Chapter 18
H assan walked out of Sevyn’s building with a hard scowl cutting across his face, jaw tight as the night played on a loop in his head.
The way her body felt under him, the soft moans that spilled from her lips, the way she unraveled in his arms—it haunted him in the best way.
He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay there, stay with her, fall asleep with her warmth pressed against him and wake up the same way.
But peace never lasted long in his world.
Tinka’s voice echoed in his head—Braxton at the casino, asking for him, and not alone. A detective was with him.
Now he was behind the wheel, speeding through the streets with tension in his shoulders and chaos clawing at his mind.
He’d already called Roman, who agreed to meet him there.
Another interruption. Another moment where something good slipped through his fingers because his past wouldn’t stay buried.
When he pulled into the lot, Roman’s red Lamborghini had just parked. He stepped out looking annoyed, dragging a hand down his face.
“Mane, I’m tired of this nigga already. I was laid up with my wife,” Roman said, adjusting his jacket as they walked toward the entrance.
Hassan didn’t respond. His silence said enough.
They were met at the door by Bully, who wordlessly led them through the casino.
The lights, the sound, the energy buzzing around them didn’t matter.
All Hassan could think about was Sevyn. The way her voice cracked when she told him Braxton cheated.
The pain in her eyes when she said he got Ariel pregnant.
They entered the private room where Braxton and the detective sat casually sipping cognac—offered by Tinka, no doubt. Braxton leaned back like he had something to prove, but Hassan could see the tension in his shoulders. Roman stood beside him, arms folded, lips curled in a slight smirk.
“Probably the best cognac you niggas ever tasted,” Roman said dryly.
Hassan still hadn’t said a word. His eyes were locked on Braxton like a loaded gun. The detective didn’t even register. All he saw was the man who hurt the only woman who’d ever seen him past the ice. And the only reason Hassan hadn’t ripped him apart already was because this wasn’t the place.
“Want something to drink?” Tinka asked, her voice calm as her eyes moved between Hassan and Roman.
“Nah, we good. Give us the room,” Hassan said.
Tinka nodded and left without a word. Bully stayed, posted at the door like a shadow that didn’t flinch.
Once the door shut, Hassan and Roman took their seats.
Roman wore a hard mug, but Hassan—stone cold.
No expression. No emotion. Just that unreadable calm that always unsettled people who didn’t know him.
He could see Braxton trying to read him. Failing.
That’s what pissed Braxton off the most—Hassan wasn’t the type of man you could figure out. Not with a stare. Not with assumptions. And certainly not while sitting across from him trying to rattle a cage that didn’t move.
“We’re not here to play games, Gaines. We’ve got Desmond Blackwood by the throat, and we know you’re tied into this,” Braxton started, confidence sharp and performative.
Hassan didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed on Braxton like a scope, cold and patient.
“You had dealings with Desmond Blackwood. That puts you close to what’s now a federal case—money laundering, wire fraud, even murder,” the man beside Braxton added.
Hassan shifted his gaze to him, and just that look made the man adjust in his seat, clearing his throat like the temperature had dropped ten degrees.
Hassan said nothing. He knew he shouldn’t be sitting here without a lawyer, but he wasn’t stupid.
He had no intention of giving them shit.
He just wanted to listen. Let them talk. Let them reveal.
And they would.
“Who the fuck is you?” Roman cut in, voice sharp and unbothered, eyes locked on the stranger.
“Detective Kevin Lyles,” he replied, straightening up like the title meant something here. “I’m the lead on this case. Working directly with Mr. Braxton to close it.”
Hassan could smell the fear coming off him, even through the forced professionalism. That kind of fear always had a scent.
“You had dealings with Desmond Blackwood,” Braxton repeated, doubling down. “That puts you close to a lot of things. Including Grayson DeVille. Dead.”
Still, Hassan said nothing. His silence was loud .
Kevin jumped in again, his patience starting to crack. “Hassan Gaines Sr.—your father—used to work for Grayson’s family. As their accountant. That’s correct, isn’t it?”
At the mention of his father, Hassan’s jaw clenched, just slightly. A flicker of heat behind the eyes. But still—he didn’t speak. And that silence? It spoke volumes.
Roman looked over at Hassan, then back at the two men in front of them, but kept quiet. He was following Hassan’s lead—and if Hassan wasn’t saying shit, neither was he.
“For an accountant working with a powerful family, your father sure was a dumbass,” Braxton said with a laugh, like he found it amusing.
Like he had no idea the monsters he was sitting across from.
Hassan’s eyes met his with a glare that could kill, but he stayed silent, still, unreadable.
Braxton leaned forward slightly, grin still on his face.
“He stole money and got both him and his beautiful wife killed in cold blood.”
That one landed. Hassan didn’t show it, but on the inside, rage burned.
The image of Braxton laughing about the death of his parents made something inside him boil over, even if his face stayed stone.
Kevin glanced over at Braxton like he was crazy.
There was something about the two men across from them—too still, too calm—that made Kevin uneasy.
And the fact that Hassan hadn’t moved or spoken, even after hearing that, made it worse. The silence was louder than anything.
Then Hassan saw him—six-year-old Hassan, still bloodied, sitting just behind Braxton.
Legs swinging, voice cold. “Kill that nigga. He think my parents dying is funny.” His eyes were locked on the back of Braxton’s head.
If he was real, if he wasn’t just a hallucination, Braxton would already be dead.
Kevin cleared his throat, trying to keep the meeting from slipping off the rails.
“Desmond Blackwood was involved in the same deal your father was. We’re just trying to put the pieces together and close this case.
Carlos DeVille wants justice for his nephew and the people who stole from his family. We think you might be able to help.”
His voice held a note of caution now. He could feel it—the danger in the room. The way Roman watched everything with a hunter’s eye. The way Hassan hadn’t said a single fucking word.
Braxton wasn’t done. “It’s very ironic,” he said, leaning in with a smug look. “The same man who was a suspect in your parents’ murder ends up dead. Four years later.”
He stared at Hassan like he was hoping for a reaction. Fishing. But Hassan didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give him shit. Because Hassan didn’t react—he planned. And when he moved, people disappeared .
Ten-year-old Hassan appeared beside the six-year-old version of himself, just as bloodied, just as cold.
“These niggas need to die,” he muttered, the fury in his voice shaking something deep in Hassan’s core.
His eyes shifted toward the hallucination, and no one noticed the change in his focus—except Roman.
Roman’s gaze followed, confused when he saw nothing there but empty space.
The air in the room shifted again.
“That’s enough,” a voice called out, cutting through the tension like a blade.
The door opened, and in walked Norman Cartier.
Tall, composed, and already in control without saying much more.
He was Hassan and Roman’s lawyer—the best defense man in the country.
A living weapon in a tailored suit. His father was Jules’s lawyer, the reason that man had never seen a single jail cell despite a record that should’ve buried him.
Braxton and Kevin went still, eyes wide the second they saw him.
Norman Cartier wasn’t a name they heard often without taking a loss, and Braxton knew firsthand what that felt like.
He’d gone up against him in court and left bruised every time.
Norman wasn’t much older than them, only three years older, but he carried himself like a man who knew he couldn’t be touched.
Brown skin smooth, beard trimmed, waves sharp enough to slice through steel, standing 6’3 with his family legacy of judges and lawyers behind him—and the presence of a goddamn lion.
“Norman Cartier?” Braxton asked, tension tight in his jaw.
“I’d say good seeing you again, Braxton, but that would be a lie,” Norman said, calm but lethal as he stepped further inside. “Conversation’s over. My client was told this was an informal visit. The minute you brought up an open murder case, you crossed a line.”
Roman and Hassan stood as one, both in sync without a word. “Kill his bitch ass, Hassan,” ten-year-old Hassan growled from across the room, voice low but vibrating in Hassan’s mind. Hassan looked again, and like before, Roman clocked the way he zoned out— but didn’t say anything. Not yet.
Braxton stood now too, his frustration bubbling into desperation. “You think hiding behind lawyers will stop what’s coming?”
Norman stepped forward, not flinching. “I think you should leave. Now. Before this becomes a civil rights issue.”
Braxton didn’t move at first, his glare glued to Hassan like he was still hoping to get under his skin. But Hassan wasn’t looking at him— he was looking straight through him, past the man, to the bloodied children sitting quietly behind him like death waiting for an invitation.
Braxton finally turned to leave, Kevin trailing behind, silent. Just before stepping out, Braxton threw one last glare back at Hassan .