Chapter 1 #2
Roman had always been that nigga—commanding presence, undeniable charm, and the money to make men jealous.
Women flocked to him; men envied him. Standing at 6’4, his frame was all muscle, his caramel skin inked from his neck down, tattoos layering over each other like battle scars.
The one above his eyebrow—Rylan, his daughter’s name—stood bold, a crown inked under his opposite eye.
He had the look of a ruthless man, and in many ways, he was.
Roman wasn’t like Hassan when it came to killing. He wasn’t the type to take a man out with his bare hands. But when it came to a gun? He was a surgeon. Precise. Deadly. If he aimed, he didn’t miss.
Hassan hated guns. The sound of a single gunshot could drag him straight back to that house—to the bloodied living room, to the bodies of his parents crumpled before him, to the silence that came after.
But even with his aversion to them, he couldn’t deny his admiration for Roman’s skill.
The man was gifted with a piece, and Hassan never stopped him from proving it.
As long as he wasn’t close enough to hear the shots, Hassan could deal.
“Mane, that’s on me,” Hassan exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “Today been a long ass day. Had to check shit here.”
His tone was low, smooth—calm as ever. But Roman had known him since they were ten years old. He could see past the quiet, past the blank expression Hassan wore like armor. He could read him. And right now, something wasn’t sitting right.
“Everything straight?” Roman asked, dropping into the leather chair across from Hassan’s desk, his tone casual but laced with real concern.
Hassan hesitated. His jaw flexed. His fingers tapped absently against the desk. Finally, he spoke.
“Nigga, it’s Madea,” he muttered, voice tight. “Her sickness getting worse… and it ain’t shit a nigga can do about it.”
“Her and Harper the only family I got left,” he admitted, but just as quickly, he bit the words off, shaking his head
That was all it took for his voice to shut down. The weight of the words, of the helplessness behind them, threatened to pull too much out of him. He hated emotions. Hated dealing with them. Hated the way they made him feel weak.
So, he shut it down. “Shit cool.”
But Roman saw it—the storm brewing behind his friend’s eyes, the way his shoulders tensed like he was holding himself together by sheer willpower. Hassan had spent his whole life suppressing shit. Refusing to acknowledge it. That’s just how he was built. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
And Roman knew better than to push.
Hassan had demons. Heavy ones. His bipolar disorder wasn’t something he ever spoke on, but Roman had seen it firsthand. When Hassan was triggered, it was like staring the devil in the face. Anything could set him off, and once that fuse was lit, there was no stopping it.
Roman wanted him to get help, but he also knew Hassan wasn’t the type of nigga to sit on a couch and spill his struggles to some therapist. That just wasn’t him.
Instead of pressing, Roman switched gears.
“How Harper holding up?” he asked, shifting the focus.
Harper—Hassan’s cousin. The only other person outside of Roman and Helen that Hassan gave a damn about. The only one who had a piece of his heart.
Hassan exhaled, rolling his neck before finally looking up. Harper was in her bag.
Ever since she graduated from the University of Memphis, she had been chasing her dream of becoming a fitness and wellness coach, turning her passion into a full-blown business.
Hassan made sure she had everything she needed to succeed, buying her a gym the moment she got her degree.
She built it into something major, attracting high- profile clients and creating a name for herself in the industry.
Like Hassan, Harper wasn’t raised by her parents. Her mother was a prostitute, her father a pimp—an affair that left Harper caught between two people who had no business bringing a child into the world. Helen, their grandmother, had stepped in from the very beginning, raising Harper as her own.
When Hassan moved in at 16, they clicked instantly. Same age— Hassan only a month older—same bloodline. The fathers were twins, but Hassan and Harper looked more like siblings than cousins. Twin cousins, as they always called themselves.
“She good,” Hassan finally said, dragging a hand over his jaw. “She the one takin’ care of Madea since I’m always working. She know all that medical shit, but I’m payin’ for everything. Every damn treatment, every specialist… but that shit ain’t working.”
His voice was cold. Distant.
Roman leaned back in his chair, watching his best friend carefully.
He had been around Ms. Helen enough to love her like she was his own. She had treated him like a son, never making him feel like an outsider, never treating him like he was just Hassan’s homeboy. She was the only real mother figure Roman had ever known.
The idea of losing her—knowing Hassan was losing her—sat heavy in his chest.
But he also knew Hassan. Knew how he operated. He wasn’t the type to sit in grief, to let his emotions be picked apart. He swallowed them down, buried them deep, and when that didn’t work, he let his anger speak for him. Roman wasn’t about to push.
“Enough about that shit,” Hassan muttered, waving it off. “How the grand opening go?”
Roman smirked, shaking his head. “Like you actually give a fuck. Nigga, get out this damn office for once and come take these spoiled- ass niggas’ money with me.”
Hassan let out a dry chuckle. “You know I don’t do that gambling shit. But I’ll watch you clean house before I head out. Gotta take Madea to the doctor in the morning. Can’t be late for that, you know how that lady is ‘bout time.”
Roman laughed, already picturing Ms. Helen going off if Hassan showed up even a second past their scheduled appointment. Even sick, even fading, she was still the same meticulous, demanding, but deeply loving woman that had raised them.
The two left the office, heading downstairs into the heart of the casino. The floor was alive—cards flipping, dice rolling, drinks spilling. Hassan stood back, arms crossed, as Roman slid into a poker game like he was born for it.
Within minutes, he had wiped the table clean.
Hassan shook his head, smirking as he watched grown men fold under Roman’s skill, their frustration bubbling over as they realized they had walked straight into a setup. This was his casino, his territory, and anyone dumb enough to think they could outplay Roman was already at a loss.
It was getting late. Hassan clapped up Roman and gave a nod to his workers before heading out, the night air cool as he walked to his Bentley.
The streets blurred past him as he drove, the lights of the city dimming the closer he got to home.
The richest part of Memphis. The house of a king. Built from blood.
???
Hassan woke before the sun, same as always.
Didn’t matter what time he closed his eyes—his body never let him sleep too long.
It had been that way since he was a kid.
Maybe it was the years spent in foster homes, where trusting the wrong person could mean waking up to missing shit—or worse.
Or maybe his body had just trained itself to stay on guard.
Either way, while the rest of the world rested, Hassan was always up.
He reached for his stash, rolling up without a second thought. The morning wasn’t complete without his first session—the only thing that kept his nerves from snapping before the day even started.
Weed had always been his escape. His only real reprieve.
The demons never let up, not even for a second.
The weight of his past, the shit he had done, the shit he had to do—it was always there.
Layered on top of that was the bipolar disorder he refused to treat with pills or therapy.
He wasn’t the type of nigga to sit in a doctor's office and let them poke at his brain, prescribing shit that would only dull the edges but never take away the blade.
So he smoked.
And when that wasn’t enough—when the anger was too thick, too suffocating, too damn loud—violence quieted it.
That was just who he was.
Stepping out onto his bedroom balcony, Hassan took the first slow drag, watching the city skyline in the distance, his massive backyard stretching out beneath him. Memphis looked small from up here, like it didn’t hold all the ghosts that haunted him. But he knew better .
With every pull from the blunt, the memories hit.
Each one cutting deeper. Each one tightening the grip on his chest. The scent of blood. The sound of a gunshot. The lifeless eyes of his parents staring at him from the floor.
His fingers tightened around the blunt as he inhaled deeper, letting the strong, potent smoke settle into his lungs, forcing himself to push it all down. He had always been alone. He came into this world with nobody, and now, with his grandmother fading, he was back to just himself.
Yes, he had Harper. But she was the one person he looked after, not the other way around. By his own choice, he never let her carry his burdens. She had her own weight to hold.
And Hassan?
He had never been the type to lean on anybody.
By the time the sun finally cracked the horizon, he had burned through two blunts, his body sinking into the slow relaxation the high offered. It wasn’t enough to silence everything, but it would get him through the next few hours.
Tossing the roach, he exhaled one last time before heading inside. Another day. Another battle.
He stepped into his bathroom, stripping off his clothes, rolling his neck as he stared at his reflection.
Same cold eyes. Same empty stare.
He turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the space as he prepared to do what he did best—move like nothing was wrong.