Chapter 15
H assan moved through the casino like a storm in silence— shoulders square, eyes sharp, a lit blunt pressed between his lips as the energy buzzed around him. The place was packed, lights flashing, dice rolling, money flipping hands. Another night of legal chaos disguised as luxury.
With everything going on—his grandmother’s condition, the cops sniffing around cases that had nothing to do with him—he was on edge. Jules told him to keep his hands clean, focus on the legit side, let the streets handle themselves. Easier said than done.
He was waiting on word—info Jules was digging up through his connects—but the longer it took, the tighter his chest felt. Hassan didn’t do well with the unknown. He liked to be ten steps ahead of the next man, not pacing through a casino with unanswered questions burning in the back of his mind.
As he passed through the main floor, he nodded at his workers, eyes cutting over every table like he was tracking a threat. That’s when she stepped up.
“Floor’s smooth tonight,” Tinka said, walking with the type of confidence that couldn’t be taught. “No hiccups. High rollers are happy. Bar’s tight. Even the new girls are keeping up.” She handed him a glass of cognac without missing a beat.
Hassan took it with a silent nod, watching the way she moved in that black-and-white uniform that fit her body like sin. Tinka was in her early-thirties—smart, unshakable, and the reason this floor ran like a well-oiled machine. That’s why he put her in charge.
She was fine as hell. Curves for days. The kind of woman men begged for, and she knew it too. Used it like a weapon to keep the high rollers spending. But Hassan? He didn’t fuck his employees. Didn’t mix business and pleasure. Still, that didn’t stop him from looking. Respectfully.
“What about the back room?” he asked, eyes scanning the security cams m ounted up in the corner.
“Clean,” she replied, arms crossing under her chest. “Count’s running every hour. Security’s on it. Nobody’s breathing wrong back there.”
Hassan exhaled smoke, the burn easing his nerves just a little. Tinka’s words settled something in him—not everything, but enough to keep the monster in his chest at bay. For now.
“And Odell?” Hassan asked, his jaw tight as his eyes scanned the floor.
Tinka sighed, already annoyed just at the mention of the man’s name.
Odell was a forty-something regular—filthy rich, loud as hell, and never knew when to quit.
He was the kind of customer who brought in serious money but always came with chaos.
Drunk outbursts, losing streak tantrums, claims of rigged games.
Hassan had let him slide for months, only because he paid well and hadn’t crossed the line—yet.
“Still here. Still betting. Still losing,” Tinka said, folding her arms across her chest. “He’s back at roulette, swearing it’s rigged. Again.”
Hassan shook his head slowly, irritation simmering behind his calm exterior. “What’s he down tonight?”
“Little over ten grand,” she replied, a dry chuckle escaping her lips. “Man’s got the persistence of a stalker. I need a man that committed.”
But Hassan didn’t even blink at her joke. No smile. No reaction.
His eyes were locked in on the mess across the room. “And still thinks he can win it back.”
“Like clockwork,” she muttered, following his gaze. Odell was slouched over the blackjack table now—red-faced, waving his drink around, slurring curses at the dealer. “Want me to bounce him?”
“Not yet,” Hassan said, sipping his cognac. “Let him spiral a little more. He’s still got two cards we didn’t max last time. Once he taps those out, then walk him.”
Tinka gave a slow nod. “You got it.” She started to turn, then paused. “Want me to cut off his drinks?”
“Nah,” Hassan said, his tone low and final. “Let him drown in it.” Tinka smirked, nodded again, and disappeared into the crowd.
Hassan’s eyes never left Odell—watching him unravel, drink in hand, shouting into the noise like a man still pretending he had control.
Hassan made his way back toward his office, the low hum of the casino wrapping around him like static. But before he could reach the stairs, Bully stepped in front of him.
“Got a guest, Boss,” Bully said, nodding behind him.
“Ain’t no fucking guest, nigga. I basically raised this fool,” a familiar voice cut in as Jules stepped from behind him, his energy loud like always, commanding space like he owned it.
Hassan’s face broke into a rare grin. “Let’s talk in my office.” “Damn, that’s it? I don’t get no tour of this billion-dollar playground?” Jules said with a grin, clapping Hassan on the back. “Nigga got money and turned corporate on me.”
Hassan let out a chuckle, low and genuine, before turning on his heel. “Come on, old man. I’ll show you around.”
They moved through the casino floor, and Hassan gave him the condensed version of the tour—Tinka giving orders, high rollers tucked in private lounges, a stacked bar, and a security team tight enough to guard a presidential motorcade.
Jules took it all in with quiet pride, his smile deepening with every step.
He remembered when Hassan was just a broken kid with blood on his hands and fire in his eyes, sleeping with a knife under his pillow, chasing ghosts in the dark.
Now, that same boy was walking through a kingdom he built from grit and pain.
By the time they made it to Hassan’s office, the pride in Jules’s eyes was damn near glowing.
“This shit fire, man,” Jules said, settling into one of the leather chairs. “I’m proud of you, for real.”
Hassan nodded, a flicker of emotion crossing his normally unreadable face. He walked to the box on his shelf, grabbed two cigars, and tossed one over. “Still like the Cubans?”
“You know I do. You still got that good Henny too?” Jules asked with a smirk.
Hassan pulled the bottle from his cabinet like he was waiting on the question. “You already know.”
This was more than just a catch-up. This was two wolves with history, war stories, and survival in their bones—one who paved the way, and the other who took it further than either of them thought possible.
“So about this case you got yourself caught up in…” Jules said, a thick cloud of cigar smoke curling from his lips as he swirled the dark Hennessy in his glass.
His voice was low, calm—but what followed punched with weight.
“They tryna pin that Desmond nigga on money laundering. But they looking into you for much worse.”
Hassan's eyes cut to him sharp, his jaw flexing as his entire body stiffened. “All my shit clean,” he said flatly. His tone was composed, but the edge in his voice betrayed the storm brewing underneath.
Jules didn’t flinch. “You left one thing unclean.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a file, thick and aged like it had been sitting in silence for years—waiting. Hassan took it without a word, but the minute he opened it, time stopped.
His throat closed. His heart dropped .
Inside were photos he hadn’t seen in decades.
Photos he’d spent years trying to forget.
Bloodied bodies. His mother, her eyes wide open and lifeless, her chest caved in.
His father sprawled beside her, the bullet hole between his eyes as cold as the look he always wore in life.
It hit Hassan like a freight train. Even now, after everything— after all the pain, the trauma, the rage—seeing his mother’s lifeless body shattered something in him all over again.
His hands trembled, but he didn’t put the photos down. He stared. Forced himself to. The weight of her death still sat heavy in his chest. Still hollowed him.
Then came the next photo. The man who killed his parents. Or what was left of him.
Hassan had barely been ten when he hunted that bastard down. And looking at the scorched, mangled body in the photo, he didn’t feel guilt. He felt...satisfaction. The man’s head had been severed, skin flayed, body charred to the point of unrecognizable. That wasn’t murder. That was vengeance.
“Why you showin’ me this shit, man?” Hassan said, his voice low and brittle—just enough of a crack to show how close he was to falling off the edge.
Jules leaned forward. “Because that nigga you gutted? He wasn’t just some street rat. He was part of the same family your pops stole from. That murder? It tied loose ends together. Now, Desmond’s heat is bleeding into your world, and they diggin’ in places you thought were buried.”
Hassan shoved the file away like it was covered in poison, his breath shallow. The photos of his parents—their faces—lingered in his mind like ghosts. But the photo of the man he killed? That was peace.
He lit the blunt with shaky fingers, dragging deep to keep the fire inside him from exploding. “So? What the fuck I gotta do with Desmond and his fucked up business ways?”
"Desmond did some money with that family and got caught in a deal gone bad. Now they want retaliation—and they got the laws involved. Top federal-ass niggas. Braxton’s on the case, looking to pin Desmond.
But the trail connects to the deal your father was wrapped up in years ago.
The nigga you killed? He was the nephew of the family’s head.
And now that old man wants Desmond taken down… and the nigga who took out his blood.”
Jules’ words settled heavy in the room as Hassan exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, his thoughts moving faster than he could contain.
He was gonna need more than this blunt to stay sane.
“That fucking family got more dirt on their hands than I do,” Hassan muttered, jaw tight as his fingers trembled against the blunt .
“What the fuck they bringing the laws in for?”