Chapter 15 #2
“Families like that got connects everywhere—especially in law enforcement,” Jules said, calm but firm.
“Them badge-ass niggas dirtier than half the dealers on the street. This shit ain’t just personal.
It’s political. Loose ends like this fuck up business…
and government. They’re trying to wipe the whole board clean. Everyone involved. No survivors.”
“Who is this nigga?” Hassan asked, brows drawn. He never knew much about the family—just the man who pulled the trigger on his parents. That had been enough to keep his vengeance focused. He never bothered to look deeper.
“Old head name Carlos DeVille,” Jules said, exhaling like the name itself carried weight. “Nigga’s basically a ghost in the drug shit. But he’s the godfather behind some of the top tech companies in the country. Moves through white rooms with dirty hands. Nigga untouchable.”
Hassan’s jaw tightened. He stared at Jules like he didn’t recognize him for a second.
“You taught me no nigga is untouchable.”
His voice was sharp, cut with betrayal. The man who raised him, trained him, just bowed his head in front of another man’s power.
“And I’m right,” Jules said, steady. “But he’s harder to reach.”
Hassan didn’t say anything. The silence pressed in around him as a bitter taste formed in the back of his throat.
Harder to reach. Not impossible.
But it was the first time in his life that he felt it—that twitch in his gut, that knot in his chest—powerlessness.
And it fucked him up.
Hassan leaned back in his chair, blowing out a slow, thick cloud of smoke. It drifted lazily above him, but there was nothing lazy about the weight sitting on his chest. His mind was already racing, rage simmering under his skin.
“This shit was supposed to be buried, Jules. You told me it was handled!” Hassan snapped, his voice hardening with every word.
Jules’ eyes sharpened like blades. “Watch that tone, lil’ nigga. You ain’t come from my nuts, but I’ll still slap the soul outta you if you forget who raised you.”
Hassan backed off—not out of fear, but respect. Jules was the only man who could check him and live to talk about it.
“That shit is sealed. Ain’t a soul with access to those photos but me,” Jules continued, calmer now but still deadly.
“But that Braxton nigga? He’s connected.
He ain’t just some mouthy lawyer or puppet.
He got people everywhere. If I could dig this shit up?
He can too. So tighten your shit. Clean your trail.
And most importantly—lock up every ghost you got before they start crawling out the dirt. ”
Jules stood, the weight of his warning heavy in the room. Hassan rose too, though his body felt heavier than it had in years. His fingers were still trembling—he kept curling them into fists, trying to hold onto some form of control.
“Don’t let these new-money, green-ass niggas be the reason you get taken out,” Jules said, staring him down. “I didn’t raise you for this shit to end in handcuffs or a coffin. You smarter than that.”
They dapped up, and just like that, Jules was gone. But the room didn’t feel empty. Not to Hassan.
The silence was thick with memory. The pictures were still sitting on the desk like a curse.
The image of his mother’s lifeless eyes, her body crumpled beside the man she died for.
The man who made that choice for her. The rage that turned ten-year-old Hassan into a killer.
Now it was coming full circle. His ghosts weren’t staying buried anymore.
For the first time in his life, Hassan didn’t know if revenge had been worth the cost. And for the first time.
.. he was thinking it might be him paying the final price.
Hassan’s blood boiled hotter with each breath, the smoke pouring from his lips doing nothing to calm the storm inside him.
The blunt trembled between his fingers, useless against the explosion bubbling in his chest. His bipolar was slipping past the leash he fought so hard to keep tight.
His pulse roared in his ears like a warning, his vision tunneled in rage. Then—just like that—they appeared.
Two boys sat across from him in silence.
Identical in the eyes, the jaw, the build—only different in age.
Six and ten. Both of them were him. Or what used to be him.
One soaked in his parents' blood, wide- eyed and blank. The other bathed in the crimson of the man he’d torn apart piece by piece.
They didn’t flinch. They didn’t blink. They just stared.
“Not you getting weak,” the ten-year-old said flatly, his voice as cold as a freezer door left cracked open. His dead, ice-blue eyes drilled into Hassan’s. “I handled that nigga for us, and you sittin’ here shakin’ like some bitch.”
Hassan inhaled deep, trying to drown his fury in smoke. But it didn't work. It never fucking worked.
“I watched our parents get dropped—execution style—and didn’t even blink,” the six-year-old added, voice eerily hollow. “And you out here lookin’ like you seen a ghost.”
“Weak ass nigga,” they said in unison.
The words hit Hassan like bullets to the chest. His jaw flexed so hard, it hurt.
“I ain’t never been weak in my life,” Hassan growled, his voice sharp enough to slit throats .
The older version of himself snorted a cruel laugh. “Nigga, please. Harper tougher than your scary ass. And she got abandoned too—but she livin’. You? You stuck. Soft. Broken.”
That last word broke something in him.
“I’m not broken,” Hassan bit out, but his voice cracked, and his hands betrayed him—trembling like he was standing in front of that blood-soaked living room all over again.
The six-year-old giggled—mocked him.
“You broke, nigga. Always been. You just know how to dress it up nice.”
Hassan snapped. The glass in his hand sailed across the room, shattering against the office door with a violent crash. The sound echoed like a gunshot. The two boys didn’t even flinch.
They just laughed. Laughed like the world hadn’t ended for them already. Like they hadn’t both died that night—along with their parents.
And Hassan? He stood there, chest heaving, knuckles white, staring down ghosts that wore his face.
And for the first time in a long time…
He didn’t feel like Ice. He felt like a boy who never made it out that night alive.
Hassan needed an escape. Not the kind sex could offer. Not the numbing silence of weed, or the noise of business. He needed something deeper. Real. Grounding.
He needed her.
He stared at the two bloodstained versions of himself still lounging in his office—the six-year-old shaking with his mother’s blood, the ten- year-old cloaked in the gore of revenge. They watched him, judging.
With a clenched jaw, Hassan grabbed his phone and ignored them.
“This weak-ass nigga callin’ a bitch now,” the younger version scoffed, laughter bubbling between them. “Soft as hell.”
But Hassan didn’t flinch. He tapped her name. FaceTime. He needed to see her face before he spiraled any further into the abyss.
The screen lit up, and there she was. Sevyn.
Darkness behind her, club lights flickering like neon starlight across her flawless skin. Her face glowed—half-lit, half-shadowed— but it was enough. Enough to make his chest tighten and his dick twitch in his jeans.
Even now, she was breathtaking.
“Yes, Hassan?” Her voice floated through the speaker, soft but clear over the thump of bass in the background.
“This nigga really in love with his therapist,” the ten-year-old mocked, eyes narrowed in disgust. “Fell the fuck off. ”
Hassan ignored him. Focused on her face. Her voice. Anything to block them out.
“I need to see you,” he said flatly, his voice calm—too calm. That calm that came when he was barely holding himself together.
Her face shifted slightly in the frame, her brows furrowed. He could tell she’d been drinking—her eyes were low, her voice had a slight slur—but even tipsy, she looked like peace. Like relief. Like the only damn thing in this world that could mute the chaos in his head.
“Everything okay?” she asked, voice soft and laced with concern. “Yeah…” he muttered, a lie heavy on his tongue. “Where you at?” She hesitated. “Noir. With Dorian and Harper.”
Hassan didn’t say another word. He grabbed his keys, his blunt still burning in the tray, the boys still whispering in the corner of his mind.
“I’m on the way,” he said—and hung up before she could argue.
Because tonight, she wasn’t his therapist. She was his lifeline. And he was drowning.
???
Hassan pulled up behind Noir, the bass from inside already thumping against the pavement like a heartbeat. Midnight was creeping in, but the club was alive—packed wall to wall, with bodies in line, voices raised, and the stench of liquor and lust thick in the air.
He parked and reached for his phone, dialing her.
“Look at this desperate-ass nigga,” six-year-old Hassan muttered from the backseat, a grin stretched across his bloodied little face.
Ten-year-old Hassan laughed beside him. “Nigga really about to beg a bitch to fix him.”
Hassan ran a hand down his face. He didn’t have the strength tonight. Not to fight them. Not to carry this weight alone.
Sevyn didn’t answer. He called again. Still no answer. His jaw locked.
Fuck it.
He got out the car, slamming the door harder than necessary. If she wouldn’t come to him, he’d go to her.
Normally, he could carry this shit. Wear his demons like armor.
But not tonight.
Tonight, they were crawling in his veins. Whispering through his mind. Eating him alive.
Security at the back door recognized him instantly, nodding him through without a word. He didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. The two blood- covered boys walked behind him like shadows, laughing, mocking, reminding.
The thump of music got louder, lights flashing red and blue like dange r warnings. Sweat, perfume, and smoke filled the air. Bodies moved on instinct. Bass thudded through the walls like war drums.