Tyrone poured himself a glass of whiskey, swirling the liquid as if he could find the answers he was looking for at the bottom of the glass. The recent call with Isabella lingered in his mind. Why would someone with her wealth, power, and elite contacts take an interest in him? It wasn't adding up. He glanced over at Reggie, who sat across from him, casually puffing on a cigar.
"Why would Isabella even bother sharing her high-level contacts with me?" Tyrone muttered, more to himself than Reggie. "She's already got wealth, influence, everything. A partnership with a drug lord like me doesn't benefit her clean, legitimate enterprise. So why me?"
Reggie, clearly not familiar with who Isabella was or why she mattered, raised an eyebrow, his expression confused. He took another drag from his cigar and exhaled slowly. "Who the hell is this Isabella you're talkin' about? Sounds like someone important, but I ain't heard of her."
Tyrone sighed, the frustration simmering beneath the surface. "Never mind, Reggie." He downed his whiskey in one gulp, the burn doing little to ease his restlessness. Setting the glass down with a thud, he fixed Reggie with an intense glare, his eyes narrowing. "How are things going in Detroit?"
Reggie shifted in his seat, sensing the weight behind Tyrone's question. He might've been confused about Isabella, but he wasn't about to slack off on his responsibilities. Tyrone had been different these past weeks—colder, more distant, the pain of Jamal's death etched into his every movement. There was no room for mistakes now.
"Detroit's steady," Reggie said cautiously. "The new shipments are movin' through smoothly, and we've got the distribution under control. But... there's some tension with Snake's people. They've been sniffin' around, trying to figure out our supply routes. We're keepin' it tight, but they're not backing off."
Tyrone leaned forward, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "Handle it. I don't care how you do it, just make sure they stop poking their noses where they don't belong. If Snake or anyone else tries to disrupt our operations, they need to know it's a mistake they won't live to make again."
Reggie nodded, understanding the seriousness of the situation. "I'll take care of it, boss. No loose ends."
Tyrone didn't respond immediately. Instead, he poured another drink, his mind drifting back to Isabella. She had resources beyond what he could dream of, yet she seemed fixated on him. There had to be more to it. His instincts told him this wasn't just about a business deal.
For weeks, he hadn't smiled, hadn't laughed. Every move he made was calculated, cold. And now, with Isabella in the picture, everything was becoming even more complicated. He couldn't trust her, but he couldn't afford to ignore her either.
He sipped the whiskey slowly this time, the bitter taste matching the bitterness that had taken root in his heart. Whatever Isabella's game was, he'd figure it out. But until then, he had his own empire to protect, and anyone who stood in his way would regret it.
"Make sure everything runs tight in Detroit, Reggie," Tyrone repeated, his voice low and menacing. "We can't afford any more surprises."
WizzyMoney, whose real name was Daniel Jackson, was deep in the studio, recording his album. The room was filled with the familiar faces of his crew and close friends from the hood, most of whom had known him since he was just a kid trying to make a name for himself in New York. Back then, he was just another young dreamer in the territory of the Eastern Players gang, writing songs and hoping for a break.
Now, his dreams were turning into reality, but the mood in the studio shifted the moment Tyrone entered. Tyrone's presence was impossible to ignore. He walked in with his guards, each one armed to the teeth, their stern faces silently warning anyone who dared get too close. The tension in the room was thick as everyone kept their distance, afraid to make a wrong move around him.
Tyrone, however, wasn't paying attention to the nervous glances. For a moment, he was lost in the music, nodding his head to the beat as WizzyMoney laid down track after track. But then, without warning, everything stopped for him. The pounding bass and sharp lyrics were drowned out by a single, searing memory—Jamal's murder. The image of Jamal's lifeless body, the blood, the sound of the gunfire replayed in Tyrone's mind like a nightmare he couldn't escape.
His heart raced, and tears began to well in his eyes. No one dared ask what was wrong as they saw the sudden change in him. Tyrone, usually so composed, stood frozen, his face tightening as the tears finally began to fall.
He cleared his throat and, in a strained voice, interrupted the session. "Stop," he said. The room fell silent, the music cut off abruptly. WizzyMoney and his team exchanged glances, unsure of what was happening.
Tyrone didn't explain. He didn't need to. His grief was etched in every movement, every tear that fell down his face. He turned to the production team, his voice hoarse. "Continue without me."
Without waiting for a response, Tyrone walked out of the studio, the tears flowing freely now. As he left, the weight of Jamal's absence, the brutality of his death, seemed heavier than ever. Even surrounded by his success, by the growing empire he had built, Tyrone couldn't escape the loss. His pain, so personal, left the studio feeling emptier than it had before, even as the music started back up.
The door closed behind him, and the crew, unsure of how to proceed, slowly went back to work. But everyone in that room knew one thing: Tyrone was a man haunted by the past, and no amount of success or power could wash away the blood he had seen spilled.