Chapter 25 #3
"Stop crying, baby. We here, and gon' be in paradise soon," Braxt on said, turning to look at her.
Sevyn shifted her eyes—because that was all she could move. Her body felt like it was full of nails, sharp and splintered, yet somehow still numb. She was trapped in her own skin.
They pulled into the hangar, and parked.
The black and gold jet sat gleaming under the floodlights like it had been waiting on her.
She’d always known Braxton came from money, but this kind of money?
Private jet money? That was a different level.
She’d only ever met his mother—sweet, simple, and living in a modest two-story house.
Nothing about their life screamed power or this kind of wealth.
But Sevyn didn’t care about the hangar or the jet. Right now, it felt like her one-way ticket to hell.
Braxton hopped out the car as two of his armed men came around to the truck, yanked open the back doors, and gestured for Nova and Sevyn to come out.
Sevyn’s head fell forward, her body limp. Then—
Pop! A single shot cracked through the hangar.
Nova’s body jerked back, a bullet ripping through her skull. She dropped like dead weight, blood blooming beneath her like spilled ink.
Sevyn couldn’t even flinch—couldn’t scream or move—but her eyes widened, terror rushing through her like a tidal wave.
Braxton and his men scrambled, guns drawn, spinning to see where the shot came from.
Pop! Another body hit the floor—one of Braxton’s men, chest riddled, lifeless.
"Shoot back!" Braxton roared, dropping to the ground.
Sevyn's breath stuttered in her throat. She didn’t know what was happening, couldn’t see past the dark corners of the hangar, but she knew this wasn’t part of Braxton’s plan. Fear seized her chest. She was frozen, exposed, helpless.
The lights cut off—total blackness. Panic.
"Get them niggas!" Braxton yelled, scrambling for her. He yanked her from the truck with zero care, like she was just a rag doll.
Gunfire erupted—loud, chaotic, relentless. The echo of bullets rang off the walls as Braxton dug into his jacket, pulled out a syringe, and stabbed it into her side.
Sevyn cried out softly, her voice too hoarse, her body too far gone to fight. More drugs. More poison in her veins. Her arms went completely slack as Braxton slung her over his shoulder like luggage.
Tears streaked down her cheeks as she watched—watched his men fall one by one. Shot down in cold blood.
In that moment... a twisted part of her wished one of those bullets found her. Because death felt like peace compared to what waited for her on that plane. That wish died the second Braxton made it onto the jet—unscathed.
“Close the fucking doors!” he barked at a man dressed in all black with a ski mask covering his face. The hangar was still draped in shadows, and Braxton was too panicked to realize the man he was shouting at wasn’t one of his own.
He tossed Sevyn into a leather seat like she weighed nothing. Her body slammed against the armrest and a broken groan tore from her throat, pain flooding through every inch of her.
“Take this fucking plane off! Now!” he roared toward the cockpit— but no response came.
Braxton stormed down the aisle, disappearing toward the cockpit, shouting threats.
That’s when she felt it—a presence beside her. Cold. Controlled.
Familiar.
The masked man who’d helped Braxton board the plane now knelt beside her. Under the dim blue light above, she could just make out smooth, deep brown skin and a pair of eyes locked on her like she was everything.
Fear rose in her chest. Her mouth parted to scream—until those lips crushed into hers. Soft. Full. Known.
The second Hassan kissed her, she melted. Her tears fell freely, and for once, they weren’t from fear. They were warm, grateful tears. She sobbed silently into his lips.
“I’m here, baby,” Hassan whispered, pulling back to look into her face.
“San…” she breathed, barely able to get his name out before her body seized—hard. Her limbs shook violently as foam began spilling from her lips.
“No, no, no—baby, stay with me!” Hassan panicked, catching her as her body convulsed against him.
“Get her to the hospital! Now!” he barked, handing her over to Von, who was already unmasking and moving.
Von didn’t hesitate. He rushed her off the jet, carrying her limp, seizing body through the black haze of gun smoke and sirens toward the getaway SUV.
Dorian threw open the back door before Von could even call out. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with her!?” Dorian cried out, voice trembling as she slid across the seat to make room.
“She’s in shock—she’s OD’ing or poisoned, I don’t know.
Get her to the fucking hospital, Dori! Now!
” Von shouted, his voice breaking. He slammed the door behind her and Dorian tore off, tires screaming, blowing through the hangar gates with Sevyn convulsing in th e backseat—her body broken, but still breathing.
And for Hassan, that was enough. She was alive. And Braxton?
Braxton was about to die.
Braxton finally reached the cockpit—and nearly collapsed.
The pilot’s head was slumped forward, his brains painted across the windshield, a single bullet clean through his skull. Blood dripped like slow syrup, thick and red. Braxton spun around, gagged, and threw up.
Wiping his mouth with a trembling hand, he glanced to the co- pilot seat—and froze.
Ariel. Dead.
Her lifeless body sat stiff, neck twisted unnaturally, and carved into her forehead in deep, angry strokes was one word: HOE .
Dorian’s calling card.
Braxton stumbled back into the jet’s lounge area, eyes wide, body weak. Panic clawed at his chest as he tried to catch his breath. The gunfire outside had stopped. The lights inside flickered on.
As his vision cleared, he saw him. Seated exactly where Sevyn had been just minutes ago. Hassan. No. Ice. Legs spread, calm and menacing, a massive sword laid across his lap, glinting like it had already tasted blood.
Braxton’s heart dropped to his stomach. “Has...san...” he choked out, shaking now.
Hassan tilted his head, his voice calm and deadly. “Nah, nigga. Ice.”
Braxton tried to step back, but the jet’s rear door opened.
Carlos DeVille walked in slowly, each step marked by the sharp click of his cane against the floor.
“Unc… Uncle Carlos?” Braxton’s voice cracked with disbelief. Carlos didn’t blink. “You ain’t my fucking nephew,” he said coolly.
“You thought I wouldn’t find out? Stealing from me. Snitching to the feds. Using my hanger like I don’t own every inch of it.”
“I—I...” Braxton stammered, then snapped, desperate. “You got my father killed!”
Carlos let out a slow chuckle like the accusation amused him. Hassan leaned back in his chair, still silent, still deadly.
“Man, fuck the family therapy shit. Old man, do what you gotta do so I can have this bitch to myself,” he muttered.
Von and Roman stood by the exit, posted like shadows with guns on their hips and smirks on their lips.
Carlos waved a hand lazily. “Nah… I stopped getting my hands dirty a long time ago. But I do love a good show.”
He eased into one of the leather seats and leaned back, like he was settling in for a movie .
Hassan rose—slowly. Intentionally.
The sword dragged lightly against his thigh as he moved. His eyes never left Braxton.
Braxton took a shaky step backward, but his escape was already blocked. Roman and Von stood behind him, arms crossed, smiles cold.
There was no running. The room was filled with silence. Sharp. Heavy. Dangerous. And in the middle of it all, Ice was ready to make him bleed.
Hassan set his sword down in the seat before turning to Braxton. “What the fuck you do to my baby?” he asked, voice cold, steady, and unforgiving.
Braxton tried to hold his ground, voice shaking but laced with defiance. “She not your baby.”
“Wrong answer.” Hassan moved so fast Braxton didn’t see the punch coming until it landed hard in his gut, folding him over with a wheeze. It felt like he got hit by a damn truck. He crouched down, gasping, face twisted in pain.
“Get up, nigga! You wanted to touch what’s mine?” Hassan shouted, his voice sharper than a blade.
“She’s not yours,” Braxton managed to say through a shallow breath.
Hassan hit him again—this time to the ribs.
Braxton’s legs gave out completely. He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t even speak. But Hassan wasn’t finished.
He grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall with so much force it made the cabin shake.
Braxton’s face turned red, eyes bulging, fear setting in so deep he pissed himself.
Roman laughed. “Nigga just peed on himself.” Von chuckled too, but Hassan didn’t flinch.
His face stayed cold, unreadable. He pulled a knife from his pocket and drove it through Braxton’s hand, nailing him to the wall.
Braxton screamed, but it only fueled Hassan’s rage.
Another knife. Another hand. Braxton was now hanging, suspended in agony, blood pouring from both palms.
“Damn,” Carlos muttered from the back, watching like he was at a private showing.
Hassan grabbed his sword and slowly unsheathed it, eyes never leaving Braxton. “I seen the cuts on my baby. You sliced her up like she was meat?” Braxton whimpered, couldn’t answer. “That what she was to you?” Hassan continued, voice calm but lethal. “Meat?”
Tears streamed down Braxton’s face as he shook his head, but Hassan wasn’t moved.
He thought of Sevyn screaming, broken, chained to a fucking bed, bleeding from wounds this coward gave her.
He lifted the sword and in one swift, clean slice, took Braxton’s right leg clean off.
The scream that erupted from Braxton’s throat wasn’t human.
Roman winced. Von turned away for half a second, even though they’d both been waiting on this.