Chapter 3
(ONE month later)
H assan walked through the dimly lit basement, his presence swallowing the room whole. Down here, he wasn’t just Hassan. He was Ice. The cold-blooded man everyone feared.
The room reeked of damp concrete and iron—the unmistakable scent of blood lingering from the ghosts of past mistakes made by men who thought they could cross him.
He had been watching.
Weeks of missing money. Small amounts at first, nothing that raised immediate suspicion. But Hassan was too smart, too meticulous to let anything slip past him. So, he waited. He let the thief dig his own grave, knowing that a man who steals will eventually get comfortable—sloppy.
And once they do? They snitch on themselves.
Roman had found the nigga—the corner boy who had been foolish enough to steal from Ice Gaines.
Hassan’s jaw tensed as he moved deeper into the basement, his steps slow, deliberate. He hated thieves. Despised them.
Maybe it was because a thief had stolen his family from him. Or maybe it was because his father had been the same—stealing from powerful men, men he had no business crossing, ultimately leading to his own death. Or maybe, it was just because stealing from him was the fastest way to die.
He paid his people well—too well for them to even think about betraying him.
So why?
Why the fuck did this man feel the need to steal from him?
His men stood silent as he approached, the only sound in the room was the subtle creak of the chair the man was tied to, his breaths coming out in frantic, uneven gasps.
Hassan’s sharp eyes flicked over the terrified man, then he spoke— his voice low, lethal. "Let that nigga go."
His workers hesitated for half a second before quickly untying him, the thick ropes unraveling, dropping to the floor like dead weight.
Hassan didn’t believe in holding his victims hostage. He didn’t need restraints. He liked to give them a fair fight—
Even though there was nothing fair about going up against him.
If a man was bold enough to cross him, he should be bold enough to fight him. And tonight, Hassan was about to remind him exactly why crossing Ice Gaines was a mistake no one lived to make twice.
The man, who looked to be around Hassan’s age, trembled as he rubbed his sore wrists, his breathing uneven.
"Travis."
Hassan greeted him with that slow, devilish smile—the one that sent ice straight through a man’s veins. The kind of smile that meant this was the last time you’d ever see him up close.
"Man, Ice… I was gonna put the money back," Travis stammered, his voice shaking. "I just needed a little extra cash."
Hassan stepped closer, smooth, calculated—predatory.
"I don’t give a fuck why you stole from me," he said, voice calm, measured, deadly. "I just wanna see if that shit was worth dying for."
With slow precision, Hassan removed his diamond chains, one by one, handing them off to one of his men. His Rolex came next, the heavy weight leaving his wrist as he kept his eyes locked on Travis— never blinking, never breaking.
Travis watched every movement, his fear growing thick in the room. "Man, Ice, I don’t wanna fight you, cuh," Travis said, his voice cracking as he took a hesitant step back. Hassan closed the distance instantly.
"Funny," he mused. "You was bold enough to steal from me—" his voice dropped lower, "—but not bold enough to fight for your own life?"
Travis swallowed hard, his entire body trembling under Hassan’s cold, unreadable gaze.
"I—"
Before he could get another word out, air rushed from his lungs as Hassan’s fist slammed into his gut.
A sharp wheeze escaped his throat as he doubled over, clutching his stomach, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come.
"Get up, nigga."
Hassan’s voice was steady. Unbothered. Like this was nothing but a warm-up.
Travis struggled, his body weak, but the fear of what was coming next forced him to his feet.
It didn’t matter. The next hit came fast—a brutal right hook that sent a sharp crack echoing through the basement.
Bone breaking.
Travis stumbled, blood spilling from his mouth, a chunk of it hitting the floor as his vision blurred. His body screamed at him to stay down, but he forced himself to move, to fight back.
He swung wildly, but Hassan weaved it effortlessly, sidestepping like it was nothing. Then, with precision, speed, and a force most men couldn’t fathom—
Hassan’s hand shot out, gripping Travis’ throat. Not choking him. Not holding him. But pressing into a pressure point with deadly accuracy.
Travis’ eyes went wide, his body immediately shutting down. He didn’t even get the chance to scream. The life in his eyes snapped off as his body went limp, collapsing to the floor with a heavy thud.
Dead.
Just like that.
Hassan rolled his shoulders, exhaling slowly as if he had just finished a workout. He grabbed his jewelry, slipping his chains back around his neck, adjusting his watch.
"Clean this shit up," he ordered, his tone bored, like he hadn’t just killed a man with his bare hands.
Without another glance, he turned, stepping out of the trap house where he handled business and sliding into the driver’s seat of his black Maybach.
The moment he shut the door, his phone buzzed against the console. Roman’s name lit up the screen.
Hassan exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening as he answered. "Yeah."
"Aye, nigga, pull up at Noir, we in this bitch lit!" Roman’s voice boomed through the speaker, the background filled with bass-heavy music and drunken laughter.
Hassan stayed quiet, gripping the wheel with one hand. He didn’t do clubs. That was Roman’s scene, not his.
"Come on, nigga." Roman dragged out, knowing his hesitation. "You already missed my grand opening. Come turn up with your nigga, mane! Plus, it’s some bad junts in here tonight."
Hassan exhaled sharply, already regretting what he was about to say.
"Aight, nigga. Damn. I’m on the way."
Roman laughed, victorious. "You handle that rat problem?" he asked, his voice dropping slightly, coded but clear.
They never discussed business over the phone—too many ears, too many eyes.
"Yeah," Hassan muttered. "Be there in a few. "
He hung up without waiting for a response, pressing his foot against the gas, speeding down the dark streets of Memphis.
His mind wasn’t in the present. It was everywhere else. Still lingering in that basement. Still stained in the blood on the concrete floor.
Maybe he needed this.
A distraction. An escape from the demons clawing at his back, whispering in his ear, dragging him into that place he couldn’t seem to climb out of.
It didn’t take long to pull up outside Noir. The club was packed, a long-ass line of people wrapping around the building, the neon glow illuminating the eager crowd waiting to get inside.
Hassan groaned, already hating it. Crowds. Noise. Drunken stupidity. Shit he never had patience for. But he owed Roman.
So, instead of turning his ass around and going home like he wanted, he pulled into a secluded parking spot in the back, stepping out and heading straight for the rear entrance. He was cool with the owner—didn’t need to wait in no damn line.
The moment he stepped inside, the bass hit.
The deep, chest-thudding vibration of rap music pulsed through the club, blending with the scent of expensive liquor, hookah smoke, and perfume. People were everywhere—dancing, throwing money, locked in corners full of secrets and sin.
Hassan kept his head low, moving through the crowd with ease.
Roman had already let him know where he was—VIP upstairs.
Hassan made his way to the section, his expression unreadable.
He didn’t know how long he was staying. Didn’t know if this shit would actually take his mind off the monster that lived inside him.
But for tonight? He’d at least try.
Hassan spotted Roman instantly, already deep in his element— two women draped over him, a glass of cognac in hand, his grin wide as hell.
As Hassan walked closer, security parted without hesitation, letting him through with ease.
"My nigga Ice here now!" Roman shouted over the blaring music, throwing an arm around Hassan’s shoulder in excitement. "We 'bout to turn the fuck up!"
Hassan shook his head but couldn’t deny it—Roman’s energy was a temporary escape from the storm brewing in his mind.
"Get my nigga a drink!" Roman called out to the bottle girls.
One of them nodded, already moving to grab a glass as Hassan sank into the plush VIP couch. People instinctively shifted, making space without him having to say a word. His presence alone demanded respect .
The bottle girl returned, handing him a glass of cognac. He took it with a nod, bringing it to his lips.
The rich taste hit first, then the slow burn of the alcohol followed, settling into his chest, grounding him just enough.
Being in a room packed with half-sober, half-faded people had him on edge. He never did well in crowds. Too many variables. Too much shit could go wrong.
Instinctively, he reached for the blunt he kept tucked behind his ear, sparking it.
Weed was his reprieve. The drink would take the edge off, but the smoke? That was what really calmed his mind.
Roman leaned over the railing, scanning the crowd with an amused smirk, lifting his glass.
"Aye San, you need to take one of these junts home tonight." Hassan exhaled a thick stream of smoke, handing the blunt over as Roman took a drag.
He wasn’t pressed about the women in here tonight. But then—
"Damn, she fine." Roman muttered, eyes locked across the club. Hassan followed his gaze, uninterested at first—until he saw her.
A beautiful brown-skinned woman, her hair sleek, parted perfectly down the middle, flowing in a straight, silky wave down her back. She wore a black dress that hugged her slim, curvy figure like a second skin. Effortlessly stunning. But what caught him more than her looks? The mug on her face.
Like she had no business being here. Like this was the last place she wanted to be.