Chapter 9
H assan drove away from Sevyn’s office, gripping the wheel tighter than necessary, his mind tangled in thoughts he couldn’t shake.
He couldn’t believe he had just agreed to therapy.
Not because of Harper. Not because of his grandmother.
Not even for himself. It was because of her . And that scared him more than anything.
When he showed up at her office, it wasn’t to talk about therapy.
He hadn’t even considered that shit. He just needed something— something to calm the rage burning in his chest, something to steady the storm that had been brewing since Braxton showed up at his casino, asking about legal matters.
Hassan and Roman had spent years making sure no one could touch them, moving so far ahead of the game that no one even saw their moves coming.
And now, a lawyer was sniffing around, digging in places he had no business.
That alone was enough to make Hassan’s blood run hot, but what made it worse was the way Braxton looked at Sevyn, the way his eyes clung to her like she still belonged to him.
Hassan had seen the way she tensed, the way she gripped herself like she was bracing for impact.
There was history there, a past thick with emotions she was trying to hide, but none of that mattered to Hassan.
What mattered was the possessiveness that crept up his spine the moment Braxton said her name.
Sevyn wasn’t his woman . He didn’t do attachments.
He didn’t do emotions. He didn’t do this .
But something about her made him want to protect her, made him want to step between her and anything that tried to reach for her.
Seeing her in that office with tears in her eyes only fueled that need.
He didn’t like that shit. Didn’t like the way it made him feel.
Didn’t like the way it made him act. But he couldn’t ignore it.
That’s why he agreed to therapy. Not to heal, not to work through the shit that haunted him, but to stay close.
To have an excuse to see her. To watch over her without her knowing.
To make sure no one—including Braxton—could ever hurt her again. Even if she never knew it.
Hassan couldn't believe the way he was feeling. This wasn’t him, and t he fact that he couldn't control it only fueled his frustration.
Sevyn had crowded every inch of his mind, and nothing—not business, not killing, not smoking—could erase her.
He needed an escape, something that had never failed him.
So he went to the one place that had been his refuge since he was nine years old.
Pulling up to the martial arts gym, Hassan felt a rare sense of calm settle over him.
The place wasn’t just a gym—it was home.
The man inside had taught him everything he knew, had shaped him into the deadly force he had become, had given him a purpose when the world had tried to discard him. Jules.
The gym was empty except for the heavy bass of rap music pounding through the space.
In the ring, Jules moved like a man half his age, shadowboxing with the same precision and power that had once made him the most feared name in the streets.
Even in his late forties, he was still built like a warrior—tall, dark-skinned, his salt-and-pepper curls slightly damp with sweat, his grey beard only adding to his air of dominance.
Jules had retired from the game, but his name still rang bells. His respect was eternal.
Hassan leaned against the ropes, watching him for a moment, almost hypnotized by the way nothing had changed.
Jules was still the same ruthless, disciplined man, the kind of man others feared but Hassan had only ever respected.
When Hassan had first run away from his foster home, Jules was the one who found him.
People trembled at the sight of Jules, but not Hassan.
Even at nine years old, he hadn’t known fear.
Jules had seen something in him that day.
Instead of running him off, he took him in, shaped him, raised him.
Jules never legally adopted him, but everyone assumed he had, and he never corrected them.
Hassan finally spoke, his voice cutting through the music. “You getting old, mane.”
Jules smirked without stopping his movements. “Still fast enough to lay your ass out, boy.”
Hassan chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Jules finally turned to him fully, his sharp, knowing gaze locking onto Hassan’s. He saw something—Hassan knew he did. Jules had always been able to read him like a damn book. “What’s on your mind?” Jules asked, wiping his face with a towel.
Hassan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Nothing.”
Jules chuckled, low and knowing. “You ain’t been ‘nothing’ quiet since you was a kid.” He tossed the towel to the side, nodding toward Hassan. “Get the fuck in here. Work it out.”
As long as he was in this ring, he didn’t have to think about her.
Jules knew ten different forms of combat, all of which he had drilled into Hassan since he was a kid, but boxing had always been his favori te.
It was raw, direct—every movement calculated, every hit a statement.
Hassan stripped off his jewelry, slipped on the gloves, and stepped into the ring with Jules.
They circled each other, studying body language, reading every slight twitch, every feint, waiting for the right moment to strike.
"So what the fuck is up?" Jules asked, throwing a testing right hook. Hassan weaved easily, recognizing it as a warm-up.
"Seems like the law is looking into our shit," Hassan admitted, knowing if there was anyone he could talk to about business, it was Jules.
Jules scoffed, throwing another punch that Hassan dodged with ease. "I taught you better than to let them rat-ass niggas sniff around." "Getting slow, old man," Hassan jabbed, voice dry, his expression unreadable. Jules just chuckled, unfazed.
Hassan made the first move, throwing a punch, but Jules blocked it like it was nothing. "So who played the wrong piece on the board?" Jules asked, his way of saying: Who fucked up and got the law involved?
"That’s what I don’t know," Hassan admitted. "The cops didn’t show up—just some green-ass prosecutor trying to talk. Claims a case he's on involves me, or that I might know something."
Jules took advantage of Hassan’s momentary distraction, landing a sharp left hook to his side. The hit stung, but Hassan recovered fast, shifting his stance.
"Never leave your guard down," Jules warned. "Yo ass getting emotional."
Hassan clenched his jaw, shaking off the sting. Another reason he never showed emotion—Jules had drilled into him early that feelings get you killed. Emotions were a weakness.
"What’s the case?" Jules asked, throwing another hit that Hassan narrowly blocked.
"Money laundering," Hassan answered, countering with a right hook. "Some rich-ass nigga named Desmond Blackwood. I did business with him once, but that was it. Nothing illegal on my end, but I guess they caught that nigga on some other shit."
Jules exhaled through his nose, nodding. "I’ve heard of that fool. His family runs one of the biggest oil companies in the country. His father was a legend, but his son? Fucking idiot. Always tangled up in some illegal shit." He dodged another jab before adding, "Who’s the prosecutor?"
"Some nigga named Braxton Henderson," Hassan said, stepping back slightly as they took a breather. "Been calling, trying to get me to talk, but I been dodging his ass."
Jules smirked, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his glove . "Sit down with him. Pick his brain. I got connects high up in the government—I’ll put some feelers out, see what the fuck is really going on."
Hassan nodded, a small weight lifting off his shoulders. He trusted Jules' connections more than anyone else’s. If anyone could get information, it was him.
"But in the meantime," Jules continued, his voice dropping into something more serious, "you and Roman need to lay low. Your books need to be spotless. If that Braxton nigga bold enough to show up at your place of business without backup, that means he’s desperate. And greedy. He’s not just looking to nail Blackwood—he’s looking for any powerful nigga tied up in some street shit. "
Hassan processed that, his mind already running through contingency plans. He wasn’t the type to run, but he also wasn’t the type to play reckless. Jules had been right about everything else before—he wasn’t about to start ignoring him now.
Even with Jules in his corner, another weight still sat heavy on Hassan’s chest—Sevyn.
She was in his head, refusing to leave, and it pissed him off more than anything.
She wasn’t supposed to be there. He had always been in control, but now?
He felt like he was slipping. "I got you, Jules," Hassan said, nodding as if that could shake the thoughts away.
Jules studied him for a beat before switching gears. "How your grandmother doing?"
Hassan exhaled sharply but kept his expression unreadable. "Not good. Once I leave here, I’m headed to check on her."
Jules nodded, rubbing his chin. "That cancer shit is fucked up, but Helen gon' push through. She the strongest woman I know. Hell, she the only motherfucker I’m scared of," he joked, trying to lighten the mood.
A ghost of a chuckle left Hassan’s lips as he shook his head. "Yeah."
But deep down, he knew the truth. His grandmother wasn’t going to fight it this time.
The sickness had its claws in her, getting worse by the day.
He didn’t know how much longer he had with her, and the thought of losing the only real family he had left was a different kind of pain—one he wasn’t ready to face.
Jules must’ve caught the shift in his eyes because he clapped his hands together. "Alright, let me beat your ass real quick, then you get the fuck out my gym."