Chapter 1 #3
Hassan stepped out of the hot, steamy shower, the heat rolling off his dark chocolate skin as he reached for his lotion. Each slow, deliberate stroke over his skin left it gleaming under the bathroom lights, highlighting every inch of the power he carried in his frame.
He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection—the same cold, unreadable expression he always wore.
Despite the fear his name carried, despite the blood he had on his hands, Hassan was a dangerously handsome man. The kind of man who could bring a woman to her knees with a single look, the kind who made other men envy him even at just 25 years old.
His body was a masterpiece of muscle and ink.
From his neck down, tattoos covered every inch of him—his chest, arms, back, stomach, even his legs—a permanent map of his past, his pain, and the life he lived.
At 6’5, he exuded power without effort, moving with a confidence that made it clear he wasn’t a man to be questioned.
Then there were his features—strong, striking, unforgettable. A full, neatly shaped beard framed his sharp jawline, thick brows set over his most defining trait—his piercing blue eyes.
Ice .
That’s what they called him. His eyes were as cold as his heart, inherited from a father he barely remembered. They were hypnotic— beautiful to anyone who dared look into them, yet completely devoid of warmth.
It was fitting.
Because love? That shit wasn’t real to him.
Women melted under his gaze, willing to do whatever he asked with just one look, but that was all they were good for—temporary pleasure, nothing more. He didn’t waste time on romance, didn’t entertain fairytales of love and loyalty. The only people who got any exception were blood and Roman.
Outside of that?
Hassan was too cold, too distant, too damn ruthless to care.
Hassan finished his morning routine and stepped into his expansive walk-in closet, moving with the same precision he did in every aspect of his life. He pulled on a crisp, white Balmain shirt— loose-fitting but perfectly tailored—pairing it with black designer jeans and matching luxury sneakers.
A few spritzes of Creed cologne lingered in the air as he grabbed his diamond Rolex, fastening it securely around his wrist. The Cuban link chain gleamed under the lights as he adjusted it over his shirt, the weight of the diamonds familiar against his skin.
After a few smooth brushes over his waves—flawless, as always—he was ready to step out.
Today, he had somewhere to be.
Harper was tied up with back-to-back clients at her gym, which meant Hassan was taking Helen to her doctor’s appointment.
He hated hospitals. The smell, the sterile white walls, the constant reminder of death creeping in every corner—it all made his skin crawl. But for her, he’d do anything.
And if there was one thing he couldn’t do, it was be late. Helen didn’t tolerate it. If he even thought about showing up past their scheduled time, she’d be on his ass with a sharp tongue and a handful of well-aimed cuss words.
So he didn’t waste time.
Grabbing his keys, he stepped out of his house, the morning air cool against his skin.
He slid into the driver’s seat of his black Mercedes-Benz Maybach, the soft hum of the engine barely audible as he pulled out of his long driveway.
The gates surrounding his estate opened automatically, letting him exit the fortress he had built for himself, where 24-hour security ensured no one got too close.
He didn’t slow down as he merged onto the road, the city flashing past him in a blur.
Destination—South Memphis. The place where it all started.
Hassan had tried more than once to move Helen out of the hood, but she wouldn’t hear it.
She had lived in that same house for decades, the same one where she raised her twin boys—Hendrix and Hassan Sr. No amount of money, no promise of comfort, could pull her away from the place she called home.
Bougie neighborhoods, with their manicured lawns and stiff, uptight people, weren’t for her. She wanted her people. The ones who knew and respected her, the ones who had watched her sons grow into men.
And if anyone did have a problem?
They were too afraid of Hassan to act on it.
Hassan finally pulled up to the familiar brick house, slowing as he eased into the driveway. The place hadn’t changed—it still stood strong, just like the woman who lived inside.
As soon as he stepped out of his car, a familiar voice called out. “Hey, Hassan!”
He turned to see Ms. Marilyn, the elderly woman next door, standing in her front yard, tending to her flowers.
Not many people got to call him by his real name, but Ms. Marilyn was one of them.
She had been around as long as he could remember—probably before he even moved in with Helen.
When his grandmother had to work late, Ms. Marilyn was the one who helped watch over him and Harper. She had always looked out for them.
Hassan flashed his signature smile, the one that made women weak and men envious, showing off a perfect row of pearly whites.
“Good mornin’, Ms. Marilyn,” he greeted, his deep voice smooth. “Tell your grandmother to call me when she gets the chance,” she called back, giving him a knowing look before turning her focus back to her flowers.
He nodded before heading up the steps, fishing out his key and letting himself inside.
“Madea!” His voice echoed through the house, the same house that had raised him, the same house that still looked nearly identical to the one he grew up in.
A few things had changed over the years—new vases, fresher flowers—but the furniture was still the same, spotless and damn near brand new thanks to Helen’s obsession with keeping everything pristine.
“Nigga, stop all that yellin’ in my house! I’m in here!” Her sharp response made Hassan chuckle.
Helen Gaines had always been a firecracker, and clearly, nothing had changed. If anything, Hassan knew he got his blunt, take-no-shit attitude straight from her.
At 67, Helen still had the same smooth, vibrant chocolate skin that never aged, her short pixie-cut hair always styled to perfection.
Even though her body was battling an illness she couldn’t fight forever, she didn’t look like she was sick.
Most days, she moved like she was young again, refusing to let the cancer slow her down.
There were rough days, though. Days where the sickness would win. But Helen? Helen had never been the type to let anything—or anyone— keep her down for long.
The only thing she ever admitted to failing at in life was her own children.
One son had a gambling addiction so bad it got him and his wife killed right in front of their son.
The other had been a pimp, knee-deep in the street life, living off women like it was his God-given right.
Helen had done everything she could as a single mother, but in the end, the streets had swallowed them both.
She had told herself for years that she had done the best she could.
That she had tried.
But no matter how much she tried to shake the weight of it, she couldn’t help but feel like the cards had never been in her favor when it came to raising her sons.
She did get a second chance, though. Through Harper and Hassan.
Harper was thriving, traveling the world, training top athletes as a sought-after fitness coach. And Hassan? He had made a name for himself in the casino world, even if his empire had been built on something much darker.
The world may have seen him as a kingpin, a cold-blooded killer— but Helen knew better.
In her eyes, she had done right by them. And that was enough.
Hassan sat down beside Helen, his broad frame sinking into the worn couch as her sharp eyes settled on him.
She didn’t need him to say a word.
Even though Hassan masked every emotion, hid everything beneath that cold exterior, Helen could always feel what he was carrying.
“I know this is a lot to handle,” she spoke softly, her voice gentle but firm.
Hassan’s gaze lifted to hers.
They had the same piercing blue eyes—the ones she had passed down to her son, and now to him.
Except, Helen had a rare condition called heterochromia—only one eye was piercing blue, the other a deep, soulful brown.
His father inherited the striking blue, and Hassan, in turn, carried it too.
That single blue eye in her face always reminded him of his own reflection—of where he came from.
But where hers still carried warmth, his held nothing but ice.
“I’m good, Madea.” His voice was low, controlled. Unbothered.
A lie. Helen wasn’t stupid. She knew he was trying to protect her, to keep his demons buried so she wouldn’t have to worry about him on top of everything else. But she also knew that when the time came, when the inevitable happened, he was going to break in a way even he wasn’t prepared for.
“Today is a good day,” she murmured. “But there will be a day when it won’t be. I need you and Harper prepared when that day comes.”
Hassan’s jaw clenched. He knew what she was talking about. Her death. He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t even want to think about it.
His whole life, the people he loved had been ripped away from him. Every single one. And now, here he was again—watching helplessly as the one person who had ever truly given a damn about him was slipping through his fingers.
He felt the anger stirring in his chest, tightening his throat. But like always, none of it showed on his face.
“You ready?” he asked, brushing off her words like they meant nothing.
Helen nodded, letting it go. She knew her grandson too well. Talking about her death brought emotions—emotions he refused to deal with.
Even as a child, Hassan had never been soft. She had never seen him cry, never seen him light up with excitement, never even caught him grinning unless he was taunting someone. His emotions had always been locked away, trapped behind that same cold, unreadable expression.
The only time he ever broke was during his bipolar episodes. And that? That was terrifying.
She had seen it firsthand—how quickly his mind could switch, how uncontrollable he became. It wasn’t just rage. It was something darker. Something no one, not even Roman, could fully understand.
Before she stood up, she turned to him again, her voice quieter this time.
“Before we go, can you promise me one thing?”
Hassan arched a brow. “I don’t make promises, Madea.”
Helen sighed, already expecting that response. “Fine. Can you think about something for me?”
He nodded, waiting. “Can you go to therapy?”
Hassan’s face barely moved, but for a brief second, she saw it—the scrunch of his brows, the brief flicker of discomfort before his expression went back to stone.
Before he could open his mouth to object, she cut him off.
“Just think about it, San,” she said, her voice carrying that same soft strength she always had with him. “That’s all I ask.”
Then, just like that, she stood, grabbing her purse as if the conversation was over.
Hassan sat still for a moment, the word therapy sitting heavy in his chest.
The idea of it made something in him ache—not because he feared talking about his shit, but because it meant that Helen saw him as broken.
Like something was wrong with him. And maybe there was. But he had survived his whole life without help. Without needing anyone.
He sure as hell wasn’t about to sit in an office while some stranger tried to tell him how fucked up he was.
Shaking off the thought, he pushed himself to his feet and followed his grandmother out the door.
He just needed to get this appointment over with.
Then he could go back to business. Back to what really mattered.