Chapter 16 #3
“You gone regret doin’ this shit,” he muttered, not to Hendrix— but to Helen.
Their eyes met, and she saw it in his face. The betrayal. The fury.
The pain.
Then he looked back at Hendrix.
“See you soon, my nigga,” he said coldly before walking out, leaving the room drenched in silence and the promise of a storm still coming.
Hassan walked out of the hospice and immediately spotted Harper sitting in her car, tears streaking her face, her head leaned against the window. As he got closer, he heard a familiar voice coming through the speakers—smooth, calm, and grounding.
Sevyn.
“Breathe, Harp,” she said gently, her tone steady but firm. Hassan watched as Harper closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself even though the tears still fell.
“I can’t go back in there, Sev. He… he in there…” Harper panicked, her voice shaky as she reached down and rolled her window lower when she noticed Hassan approaching.
“You don’t have to,” Sevyn replied calmly. “If you’re not ready to face him, then don’t. Go home. I’m going to come check on you later.”
Harper nodded even though Sevyn couldn’t see her. “Okay… I’m gonna call you back. Love you.”
“Love you too,” Sevyn said before the line disconnected.
Harper looked at Hassan, eyes red and glassy, and he just stood there silently, waiting, steady.
“You good?” he asked, his voice calm, but laced with something deeper.
Harper nodded, wiping at her face. “Why is he here?” she asked, her voice cracking like glass under pressure. It made Hassan’s jaw tense.
He should’ve killed Hendrix in that room. Right then and there. “She invited him,” Hassan said low, emotion stripped from his tone.
Harper’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Madea? Why would she do that? Why would she blindside me like that?”
“Because she thinks she can fix us,” Hassan replied coldly, watching the heartbreak ripple across her face as she started to cry again.
“I hate that man, San. I thought maybe I could sit down with him… maybe I could try. But seeing that nigga? My blood boils. I can’t do it.
” Hassan didn’t say anything. He walked to her door, opened it, and reached for her hand.
She gave him a confused look but let him pull her out of the car.
Before she could ask what he was doing, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him.
Harper’s body tensed—Hassan had never hugged her like this. Ever. But the second his arms tightened, she melted into him, her tears soaking his shirt, her hands clinging to his back like she needed something to hold her together.
Hassan didn’t know what the hell he was doing. All he knew was his cousin was hurting, and he couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t make it go away. But maybe… he could be there.
He did what Sevyn had done for him—held her the same way she held him. Let his presence say what his words couldn’t.
“You don’t gotta do shit you don’t want to do,” he said low, his voice deep against her ear. “Fuck that nigga, cuh.”
His hand rubbed her back slowly, something he didn’t even realize he was doing until it was already happening.
“You hear me?”
She nodded beneath him, silent.
He knew she was shocked—hell, he was shocked.
Sevyn was making him soft. And he didn’t like that one bit. But right now… he wouldn’t change it for the world.
They pulled away from the hug slowly, and Harper looked up at him. Her eyes were still red and puffy, but the tension in her body had eased. There was a calm over her now, one Hassan had seen Sevyn work into him too many times to ignore.
“Nigga, what the fuck got into you?” she asked, raising a brow, already knowing the answer.
Sevyn had mentioned he’d finally agreed to therapy—but seeing the change firsthand had her lowkey shook. Of course, she didn’t say anything. She wasn’t supposed to know.
Maybe Sevyn was a miracle worker. Hassan chuckled but didn’t answer.
“Mane, get in the car,” he said, already back to his usual commanding tone.
Harper smirked and did what she was told.
“Thanks, San,” she said as she slid into the driver’s seat. Hassan gave her a look. “For what? ”
“For always having my back,” she said, her voice soft. “Sometimes, you go overboard, but I know if nobody got me, you do.”
He nodded. No need to say more. Harper had always had a spot in his cold-ass heart since he first met her. She got on his nerves like nobody else, but the love he had for her? Unmatched. No matter how emotionless he acted.
“Here you go with this mushy shit,” he muttered, making her laugh.
“Whatever. I know it warmed your heart,” she teased. “I love you, San.”
Hassan sighed. Her sensitive ass always had to hit him with the soft shit. “I love you too, Harp. Get home safe.”
He closed her door and stood there, watching as she pulled off and left the parking lot.
Then he turned, headed to his own car, jaw tightening again. Because as much as he wanted to let that hug linger, part of him still wanted to march back in and end Hendrix right there on the hospice floor.
He slid into his seat, cut his phone back on, and immediately saw a string of missed calls—Sevyn’s name flashing more than once, her most likely checking in on him after hearing what went down.
And then Von—his name popping up too many times not to mean trouble, no doubt trying to warn him before it was too late.
When he hit redial, Von’s voice blared through the line. “Aye, that nigga Hendrix popped up visiting your grandmother. I tried to reach you, but the shit—”
“I know,” Hassan cut him off. “I almost ended his ass. Madea made me turn my phone off.”
Von went silent.
“Meet me at the casino. I got more work for you.” “Bet,” Von replied, and the line went dead.
Hassan didn’t waste a second. He dialed Roman next.
“Ain’t heard from yo ass in a minute,” Roman answered on the third ring.
“Meet at the casino,” Hassan said, voice cold, emotionless. All business now.
“Say less.”
Hassan hung up without another word.
After what Jules told him about the case the night before—and now with Hendrix bold enough to show his face—it was time to get ahead of everything. No more waiting. No more distractions.
He pressed the gas and sped toward the casino. The soft warmth from earlier? Gone.
It was back to business. And Hassan Gaines was wide awake.
?? ?
Hassan sat behind his desk, the familiar weight of stress heavy in his chest as Von and Roman sat across from him, smoking, waiting for him to speak. The silence was thick, but they didn’t rush him. They never did.
“Shit gettin’ real,” Hassan finally said, his tone flat, unreadable— but both of them heard what he wasn’t saying. Years of working together had taught them how to read him. Even when he sounded emotionless, they could feel the pressure beneath the surface.
He looked at Von first. “You slipping.”
His voice was calm, but sharp enough to cut.
Von didn’t flinch. He knew what was coming. “I know. Nigga moved faster than expected. He had a rental—lowkey, outta state plates. I was tracking his phone, but he must’ve left it somewhere. Shit ain’t hit my radar ’til he was already inside.”
Hassan didn’t respond right away, just stared at him through the haze of smoke swirling in the room.
He knew technically it wasn’t Von’s fault.
He was the one who turned off his phone.
But Von was supposed to alert him the second Hendrix touched Memphis soil.
Judging by the fresh clothes and fake calm that nigga walked in with, he'd been back longer than anyone thought.
“No more slip-ups,” Hassan said, and Von nodded, no excuses, just accountability.
He never talked to Von like he was beneath him—never needed to. They were solid. But right now, with shit piling on from all sides, Hassan needed perfection. No cracks.
Roman exhaled a thick cloud from his blunt, his eyes bouncing between the two of them before speaking.
“This about Hendrix?”
Hassan nodded. “Yeah. Madea called his ass up to the hospice today. Tried to blindside Harper into sittin’ down with him.”
Roman’s jaw tensed slightly as Hassan added, “I was ready to kill that nigga in that room.”
Roman shook his head, knowing how much restraint that must’ve taken. For Hassan to walk away from a man he’s vowed to bury? That was growth—or a temporary pause.
“How Harper doin’ after that shit?” Roman asked, concern evident in his voice.
Hassan inhaled deeply from his blunt, then slowly exhaled, the smoke lingering in the air between them. “She was shakin’. Tight. Hurt,” he said, voice low, like the words still felt like venom on his tongu e.
Roman’s eyes flicked up, surprised. Von stopped mid-inhale.
“I ain't never seen her like that, man. And Madea… Madea need to stop tryin’ to fix what’s been broken too long. That nigga did too much fucked up shit to Harper for her to just sit down and play happy family.”
Roman and Von didn’t know the weight of what Hendrix had really done—the reason Harper couldn’t look at him without shaking, the reason Hassan’s blood boiled at the mere mention of his name. They didn’t know the details, just that it was deep. But Hassan? Hassan knew everything.
At the time, Hassan already lived with Helen for a year. Harper was seventeen. Young, beautiful, still full of hope despite all the hurt she’d carried. She wanted a relationship with the man who made her, and for a second, it looked like she might finally get it.
Hendrix played the part well. Showed up for surprise visits.
Took her on daddy-daughter dates. Spoiled her with gifts paid for by dirty money.
To someone on the outside, it might’ve looked like he was trying.
Like maybe he wanted to be a real father.
But the dream Harper thought she was getting turned into a nightmare.
Because Hendrix wasn’t showing up to rebuild. He was showing up to break her.
He drugged her one night and tried to sell her—to one of his clients, just like he used to do with her mother. His own daughter.