Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
IMANIO “GATEZ”
T he wind whipped hard atop the rooftop, fluttering the edges of the man's crisp Balenciaga tee like a surrendering flag. Blood streamed from his nose, dripping onto his designer loafers—once pristine, now smeared with red and dust from the concrete. He was rich, no doubt. But money didn’t mean much when a muthafucka was dangling between life and death.
I stood unmoved, clad in a dark hoodie and gloves despite the summer heat.
“You got three damn phones but couldn’t make one call?” My voice was low and lethal; each word cut sharper than the last.
The man whimpered, stumbling backward until his designer soles kissed the edge of the rooftop.
One slip and he’d be airborne—no screams… just splatter.
“I swear I was gon’ bring it next week, Gatez?—”
Before he could finish, I lunged forward, gripping his gold chain and yanking him close like dead weight.
“I don’t do next week,” I hissed, my face inches from his, close enough to smell the fear soaked into his expensive cologne. “You had a deadline and you missed it! So now I get to choose what you will miss—your fingers, your teeth, or your damn pulse.”
“No please!”
“I don’t want no fuckin’ plea!” I roared, voice cracking against the night. “I want consistency! Loyalty! Money! In that order!”
I leaned in again, softer that time—deadlier.
“I always give a warning before destruction. And since this is your first time trying to fuck me over, consider this your final one. So nah, I ain’t gon’ kill you today.
.. but I’m also not giving you another fuckin’ week to get my money.
You got three days. And after that? If that clock hits midnight and I still don’t have my shit, I won’t just find you, I’ll burn through your bloodline.
I’ll make yo’ mama regret ever pushing you out, make yo’ baby mama relocate, and make yo’ lil’ cousin quit middle school from PTSD.
I’ll choke yo’ name out of people’s mouths.
Nobody will say they knew you because you won’t exist.”
The man stood there, visibly trembling, his body wracked with uncontrollable shivers. His breath came in sharp gasps, reminiscent of a busted motor.
“This ain’t mercy; this is memory insurance. Next time you see my number, you better piss yourself and answer on the first fuckin’ ring,” I concluded, then shoved him back—hard. Not enough to kill, but enough to make his life flash twice.
The nigga fell to his knees instantly, sobbing into the rooftop gravel, hands raised like prayer.
I stood back, adjusting the cuffs of my hoodie, inhaling through my nose to ground myself.
Then from behind me, Chi whistled low.
“Damn. That nigga gon’ file for witness protection over a late payment.”
I turned slowly and shot him a look.
Chi shrugged. “What? I’m just saying… you ain’t collecting debt no mo’; you issuing generational trauma.”
The pathetic ass nigga on the ground scrambled to crawl away on shaky limbs, but I wasn’t finished.
I stepped forward, casting a long shadow over him.
“You can crawl away tonight, but if I see your face again without what’s owed, don’t run… just lie down and play dead; it'll save me the trouble.”
The man froze mid-scurry, then nodded so fast it looked like convulsions before darting toward the rooftop door.
“Let’s go,” I told Chi.
We followed suit, and the tightness in my shoulders eased. That inner switch flipped from ruthless to restrained— Gatez to Imanio.
As we exited the rooftop, Chi shook his head with the weight of disbelief.
“I just knew you was about to toss his ass!”
“I should’ve, huh?”
“Hell yeah! I had already rehearsed my shocked face for the news, like, ‘ Damn, man. I knew that nigga. He ain’t bother nobody. It’s some ruthless ass niggas out here .”
I laughed. “Nigga, you stupid as hell! I would’ve made that shit look like a suicide, though,” I responded, half-focused, glancing down at my phone.
I was peeking in on Naji—she was outside, legs crossed, sitting by the pool with that soft squint she’d make when she was deep in her thoughts.
Peaceful. Beautiful.
“Uh-uh, see?” Chi pointed. “Let me find out Glitchy got Gatez out here goin’ a lil’ soft. Next thing I know, you gon’ be writing poems and singing Luther by the fireplace.”
I smirked, closing out of the feed. “Shut up.”
Chi grinned, refusing to let it go. “You gon’ be over there like, ‘ Roses are red, violets are blue… I used to be ruthless, now I buy pads too .’”
“Nigga, stop! And you acting like you don’t be in Walmart, with the phone tucked under your ear holding up two boxes like, ‘ Hey baby, was it the purple Always or the green one with the wings ?”
We laughed together.
“Bro, listen. I remember when I bought Dess some pads for the first time… I walked outta CVS like I had a kilo in the bag! I held that shit like contraband!” His voice got lower than usual. “That’s when I knew I loved her.”
Then he got quiet… real quiet.
I glanced over at Chi, and for once, he wasn’t cracking a joke; just staring off like he’d time-traveled.
Chi was probably thinking about everything he and Dessign had been through.
From the moment she got had the accident—even though she had another nigga then—Dessign swore up and down she didn’t need anybody.
She was too damn proud to ask for help… too used to disappointment.
But Chi? He stayed through the hospital visits, the appointments, all the nights Dessign cried over shit she never spoke on, the bad days when she couldn’t hide the pain behind her usual sarcasm, and the moments she broke down and then cussed him out for seeing it.
He stayed through it all, even when it wasn’t easy.
Even when she was a pain in the ass—which, let’s be real, she could be.
Chi still held her down, and I respected the hell out of him for doing that.
Chi added, “That… and when I let her eat my last pack of Gushers.”
The humor slipped back in so smooth it almost felt like a setup.
“Not the Gushers, bro.”
He nodded, solemn. “The red ones too.”
“But back to what you was saying about Naji making me soft. Imanio? Maybe… and that’s just a lil’,” I admitted with a smirk. “Gatez? Nah. That nigga will forever stand on business.”
Chi leaned up against his car.
“Never thought I’d see the damn day. Outta all the women you done dealt with—Instagram models, bottle girls, the one who faked her own pregnancy for a Gucci bag, Chantel with the pet raccoon, that chick who tried to rob you with a butter knife, and ol’ girl who said y’all was ‘soulmates’ after two text messages—you end up marrying and falling for the one you kidnapped.
Not to mention the same one who called you a ‘ Sniper-hearted sugar daddy ’ mid-tic. ”
I laughed, shaking my head.
I instantly thought back to when Naji called me what Chi said and a “tight-chested tyrant in distress” during one of her “I’m-not-fuckin’-with-you” days.
I cracked up. “Yo! She said that shit with her whole chest too. I think her ass was dead serious.”
“You ever wonder if she be faking some of them tics?” he asked, lighting a blunt.
“She did once. I called her ass out, though. But for the most part? Nah, them joints be real as hell. It’s crazy, though; all them females you just mentioned, I ain’t remember half of ‘em til now.”
“That just goes to show how yo’ ass used to be wildin’.”
“Hell, how we was wildin’,” I shot back.
“True, true.” Chi nodded slowly. “Damn. We really grew up, huh?”
And it hit me… we really had.
From boys running barefoot through broken glass in the projects, to men in suits and hoodies laced with gold chains and enough war stories to fill a book. We used to dream about making it out, and somehow, against the odds, we did—but not without losses.
We used to party until the sun came up, women in and out like rotating doors.
We’d sip liquor with blood still on our hands some nights—celebrating wins we didn’t always earn the right way.
We’d been dealers, heartbreakers, street gods and fools.
We laughed in the face of death. We buried friends too young.
We made peace with shit we had no business surviving.
We both stood there for a moment, eyes locked on nothing.
“You really think you’re ready? To be a one-woman man?” Chi asked, in a serious tone.
The image of Naji curled up in my lap, hair wild, her body lotioned up in that scent she liked, eyes wide at horror movies—yeah, I think I was.
“Yeah. I think so,” I answered honestly.
“It’s time, man,” Chi agreed. “Time to settle down. Get married. Well, yo’ ass already is… even if it is by default.” He smirked. “But yeah, I’m ready to have some babies and sit out on the back porch on the weekend and grill while me and you argue over lawn care like old heads.”
I chuckled. “I’m with all that… except the lawn care part.
Nigga, as long as I got money, I ain’t raking no damn leaves, mowing no lawn, trimming no bushes—none of that shit.
I know men supposed to do shit like that, but hell…
that’s what landscaping companies are for.
I’ll pay a whole crew to argue over them leaves. ”
Chi laughed. “Facts. Scratch that part. I ain’t built for all that ‘Home Depot on Saturday morning’ shit either.”
We laughed together, and that shit felt good—like medicine.
To reminisce on where we came from, the chaos we survived, the dumb decisions that should’ve taken us out…
and to realize we weren’t those reckless boys anymore.
We’d grown to two reformed wild boys from the same cracked concrete, still breathing, still standing—finally ready to build something real.
“Speaking of Naji, she wants some more of that same weed you gave her that day. She said it helped her relax and sleep.”
Chi laughed. “Nah now. Girl got good taste. I’ll roll her up something smooth and sexy. Maybe even toss in some lavender for that bedtime bougie vibe. Might add a rose petal if I’m feeling romantic.”
I cut him a look so sharp it made him flinch.
“Too much?”
“Yeah, nigga. She’s trying to relax, not marry the joint.”
We shared a laugh, then talked a little more—joked about the dinner coming up, who’d show out the most, and whether Dessign was going to pull up with music blasting again. Then we both headed to the crib.
At the next red light, my phone dinged.
Instagram Messenger: Deoka.
“Hey... you look good in that last photoshoot. Real good. Can I see you sometime?”
I stared at the message. No emotion crossed my face. No hesitation. Blocked.
I tossed the phone into the passenger seat, leaned back, and exhaled.
Naji wasn’t just a pretty face or a good lay I hadn’t had yet—she was mine… and not in a possessive way either. I mean mine in that sacred, stupid, frustrating way that makes a man turn down pussy just to keep his own damn word about not cheating.
I was trying to do right by Naji—trying to prove I could be more than a title or a threat. That I could be a man she could trust, not just tolerate. That I could protect her without caging her. I had been doing… aight , but I strived to do better.