I See You

Chapter 1

H assan drove through the streets of Memphis, the bass of Young Dolph’s voice rattling his speakers, his head nodding to the beat.

The night air vibrated with the music, but the streets told a different story.

Homeless bodies curled up on sidewalks, crackheads wandered aimlessly, and prostitutes leaned into car windows, their voices lost in the hum of the city.

It was a sad sight—but it wasn’t new. Not to him.

This was his city. He grew up in these streets. And now, he ran them. Hassan “Ice” Gaines was the most ruthless, most feared kingpin in Memphis. His name carried weight. His presence demanded respect.

No one dared to cross him—not if they wanted to see the next sunrise.

Born into a world of blood and violence, Hassan had never known softness. He had been a foster kid bouncing between homes, a child nobody wanted, until his grandmother, Helen, finally found him. By then, it was too late. The streets had already claimed him.

At just six years old, Hassan watched his parents murdered in cold blood, their bodies collapsing onto the living room floor in front of him.

His father had worked for powerful men—the kind who didn’t believe in second chances.

His addiction to gambling cost him more than money; it cost him and his wife their lives.

The only mistake that man who was hired, made was leaving Hassan alive.

Because four years later, at just ten years old, Hassan tracked him down. And when he did—he didn’t need a gun. He killed him with his bare hands.

That was the thing about Hassan. He didn’t need weapons. He was the weapon.

The streets molded him into something untouchable—something dangerous. He learned every way to kill a man without a blade, without a bullet, without a second thought. And he used it. Proudly. Efficiently. Without hesitation.

He didn’t ask for this life. He didn’t want it.

But fate had never been kind to him. The streets didn’t just raise him—they became his only family.

His best friend, Roman, was the only one who had been there since the beginning, his right hand in the game, the only one who understood the weight of this life .

Now, Hassan lived like a king. No more digging through trash for food. No more shuffling from one family to the next, being discarded like a problem too big to handle. He had once lived a normal life, with two parents who loved him. But that life was stolen from him—along with his heart.

The only people left who mattered were his grandmother and his cousin, Harper. But now, even that was slipping away.

Stage 3 pancreatic cancer. His grandmother was dying.

And Hassan was losing the last piece of himself that still felt human.

As Hassan continued down the dimly lit streets, his black Bentley cut through the night like a shadow, its polished frame gleaming under the glow of streetlights.

He gripped the wheel, forcing himself to push back the storm of emotions boiling beneath his surface.

He had no time for feelings. Not now. Not ever.

His focus stayed locked on one thing—business.

Hassan had done what most men in his position failed to do: he flipped his dirty money into a legal empire.

Hustle and Flow Casino was the hottest gambling spot in Memphis, a gold mine that had him sitting comfortably on millions.

His clientele? Everyone from broke addicts betting their last dime to high-rolling elites who had no limit.

And Hassan? He didn’t give a damn about their losses—so long as his books stayed clean and his cut was accounted for at the end of the night.

Despite his ruthless reputation in the streets, Hassan had never spent a day behind bars.

He stayed two steps ahead, always calculating, always untouchable.

No matter how many bodies dropped, no matter how many enemies whispered his name in fear, the law never had enough to pin him down.

And just like his game in the streets, his casino had to be just as airtight—no drama, no slip-ups, and no loose ends.

He ran everything with the same cold precision that made him a legend.

Pulling up to his usual parking spot, Hassan killed the engine and stepped out, the diamonds in his Cuban link and Van Cleef bracelet catching the casino lights above him.

His gaze flickered up to the towering neon glow of his empire.

Everything it took to build this— the suffering, the betrayals, the blood spilled—was etched into the foundation of every brick.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, Hassan moved through the back entrance, avoiding the grand spectacle of the main doors.

He never craved the spotlight. Never needed it.

Since he was a kid, he had learned the power of moving in silence.

To most, he was a ghost. A shadow that loomed but was never seen.

A name that carried fear, though few had ever truly laid eyes on him.

And that’s exactly how he liked it.

Inside, the casino pulsed with life—slot machines clinking, dice rolling, drunken gamblers pouring their last hope into the hands of fate.

Hassan moved up the stairs, his slow, calculated steps sweeping over the casino floor, taking in everything.

He didn’t need to hover or micro-manage.

His presence alone ensured everything stayed in line.

Disappearing into his office, he shut the door behind him, the atmosphere shifting instantly.

His sanctuary was draped in luxury— black and gold decor, leather seats, and an air of power that settled heavy in the space.

He sank into his chair, ready to tackle the night’s work.

But before he could even start, his phone rang.

The screen flashed Roman. His right hand. His day one.

Hassan exhaled sharply, already cussing to himself as he hit the green button.

“Aye, San—where the fuck you at?” Roman’s voice boomed over the music in the background.

Hassan closed his eyes briefly, realizing what he had forgotten. Roman’s grand opening.

Shit.

His best friend had spent years building his dream—RomanEmpire, a luxury car dealership empire that started as just a childhood fantasy.

Roman had always been obsessed with cars, always talked about owning the most expensive ride, parading his future two wives around like a king.

It had seemed impossible back then, when they were just two kids trying to survive the hell they were born into.

Hassan got all his luxury cars from Roman. Every high-end, fully customized beast in his collection had come straight from his best friend's dealership. But cars weren’t the only thing moving through RomanEmpire.

Hassan and Roman ran their operation like a well-oiled machine.

There were no outsiders. No weak links. Just them.

The corner boys they hired only knew what they needed to know—nothing more, nothing less.

When it came to their international dealings, their million-dollar weight, and the business that kept their empire thriving, it was always just them two.

“Fuck.” Hassan muttered, his jaw clenching as he realized he had forgotten.

A low chuckle came through the phone. “I knew yo’ ass forgot,” Roman said, amusement laced in his voice. “Don’t even worry ‘bout it. We pulling up on you. And I hope these niggas ready to lose they money tonight, ‘cause I’m takin’ everything.”

Hassan exhaled, shaking his head with a smirk.

Roman wasn’t lying. Gambling was his thing—and he was a menace when it came to the game.

He didn’t just play; he ate. Any chance he got, he was at Hustle and Flow Casino, hunting for new victims who thought they had luck on their side.

Hassan had lost count of how many times he had to step into altercations Roman caused after emptying a rich man’s pockets.

Some took their losses with grace. Others? They got reckless.

And Hassan had no patience for disrespect.

A few men had learned the hard way that running their mouth after losing to Roman was the last mistake they’d ever make.

“Aight, nigga.” Hassan ended the call and refocused, rolling his shoulders as he got back to business.

Numbers.

They had always come naturally to him. Money. Weight. Percentages. Profits. He didn’t need a calculator—he was the calculator. With just a glance, he could break down a sum, pinpoint a missing dollar, spot a flaw in any equation. It was second nature.

His grandmother used to tell him that kind of intelligence came from his father, a high-profile accountant who worked with powerful men, keeping their books clean. But Hassan never knew much about his parents. And at this point, he didn’t care.

They were dead. He had gotten revenge. And that was enough.

Hassan buried himself back in his work, trying to drown out the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind. Numbers. Money. Business. That’s what mattered. That’s what kept him steady.

But the sharp knock at his office door shattered his focus.

Seconds later, Roman strolled in, a familiar, mischievous grin plastered across his face. Hassan didn’t even need to look up—he knew that smirk like the back of his hand. It only meant one of two things: either Roman had already gotten into some shit, or he was about to.

“This nigga always working,” Roman drawled, shaking his head. “Missed my whole celebration.”

His white teeth flashed as he smirked, but there was no real anger behind his words. Roman knew how Hassan operated—work came first, always. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t call him out on it.