Miguel arrived at Tyrone's penthouse, the tension in the air as thick as ever. The building was practically a fortress, with enforcers lining the entrance, each one equipped with bulletproof vests and AR-15 rifles, their eyes scanning every passerby for potential threats. They all had walkie-talkies, communicating with one another in low, professional tones, making sure nothing went unnoticed.
Inside, Tyrone sat behind a large mahogany desk in his lavishly decorated office, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. Despite the grandeur of his surroundings, there was no joy in his eyes. The once proud, ambitious drug lord now carried a weight so heavy it dulled his every move. Miguel, dressed sharply as always, walked in, offering his condolences.
"Tyrone, I'm sorry for your loss, man," Miguel said, his voice gentle yet firm. He placed a hand on Tyrone's shoulder, but there was no reaction, no acknowledgment. Tyrone's face remained cold, his eyes distant, as if the life had been drained from him.
Miguel glanced around, noting the empty bottles of whiskey scattered on the coffee table nearby. Tyrone had clearly been drowning his sorrows, trying to numb the pain that had consumed him since Jamal's death.
"We'll find out who did this," Miguel continued, his voice more serious now. "And when we do, they'll pay for it."
Tyrone finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and hollow. He didn't smile, didn't even nod. Instead, he simply stared at Miguel, as if his words meant nothing. In that moment, Miguel realized just how deep the wound went.
After a few more attempts at conversation, Miguel eventually left, leaving Tyrone alone in the cold silence of his penthouse. Hours passed, the sun dipped below the horizon, and the city outside buzzed with life, but inside, Tyrone remained locked in his grief.
Later that night, the door to the penthouse opened once again. This time, it was Isabella Mendoza. She entered with the same air of confidence she always carried, her heels clicking on the marble floors as she approached Tyrone. He barely glanced up, too far gone in his drunken stupor to care who was visiting him now.
"Drinking won't bring him back, you know," Isabella said casually, sitting down on the couch across from him. She crossed her legs, lighting a cigarette as she waited for a response.
Tyrone took another swig from the bottle in his hand, not even bothering to look her way.
"I'm not here to lecture you," Isabella continued, blowing out a thin stream of smoke. "I just wanted to talk."
For the next few minutes, the conversation remained light. Isabella spoke about business, about the future, all things that seemed insignificant in the moment. Tyrone barely listened, his mind elsewhere, until Isabella's tone shifted.
"There's something you should know," she said, her voice quieter now, more deliberate. "I've been looking into it—Jamal's death. Turns out, I've found out who's responsible."
Tyrone, still slouched in his chair, froze. His grip on the bottle tightened, his heart rate quickening. He had been numb all day, unable to focus on anything, but the second Isabella mentioned Jamal, the fog lifted.
He straightened up slowly, turning his head toward her, eyes suddenly sharp and focused. "What did you just say?" he asked, his voice low, filled with a dangerous edge.
Isabella smiled subtly, sensing the shift in his demeanor. She took another drag of her cigarette, letting the tension build for a moment before she continued. "I said I know who killed Jamal."
Tyrone set the bottle down, leaning forward now, his attention fully on her. "Who?" His voice was more demanding now, the grief momentarily replaced by anger and the need for vengeance.
Isabella flicked the ash from her cigarette and met his gaze, but she didn't answer directly. Instead, she offered a cryptic response, her words careful and measured. "Let's just say, it's someone who's been a thorn in your side for a long time."
Tyrone's mind raced, but before he could press her further, Isabella stood up, smoothing out her dress. "I'll be in touch," she said, walking toward the door. "When you're ready to talk business, you know how to find me."
And just like that, she was gone, leaving Tyrone alone once more, but this time, he wasn't drowning in alcohol. He sat there, processing her words, a new fire ignited within him. The hunt for Jamal's killer had just begun, and Tyrone was ready to make whoever it was pay, no matter the cost.
Deon had been patient, methodical. For an entire month, he tailed Reggie's men through the shadows, watching their every move, analyzing their habits. Every day was a step closer to uncovering the secret behind Reggie's growing dominance in the city. Deon had his orders from Snake—find out who was supplying Reggie, and make sure Snake had the upper hand.
Today was the breakthrough. From his vantage point, Deon watched as Reggie's crew rolled up to the same secluded spot they had been using for weeks. It was an empty lot, hidden by crumbling warehouses and overgrown weeds, the perfect place to avoid prying eyes. Deon stayed low, his dark hoodie blending him into the evening shadows as the men exchanged briefcases—cash for product. This time, though, Deon was more interested in the man Reggie's crew met with. A new face, unfamiliar to the streets, which only made him more dangerous.
As soon as the exchange was over, the man climbed into a black SUV, the kind that screamed low-profile yet intimidating. Deon's instincts flared—this was the guy he had to follow. His gut told him this was the key to everything.
Deon trailed the SUV cautiously, maintaining enough distance so as not to arouse suspicion. The man drove with purpose, no stops, no distractions. As they crossed into different parts of the city, Deon noticed a shift in the environment—less chaos, more order. The Blood Family's territory. His heart rate quickened, but he kept his cool. This was it, the missing link he had been looking for.
The SUV eventually turned down a quiet street, pulling into a gated compound deep in Blood Family territory. Deon parked his car a block away, watching as the gate opened and the SUV disappeared inside. He didn't need to see what happened next—he knew what it meant. Reggie's supplier wasn't some random outsider; he was tied to the Blood Family, one of the most ruthless gangs in the city.
Deon stayed for a few more minutes, just to make sure he had all the information he needed. He'd been careful, and it had paid off. This intel was gold.
With a smirk, Deon pulled out his phone and dialed Snake's number.
"Yo, Snake," he said, his voice low but excited. "I've got what you've been waiting for. It's the Blood Family. They're Reggie's supplier. You wanna make a move?"
Snake's silence on the other end told Deon all he needed to know. Plans were already being formed. This was the information that would change the game, and Snake was about to strike back, hard.
"Get back here," Snake finally said. "We've got work to do."
An: You guys are really doing me dirty here, you know you enjoy this book but refuse to review and engage with the events happening, I don't know what's holding you back but please try, I put alot of thought and effort into this