Tyrone sat at his desk, staring at the silver-plated Glock he'd just tucked into his waistband. His mind was clouded, still haunted by Jamal's death, the memory of that night replaying in his head like a broken record. But the world didn't stop spinning just because he was grieving. Business had to keep moving, and his record label was thriving despite the chaos in his personal life.
WizzyMoney, his star rapper, had dropped a heartfelt tweet about Jamal, paying tribute to someone his fans didn't even know. But that didn't matter. Within minutes, the tweet blew up—thousands of likes, retweets, and comments flooded in. Jamal had been like a brother to Tyrone, and seeing WizzyMoney use his platform to honor him brought a small sense of comfort.
As Tyrone walked into his sleek CEO office, everything around him screamed success. The luxurious leather chairs, the polished marble desk, the skyline view—he had built this empire from the ground up. But now, it felt hollow. His right-hand man was gone, and no amount of money or power could change that.
Still, the numbers didn't lie. WizzyMoney's latest track had premiered that morning, and thanks to a few strategic phone calls Tyrone made, the song had already hit 50 million plays in under 24 hours. The music video, shot at that hilltop mansion, was trending worldwide. Fans couldn't get enough of WizzyMoney's flashy lifestyle, the designer clothes, and exotic cars. And the rapper's Instagram had blown up too—from half a million followers to nearly 3 million overnight. Tyrone had turned him into a global sensation.
But even as he looked over the streaming numbers and social media metrics, Tyrone couldn't shake the emptiness inside him. Jamal should've been here to celebrate this moment. It was their vision—building a music empire that could rival the best, a legitimate front for their other ventures.
He sat down at his desk, the weight of his Glock pressing against his side as he leaned back in his chair. For a moment, he just sat there in silence, staring out at the city that had made him rich and powerful, but had also taken so much from him.
As WizzyMoney's song played in the background, a reminder of his growing empire, Tyrone's thoughts drifted. Jamal's death had left a gaping hole in his operation, and there were too many enemies circling like vultures. He'd already received condolences from Miguel and even from Isabella Mendoza, who seemed to know far too much about his business. Tyrone knew he couldn't trust anyone.
But today wasn't the day for revenge. Not yet. Today was about keeping up appearances, running his empire, and making sure his rise to the top didn't falter—even if the foundation was crumbling beneath him.
Tyrone picked up his phone and scrolled through WizzyMoney's Instagram feed, watching as the rapper reveled in his newfound fame. The comments were blowing up, fans praising the song, some even using the hashtag #RIPJamal without knowing who he was. Tyrone shook his head, the irony almost bitter in his mouth.
"One step at a time," he muttered to himself. He couldn't afford to slip now, not with everything on the line. If the streets thought he was weak, they'd tear him apart. And that, he couldn't allow.
He glanced at his Glock again, a reminder that in this world, power wasn't just about money. It was about control. And control, Tyrone had learned, was something you had to take by force—just like Jamal had always taught him.
Isabella leaned back in her chair, the city lights of her penthouse casting a soft glow behind her as she spoke into the phone. Her voice carried a mix of curiosity and amusement. "Tyrone, I must say, I didn't expect you to be so resourceful with the contacts I provided. Government officials, corporate executives, all on your payroll now? Impressive. But a record label? That's quite a pivot."
Tyrone's response came without hesitation, his tone steady but with a hint of edge. "It was Jamal's dream, Isabella. To make a business like this, something legit that could outlast the streets. I owed it to him." There was a weight to his words, an unspoken tension that Isabella could sense from miles away.
Isabella paused, her fingers tracing the edge of her desk, intrigued by how Tyrone had managed to twist her own contacts to fuel his ventures. It was rare for anyone to surprise her. She had expected him to stick to the criminal underworld, but the man had ambition beyond that, moving pieces in ways she hadn't fully predicted. She admired that, even if it made him more dangerous.
She shifted the conversation. "Giovanni," she said, testing the name like bait. "He's becoming a bigger problem, isn't he? You've probably heard whispers by now that he could be behind Jamal's murder."
Tyrone didn't flinch at the suggestion. His voice stayed calm, but she could tell he wasn't surprised. "I've heard the rumors. Giovanni's been trying to make moves for a while. But I'm not jumping to conclusions yet."
Isabella smiled to herself, liking the restraint Tyrone was showing. Most would have lashed out by now, made rash decisions fueled by grief and rage. But not Tyrone. He was being patient, cautious. And that made him all the more formidable. He was playing the long game, just like she was.
"I thought as much," she replied, her tone softening, though she still held the reins of the conversation. "I'm only looking out for you, Tyrone. You and I… we could achieve so much more if we were aligned. And Giovanni? Well, he's just one piece on the board that needs to be removed. But I can help you with that."
There was a silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment, Isabella wondered if Tyrone was considering her offer. She didn't need him to trust her, not fully. She just needed him to take the bait.
After a few seconds, Tyrone finally responded. "I'll handle Giovanni when the time comes. But if you want to prove your value to me, then keep feeding me information. I'll decide when it's time to make my move."
Isabella's smile widened. She liked this game—two powerful players circling each other, each trying to manipulate the other without losing control. "As you wish, Tyrone. Just remember… I'm always one step ahead. Don't keep me waiting too long."
She ended the call, feeling a thrill run through her. Tyrone was a wild card, unpredictable and smart, which made him both a potential ally and a threat. But she wasn't worried. Isabella always had a plan, and sooner or later, Tyrone would realize that working with her wasn't just a choice—it was his only option.
For now, she'd let him think he had control. After all, the best way to manipulate someone was to make them believe they were the ones pulling the strings.