands on their hips as if they were waiting for something to pop off so they could use their weapons to kill.

My eyes shifted and landed on the one standing dead center, dressed in an expensive suit.

The suit was more expensive than I know his salary paid for.

He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

“Can I help you?” I asked the suited man.

His eyes met mine like he’d been waiting all his life to put a brother like me in cuffs. “Well… well,” he said, stepping forward. “The man of the hour. Boris Anderson, right?”

“That’s me,” I said coolly. “And this is my establishment. You want to tell me why you got all these pigs crawling through it like roaches?”

He smirked but didn’t move. “I’m Detective Otis Jordan.

We’re investigating a possible illegal gun operation, and your shop was named during our investigation.

” He turned to the other officers. “Search everything… I want his registration papers, security footage, and inventory logs. Start with the back.”

“Nah, I know the ropes. Let me see a warrant.” I was far from stupid. I had a feeling this shit had to do with that punk nigga, Josh. I’ve never had any issues with my shop—never.

Detective Jordan narrowed his eyes, and that told me what I needed to know. This shit was shady as fuck. “You really want to go toe-to-toe with me, Boris?”

“When it comes to my freedom, and what I know is bullshit, I’ll go toe-to-toe with the devil. Now, either produce your warrant or get the hell out of my shop, Otis.”

He didn’t answer, choosing to stare me down for another second before signaling to his team.

They paused, hesitating and waiting for a clear command.

They didn’t have a damn warrant and were hoping I’d fold on demanding to see one.

They probably assumed I’d get loud and reckless, giving them a reason to drag me out of my shop in cuffs on some bullshit charge.

Detective Jordan stepped in closer, so close I could smell the stale coffee and cigarette smoke on his breath.

His eyes narrowed, voice low and laced with threat.

“You think this is over? I’ll be back, Boris.

And when I come, your paperwork better be airtight ’cause if it’s not…

I’m taking you down.” He tossed a card on the display case behind me.

Before I could answer, Deuce stepped up, cool as ever but deadly serious. “Nah, pig…” he said, voice even. “You better make sure your shit is tight when you come back. Don’t let that badge make you sloppy.”

Jordan’s smirk faltered.

“Yeah… fuck you and that badge. Crooked-ass mothafucka,” Boston added.

Detective Jordan clenched his jaw, then turned on his heels.

“Let’s roll!” he yelled, snapping at his team.

“We’ll be back… with paperwork.” Before stepping out the door, he paused, eyes flicking between Deuce and Boston.

“Makes sense now. If he’s affiliated with you niggas, this whole shop probably dirty.

” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it.

“I heard about the type of people y’all are… ”

Deuce took a step forward, his smile cold. “Then you also know what happens when people fuck with me. My reach is long, my nigga. Test it if you want.”

Jordan didn’t respond. Instead, he took one last look at me and then walked out.

His team filed out behind him slowly as if they were waiting for me to say anything.

I wasn’t going to give them a reason to turn around, though.

I stood still, stone-faced until the door slammed behind them.

I picked up the card and read the name. When I turned the card over, my damn heart nearly leaped out of my chest. Written on the back of the card was my mother’s name, the prison she was in, and her inmate identification number.

I sat behind my desk in the back office of the shop, jaw tight and my mind racing.

My leg bounced restlessly under the table as I stared at the card in my hand, but all I saw was Detective Jordan’s face.

I was trying my hardest to remember where I knew him from.

The way he looked at me came off that this was personal.

How the hell did he know about her? And what is his angle?

Deuce stood across from me, arms folded, that same dead-serious look he wore when shit was about to go left.

His tone was calm, but there was weight behind his words.

“Bo, you know you my boy—been ten toes with you since day one. You family. But right now…” He leaned forward.

“I need you to level with me, my nigga. Who the fuck is this detective?”

I didn’t say anything. Exhaling and rubbing my hands over my face, I repeated his question in my head. He took my silence as an invitation to keep going, and I didn’t stop him.

“From where I’m standing, he ain’t some random cop. The way he was talking—like he’s been tracking you—plus, he knows about your mama being locked down. So either he’s digging deep… or there’s more to the story than you’ve let on.”

I looked up at him then, throat tight. There was more, and it was time I stopped running from it. I leaned back in my chair, eyes locked on the ceiling for a second like the answers were written up there in bullet holes.

They weren’t.

It took me a minute to find the words. The kind of truth I was about to speak wasn’t easy to say—not because I was ashamed, but because once it left my mouth, there was no stuffing it back in. There would be no pretending it hadn’t happened, but I owed them the truth, so I told them everything.

From the first time I saw my father’s fist crack across my mother’s face to the way she’d cover for him over and over again, keeping her bruises hidden under long sleeves and silence.

I told them about the night it all went down.

The yelling. The blood. The gun in my hand.

I revealed everything, including the moment I pulled the trigger.

I told Deuce and Boston how my mother stood over my father’s body without hesitation and said it was her instead of me.

How my mother took the charge before the cops even asked a question.

How I watched the only person who ever protected me walk out in cuffs so I could have a life she never did.

By the time I finished, the room was still—thick with the kind of quiet that comes when people aren’t just listening—they’re feeling it.

I sat back, chest still tight and throat burning more than before I revealed my truth.

Finally, Deuce exhaled through his nose and looked me dead in the eye. “Damn, Bo,” he said, voice low. “You've been carrying this shit this whole time?”

I nodded once, face rigid.

Deuce shook his head slowly. “That ain’t no weight a kid should’ve ever had to carry.

You were just a boy… and your pops…” He paused, his eyes dark.

“That wasn’t no man. That was a coward who had power over the wrong people.

” He walked closer and dropped into the chair across from me.

“And your moms…” He tapped his chest. “She’s a real one, my nigga.

Took that bid so you could breathe free.

I would’ve done the same for my kids and my wife.

You don’t owe her your guilt. That wasn’t your burden to hold alone. Not then. Not now.”

I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that until he said it. I felt like a weak nigga right now, and I hated it.

Deuce leaned in, his voice steady but firm. “Whatever comes next—whatever that crooked-ass detective tries to pull—you ain’t facing it alone. We locked in. Ten toes… no matter how deep this shit gets. So, what’s the move?”

I exhaled, eyes dark with resolve. “I need to get my mother out of that prison. Now. If Reggie’s got something up his sleeve, he might try to come at her next, and I’m not letting that happen.”

“Say less.” Boston stepped forward, already pulling out his phone. “Give me a day or two. I got some weight in some corners that I’m tapped into. If there’s a string to pull, I’ll find it. We’ll shake the tree ’til something breaks.”

Deuce nodded, jaw set. “While you handle that, I’m about to hit up Tariq. I need everything on this detective and that Josh nigga.”

“Let’s shake some shit up. It’s been a minute since I killed a nigga or two.”

“That’s because you've been under Denim’s ass.” Deuce joked, causing me to relax my face slightly.

“Fuck you, nigga!” Boston sounded before we all let out hearty laughs.