Chapter 1
“Chello, at what point does your sister move out? Why can’t I come to your house? You wanna keep fucking me in a hotel because your sister is at home. What kind of shit is that?”
Chello laid back on the bed, smoking his blunt, while one of his many bitches did what they did best, bitched. Females made it hard for a nigga to settle down, they talked too fucking much, and two things Chello protected was his sister and his peace.
“Shut the fuck up and come suck my dick.”
“Tell your sister to suck your dick.”
That landed wrong, too wrong. Without warning, he reached under his pillow and pulled his gun. Chello didn’t give a fuck about killing anyone because muthafuckas didn’t give a fuck when they killed his mother. Remorse was something he had for no one.
“Chello!” was her last words before he sent a shot through her head and he continued smoking.
Chello had every important person you could think of under his thumb, voluntarily or involuntarily.
Nino Brown was a small timer compared to Marchello Williams. A knock on the door caused him to get up and walk over with just a terry cloth robe covering his perfectly formed body.
Eye candy to any bitch that looked his way, Chello charmed the uncharmed, he had all calibers 1of women, but he loved a hood bitch.
Well a hood bitch that didn’t talk too much and got themselves killed.
“Security. Is everything alright in there, Mr. Williams?”
Without hesitation he opened the door wide. They looked inside and saw the body on the floor.
“A small mess.”
The man nodded, “I’ll have that cleaned up immediately. Would you like a different room for the remainder of your stay?”
“Nah, I’m checking out. Bring my car around.”
“No problem.”
Chello put his same Givenchy sweatsuit on from the night before, grabbed both his phones, and stepped over the dead bitch like she was a rug.
No one was allowed to put their mouth on his sister.
At twenty-eight, she was still his pride and joy, his baby until he had his own one day and even after.
Everyone knew he held Nyla near and dear to his heart.
She was who he was proud of, she was one of the best hair stylists on the westside and he loved that for her and him.
Whenever he walked into her salon, he bagged a different bitch, sometimes two.
A black matte Maybach idled as soon as he stepped outside in the May weather.
Summer was on the pull up and that was Chello’s favorite time of the year.
The hood was the place to be; he wasn’t one of those niggas that got rich and ran to the suburbs, though he had homes outside the city.
He only went there when he needed a peace of mind, other than that, he was home, 1653 S.
Homan. He bought the building they lived in when his mother died just to show his bitch ass family that he stood on his word.
He beat all odds, made sure him and his sister finished high school, and sold drugs while doing it.
He made sure to shit on his mother’s siblings every chance he got.
He pulled into the garage right next to Nyla’s BMW X6 and smiled, him and his sister were the shit.
He knew for a fact his mother would be proud, not so much of his lifestyle, but the outcome for sure.
Their mother was a kind soul, always gentle with them, but would fuck anyone up about her two kids.
And to that day, her two were overly protective of one another like she taught them to be.
“Hell you been all night?” Nyla asked as soon as he walked through the door.
“Minding my business, Lady,” he kissed her forehead as she leaned over the island eating a bowl of cereal like she did every morning.
“Soooo, since I got you here…”
“Nope.”
She laughed, “You don’t even know what I want.”
“Whatever it is requires money.”
“Boy bye, you act like I don’t make a quick two thousand a day.”
That was why he would give her anything she asked for. She could’ve been a spoiled brat and never worked because he raised her that way, but she wanted her own money. He had no problem with that, but he was her cushion, crutch, and backbone.
“That’s it?” he shot back as they both laughed.
“Whatever. I need you to get me a slot in the New York hair show. I forgot to register, and they closed registration.”
“How I’m supposed to do that, Nyla?”
“You the man, right? Make it happen, captain.” She patted the top of his head before snatching her purse up and heading out to the garage.
Like clockwork, he made a few calls, and Nyla had her spot in the show by noon.
After a quick nap, Chello got dressed and hit the streets.
He had niggas in place under him and Tyzir, but the dynamic duo still showed face at every warehouse, trap house, car wash, laundromat, and any other business that washed their money clean.
Respectful to the community, their names brought about smiles, especially to struggling neighbors and kids.
Chello and Tyzir took care of those that took care of them.
Ms. Lily was Chello’s favorite person, the neighborhood matriarch, she sat on her porch and watched everything moving.
Chello made sure someone did her grocery shopping once a week and in return, she cooked him a meal every week.
She was the closest thing he had to a mother, and he treated her as such.
“Ms. Lily, how you feeling today?” he asked, walking inside her gate, something that most people couldn’t do without her pulling her little pocket rocket pistol out.
“I’m good, Son. How are you?”
“I’m good. You need anything?”
“Yup. I need you to open your eyes a little wider. I see new faces around here.”
Like he said, she watched everything and everybody, if he missed, she didn’t.
“I’m on it.”
He sat there and talked with her until Tyzir pulled up in a BMW i8, they were the only two niggas on the westside with whips that cost more than most people’s houses. They screamed money even on a regular day and Chello knew that with money came problems.
“What’s the word?” Tyzir asked, dapping Chello up before leaning against his car, folding his arms across the Amiri tee he had on.
“New niggas, new problems.” Tyzir followed Chello’s eyes to a crowd of niggas standing toward the middle of the block.
“Who dat?”
“Some nigga named Kyst from Harlem.”
“Like Kiss?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“That’s cute. What’s to him?” Tyzir asked, scanning the crowd as they laughed and talked like they belonged.
“Let’s see.” Chello walked toward the crowd, nobody just appeared, there was always a motive.
The Harlem nigga stood out like a sore thumb.
Timbs in the summertime with long socks and jean shorts was a dead giveaway.
Once they were close enough, Kyst looked up and met Chello’s eyes.
He didn’t look away, Chello liked that. The crowd got quiet as they approached, everybody recognized power when it walked toward them.
“What’s up, fellas? Y’all lost?”
“Nah. Visiting,” Kyst said, flashing pearly white veneers, his voice carried New York grit.
“This ain’t a tourist attraction,” Tyzir chimed in as Kyst nodded and rubbed his hands together.
“Word?”
Chello took a step closer, “Name.”
“Kyst.”
“Kyst what?” Chello challenged.
“Just Kyst.”
He shrugged and tilted his head to the side, his niggas stood firm and ready, but they wouldn’t have time to breathe if Chello so much as raised his finger.
“Come on, Kyst, everybody has a last name.”
“Not where I’m from.”
Out of town energy, that was cool.
“You not at home, you in Chicago. Be safe out here.”
“Always, appreciate the warning.”
“That wasn’t a warning. Take care, Kyst.”
“You too, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m sure you know it.”