Chapter 4
Chapter Four
NAJI
A fter dozing off to Genius , the show I’d been binge watching, I woke up around midnight with a craving for my usual peppermint tea that I made faithfully.
I had come to rely on that soothing ritual.
The warm tea helped calm my nerves and effectively kept my tics at bay when they threatened to break through.
Standing up, I secured my robe around me and tiptoed out of the bedroom with my fuzzy socks whispering against the steps and an empty mug in hand. I was hoping for quietness, but silence had other plans.
Low voices drifted up from the lounge floor below, just beneath me. Instinctively, I crouched and peered through the slats of the railing that overlooked Blu Notes. The lights were dim—the club clearly closed—but three figures moved in the shadows near the stage.
I squinted.
Blu stood in front of a man, near the edge of the stage, his arms stretched slightly like he was pleading or trying to reason with him. There was another guy sitting coolly in a chair nearby, elbows on the table, and a gun resting in front of him like it was part of the centerpiece.
My chest tightened. I felt like every breath might be my last if I made the wrong sound. My palms dampened, sweat prickling at the back of my neck, and I could hear my own heartbeat pounding like it was trying to run without me. That gun wasn’t pointed at me, but it might as well have been.
Lord, what did I walk into?
“Come on, man! I—I got caught up!” Blu stammered, visible sweat beading down his bald head. “I had some unexpected bills to come my way! I just need a lil’ more time!”
The fine , dangerous-looking man who was seated, rose slowly, his movements deliberate and controlled.
Even from the stairs, I could feel it—the air shifting, thick with tension.
“Now, Blu, correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, his voice soft but laced with menace, “but you said you needed more time the last time we talked. It’s been six weeks, nigga…
six weeks too long. That’s not ‘needing time,’ that’s spitting in my face.
” His words cut through the dimly lit room like shards of glass, sharp and unforgiving.
Blu’s eyes darted like a cornered animal and his hands trembled like a man already halfway buried.
“Gatez, I’ll get it together! I promise! Just give me a few more weeks and I got you!”
Gatez? My pulse spiked, the name crashing through my chest like a warning bell. I’d heard it before—I knew I had.
It hit me then: one night, weeks ago, I walked up on Blu and overheard him talking to someone on the phone.
His voice was low and urgent, like he was discussing something too dangerous to even be discussed over the phone.
But I’d never forget that name mentioned— Gatez.
I didn’t get much more out of the conversation other because the second Blu spotted me, the conversation ended.
He forced a smile and switched topics so fast it almost gave me whiplash.
I didn’t press it, didn’t ask, but the way he shut down told me all I needed to know: Whoever Gatez was, he wasn’t just a name.
He was power, he was fear, and apparently, he was the man standing in that room.
Gatez moved like a thundercloud—slow, dark, and full of destruction just waiting to strike.
“Now, either you think I’m stupid… or suicidal,” he said, with a chilling calm.
Blu stumbled back a step; his hands raised in a futile gesture of surrender. “Neither!”
“You know how many times I heard that shit?”
“Plenty,” the other guy answered before Blu could, now leaned against the piano like that was casual entertainment with a cold beer in his hand.
His tone carried no sympathy, just confirmation—as if Blu’s excuses were part of a script they’d already rehearsed a hundred times.
“Look,” Blu prepared to explain, “I thought I had a deal lined up?—”
Gatez scoffed, cutting him off with a sound that was more expressive of disdain than humor.
“You think I give a damn about your little fantasy deals? Your wishful thinking doesn’t pay debts.” His tone never rose. It didn’t have to. There was something far more threatening in how calm he stayed.
“Gatez, I just need a few more weeks! I’ll get it together, I promise!
Don’t kill me, man! I’m begging you! I’ll make it right—whatever you want, I’ll do it.
Y’all want free drinks? You wanna throw a party here?
Shut the place down for a weekend or two, it’s yours! Just don’t do this! Not like this!”
“Free drinks?” the nameless guy scoffed. “Nigga, the only thing getting poured tonight is blood.
I felt the familiar twitch of a tic creeping up on me, but somehow, by sheer force, I swallowed it back, lips pressed tight until the moment passed.
Gatez glanced at the other guy and let out a light chuckle—so quick and shallow it didn’t reach his eyes—before his expression snapped back to stone.
His voice rolled out smooth but merciless. “This place is definitely about to shut down… just not the way you think.”
“Come on, Gatez! You know I’m good for it!” Blu steadily pleaded, though his words fell on deaf ears.
“Nigga, I don’t know you like that,” Gatez replied, his tone cold and flat, devoid of any warmth, like the pulse of a deceased heart.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
“And if you were good for it, we wouldn’t be here six weeks later, with me wasting my time listening to recycled excuses.
Good men pay. Dead men promise. Now what I do know is a man who owes me ninety-five thousand dollars.
That’s it. That’s all. To me, you’re not a person, Blu; you’re just a monetary balance that hasn’t been cleared. ”
Gatez fixed his gaze on Blu, his eyes narrowing as if calculating the most discreet place to dispose of a body if this conversation didn’t go in his favor.
“I—I got about twenty-five thousand dollars!” Blu stammered, desperation dripping from every word.
“Twenty-five thousand,” Gatez repeated with a sharp, incredulous scoff. “And you owe ninety-five? That’s not payment—that’s disrespect dressed up like a handout.”
“That’s all I can manage right now! I swear I’ll come up with the rest! Just give me some time, and I promise to pay you back with interest!”
Gatez’s hand moved with slow, deliberate precision as he retrieved the sleek black handgun off the table. The metal gleamed under the dim light as he methodically twisted a silencer onto the muzzle, each click echoing like a countdown.
My eyes widened, breath snagging in my throat. I flinched back instinctively.
No, please don’t shoot him! Don’t do this! Don’t make me watch this!
The plea screamed inside my skull, but my lips stayed shut, sealed by terror.
I can’t be a witness to a murder! I can’t carry that! I’ve already got enough scars, enough trauma, enough nights where sleep feels like punishment. I can’t add this to the list! Please, Lord, not this!
My thoughts tumbled, spiraling into panic until the room itself felt too small to hold the weight pressing on my chest.
Gatez finally spoke, voice laced with finality. “Unfortunately, Blu, time’s a privilege you lost after the first lie. Every excuse since then? Just more dirt on your own grave. Say hi to my granddaddy for me.”
“No wait—!” Blu started, but it was too late.
BANG!
Forgetful of the fact that a ceramic mug was still clutched in my hand, I suddenly clamped both hands over my mouth to stifle the scream that surged up from my throat. The mug slipped from my grip and shattered against the wooden stairs, sending shards scattering in all directions.
The sharp sound echoed through the air, and both men turned their heads sharply towards me. Based on their shocked expressions, it was clear they weren’t expecting anyone else to be there.
My breath came in short, frantic bursts, each inhalation sharp and shallow as my tics surged again—my shoulder jerked involuntarily, my neck twisted without permission, and my elbow snapped out in a small, erratic movement.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—snakes in my soup—Fuck!” I blurted out.
The guy at the bar, raised an eyebrow. “Uh… Bro?”
“Chi, I heard it,” Gatez acknowledged calmly.
So, Chi is his name? The thought flickered, but I had more pressing matters than learning who was who in that house of death. Survival was the only name that mattered at that moment.
I attempted to ease my way up the creaking staircase, but as I lifted my foot, the wood groaned underneath me, protesting my tentative movements.
Gatez’s voice sliced through the silence, cold and commanding.
“Whoever you are… come down.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, a cold chill racing down my spine as I froze, paralyzed by fear.
I pressed my hand over my mouth to muffle the outburst building in my throat.
It wasn’t just a scream; it felt acidic…
like vomit… like my whole body was trying to reject the horror it had just absorbed.
My stomach churned violently under the weight of silence, and I prayed he couldn’t hear the ragged sound of my breath behind my palm.
“I’m gonna ask you one more time. Show yourself.”
The shift in his tone made the situation feel even more threatening. But I couldn’t go down. My legs didn’t even feel like they belonged to me anymore. My mind screamed move, while my body stayed stuck in place, like prey that already knew the predator had my scent, and the danger was closing in.
Gatez took a slow breath, loud enough for me to hear from where I was frozen on the stairs.
“I’m not the type of man who asks twice; that’s too close to begging—and I don’t beg anyone for a damn thing. So this is it. You’ve got one minute to show your face… or someone else will be scraping what’s left of it off these stairs.”