Chapter 28 #2
I went in first, gun drawn, silent as smoke. Chi followed close behind—hood up, blade in hand, eyes sharp like he was already deciding where to cut first.
The cashier—a skinny dude in a café-branded beanie—spotted us first. He froze where he was wiping the counter.
“Wh-What?—”
Crack!
I pistol-whipped him clean across the face. He collapsed to the floor with a grunt.
The owner—mid-50s, thick around the middle—emerged from the back and stopped short, eyes wide.
“Who—Who are you?!”
I stepped forward and pointed the barrel of my gun right between his eyes.
“W-Wait—wait! Please—” he pleaded, hands trembling in the air.
“You remember my wife?” I asked, calm as a coffin.
“Y-Your… your wife?”
“Oh. I see… maybe you got a little amnesia. No problem. Let me jog your memory. She’s about this tall.
” I raised my hand flat in the air, marking the height.
“Brown skin. Shy… real shy, but sweet, smart, has big, soft eyes that twitch when she’s nervous and a voice like wind through the trees—except when her Tourette’s kicks in.
Then, she stutters and blurts out words she can’t control… kind of like yo’ ass is doing now.”
I let that sink in for a beat.
“Most important… she’s mine . As in, married to me. As in, the only person in this whole damn world who could probably calm me down on a day I feel like this. ”
His breath caught. “It’s you… Imanio Kors.”
Of course, he couldn’t tell right off bat—ski mask and all.
I grinned. “Damn right, muthafucka… but you ain’t standin’ in front of Imanio; you’re in front of Gatez. Just for clarity… Imanio signs checks… Gatez signs death notes.”
I pressed the muzzle to his forehead.
“And you —and your lil flunkie of an employee—thought it was funny to embarrass my wife? To accuse her of stealing? When all she was trying to do was buy some fuckin’ tea?!”
“I—I didn’t know?—”
“No… you didn’t care.” My voice dipped lower. “You saw a Black girl twitching and thought crazy. You saw a luxury card and thought thief. And now you’re standing here looking like you pissed yourself, hoping I don’t blow yo’ damn head off.”
He was crying now.
“You disrespected the wrong woman,” I said, finger resting near the trigger.
He trembled. “I didn’t know—she didn’t say—she was?—”
“Don’t insult me or lie on her,” I growled. “She told you she was my wife…. multiple times. And instead of listening or hell, maybe even calling to verify it, you humiliated her, laughed at her, and threatened her.”
“We thought she was lying!” the younger boy blurted, holding his bloody nose.
My smile was deadly. “You thought wrong.”
Less than ten minutes later, both the owner and cashier were zip-tied to chairs in the back, facing each other. I paced slowly in front of them, rolling up my sleeves like a surgeon prepping for a procedure.
Chi stood to the side, casually peeling a blood orange with a box cutter—the juice dripped like blood.
“Let me make this clear,” I said. “This ain’t about a card or no fuckin’ tea; she has plenty of that shit at the crib. Me being here, boils down to disrespect . You made my wife feel unsafe. You made her tic. You made her ashamed .”
I crouched beside the cashier, who was already crying.
“I want you to look at this floor. Because your last job on this Earth… is to clean it with what’s inside of you.”
I stood and turned to Chi. “Handle him.”
Chi didn’t hesitate. He slashed the nigga’s abdomen— deep and wide —like he was gutting a deer.
The boy screamed so loud I was sure his voice rattled the ceiling tiles.
Blood sprayed everywhere—on his shirt, on the floor, on the walls, on Chi’s sneakers.
Chi grabbed him by the collar, yanked him forward like dead weight, and forced him to his knees.
Then—cold as ever—he shoved a filthy dish towel straight into the open wound.
The boy yelled, flailing, but Chi held him down.
“Bleed where you disrespected her,” I said, coldly. “This spot is stained with her embarrassment—now it’ll be stained with your blood.”
Chi snatched the towel from the boy’s gut in one brutal motion—blood spurting as the fabric tore free, slick and soaked. His screams turned to choking gurgles as blood pooled around him.
“Now clean that shit up,” Chi growled.
The cashier whimpered and writhed.
Chi slammed his hand down, dragging the soaked, bloody towel and smearing it across the tile.
“Don’t get lazy on me! Make it shine!” Chi snarled, pressing a hand to the back of ol’ boy’s neck, forcing him to keep scrubbing.
“I… I can’t!” he cried.
“Come on, little engine that could. I think I can, I think I can—now mop, bitch! ”
I almost laughed at Chi’s crazy ass comment.
Ol’ boy kept dragging the towel in weak, jerky strokes—smearing blood across the tile like the last desperate strokes of a dying artist. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one wet with agony.
Tears blurred his vision, mixing with sweat as they dripped into the thick, metallic puddle beneath him.
Every motion shredded the wound wider, flesh peeling, muscle twitching.
But he didn’t stop… couldn’t. He knew he was dying—slowly, painfully—and all he could do was try to clean it up like it would somehow save him.
I didn’t care. That wasn’t about cleaning; it was about remembering.
Then suddenly… he stopped moving.
Chi nudged him with his boot.
Nothing.
“Damn,” Chi muttered. “Little engine couldn’t after all.”
The owner was sobbing now. “Please—please don’t do this! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean?—”
I turned to him with ice in my eyes.
“Your words today destroyed a woman—shattered her in ways you couldn’t see. You made her relive a time in her life she’s been fighting to escape, a wound she’s been stitching shut for years. You don’t get forgiveness for that; you get judgment.”
“No—don’t—please—!” the guy wailed.
Initially, Chi and I had agreed to kill both of their asses the same way, but with that nigga being on the heavy side, I knew it would take a little longer to gut him—and time was something I didn’t have that night.
“Chi, you know how to work an espresso machine?” I asked, sporting a mischievous smile.
Chi stepped forward, cracked his knuckles like he was about to whip up a five-star latte, and flipped the hot espresso machine on. The metal hissed and steamed.
“Hell yeah! You remember when I was a barista for two weeks 'til I cussed out that customer for asking for ‘oat milk with attitude’? Muthafucka thought I said goat milk and called the health department. It was then that I knew—working with the public or just another muthafucka in general wasn’t for me. I almost caught an assault charge over a caramel macchiato and a side eye.”
I chuckled low, shaking my head as the machine whirred to life behind him.
Chi leaned in close to the trembling man strapped to the chair and taunted, “You want that with cream, foam, or regret?”
I untied the owner, made him stand, then grabbed him by the back of his neck and slammed his face against the counter twice…
then another time. The third time, though, his nose shattered with a wet crunch.
Blood spattered across the steel, and his teeth cracked like dry twigs on impact.
He was screaming now—ragged, animal sounds—as I yanked his arm and forced his hand flat on the espresso burner.
The sizzle of flesh meeting metal filled the air, his skin bubbled, and the smell—burnt hair, scorched meat—turned the room into a hell kitchen. He howled, twitched, and tried to pull away, but I gripped harder.
“Stay still, muthafucka” I muttered, eyes low, voice steady.
His knees buckled and body convulsed as the raw skin of his arm fused to the hot metal of the espresso machine. The hiss was drowned by his scream. I flipped him around, gripped the back of his neck, and drove my knee into his ribs with full force.
I heard the crack.
“You should’ve just handed her the damn tea,” I gritted near his ear, voice cold enough to freeze the blood already leaking from his mouth.
I took the blade from Chi— unsanitized and still slick with ol’ boy’s blood—and dragged the tip of it across his throat.
Not fast or clean—but slow, deep, and personal.
He let out a wet gurgle and his body twitched as blood soaked his shirt.
His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, desperately trying to speak—beg maybe—but no sound emerged.
Only the sharp, sickening rhythm of a man realizing that death was real and near.
Finally, his knees gave out. He dropped to the ground, shaking violently, his eyes wide and unfocused.
I knelt beside him, watching the life drain from his gaze, and whispered:
“ Now I lay you down to bleed, I pray the Devil sows your seed. If death should drag your soul tonight, tell him Gatez turned off your light.”
And then… nothing.
I glanced at the massacre.
Blood pooled across the tile and bodies slumped like discarded trash.
I stood in the center of it all, chest rising slow—calm in the storm of my own wrath.
“Before we go full Fourth of July barbecue in this bitch…” Chi said, squinting around the café. “What kind of tea did sis come here to get?”
I shot him a confused look. “Nigga, I don’t know. Why?”
“Hold up.”
Chi rushed behind the counter, yanking open cabinets and drawers. He started snatching up every box of tea bags he could find. One by one, Chi tossed them into a big box like he’d just discovered tea was the new cocaine.
“What the hell you doing?” I asked, patience thinning.
He knew when we did missions like that, we were in and out—none of that extra shit he was on.
Chi didn’t answer until he slammed the box shut with a grin.
“Look, we ain’t about to go through all this shit for nothing. Now Glitchy can have every damn kind of tea she ever dreamed of.”
Chi gave the box a little shake, like he’d just secured gold bricks instead of ginger and hibiscus.
“Imported tea, nigga. Five-star service. Not to mention, I just saved you a hell of a lot of money. You know how much this fancy shit costs at Kroger? Don’t ever say I ain’t thoughtful.”
I gave him a flat look. “So you a thief and a murderer now?”
“Anytime I stole something, it’s been for the greater good,” he shot back.
“Like Blu’s speakers?”
“Hell yeah! Besides, he had terrible taste—who the hell dies with Garth Brooks still hooked up to the aux? I did his ghost and the block a favor by taking those muthafuckas. The nigga ain’t hearin’ no music where he went, anyway; might as well let me put ’em to use.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, well, come on. And stop calling Naji that Glitchy shit.”
Chi grinned wider. “Man, that’s how we bond! She twitches, I clown. She cusses, I laugh. That’s love right there.”
Chi was a fool—always had been. No matter how reckless he acted, I knew one thing for sure: when shit got heavy, he’d always have my back… and apparently Naji’s too.
After handing me the box, Chi moved to the shelves and booths, dousing everything in lighter fluid like it was a ritual.
“You ready?” he asked, the match already in his fingers.
I nodded. “Let it burn.”
Chi struck the match and tossed it.
The flames caught instantly, devouring the walls with a hiss and roar. Fire danced in the glass, wild and hungry, as we walked out slow.
We slid into the car as smoke rose behind us, curling into the sky like a signal no one would answer.
Alarms hadn’t gone off. Nobody saw us. Nobody dared.
Chi settled into the driver’s seat and exhaled slow, like he just dropped a weight he’d been carrying for years.
“You feel better?” he asked, looking over at me.
I stared straight ahead, blood on my knuckles drying like paint.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I thought I would. But seeing Naji like that… broken like that. I can’t stop replaying it.”
Chi nodded, quiet for a second.
Then I turned to him. “Let me ask you something. I know Dess is my sister… but does her disability ever get to you? Like… the pressure of having to always defend her? Watch her every second? Fight off the dumbass comments, the looks?”
Chi didn’t answer right away. He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the ceiling like the truth was written up there somewhere.
“I wouldn’t say I always gotta defend her.
We both know that Dess can hold her own, and besides there are hundreds of muthafuckas in wheelchairs,” he finally answered.
“But yeah, it gets to me sometimes. Not ‘cause of her—but because of them. People. Ignorant muthafuckas who stare too long, talk slick or try to play her like she’s weak. It gets a lil’ heavy.
Adding on to what I have to help her with at the house.
” He paused, then looked at me dead-on. “But I’ll carry it forever.
Ten toes down behind her until I die. That’s what love is . ”
I nodded slowly, absorbing that.
“You got that same weight now,” he added.
“Now Naji’s situation is different. There’s a possibly that Dess will walk again…
on her own. But what Naji has, she’ll live with that for the rest of her life, so if she’s breaking down, you better be standing twice as strong.
She’s gonna need somebody like you; somebody who gon’ take the world off her back when shit gets too loud inside her head. ”
“I just keep wondering if I’m enough… if I got what it takes to carry it.”
“Nigga, you do. You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t already care enough to try. At this point, you love the girl, and hell, she probably loves yo’ ass too.”
I let that settle. The hum of the engine starting was the only sound for a second.
“Just don’t give up on her, man,” Chi said. “She’s worth the fight. Hell… she’s worth the body count. ”
I snorted a little at that, then shook my head.
“Real shit. We done burned a whole café down tonight for some tea. That’s commitment.”
I cracked a smile. “That’s crazy.”
“Nah,” Chi smirked. “ That’s love. ”
Maybe it is.
Then he pulled off, the fire glowing in the rearview mirror.