Chapter 3
Chapter Three
IMANIO “GATEZ”
L ater that night, I ended up at some rooftop pool party with Chi—not for fun, hell no, but because he asked me to roll through.
After the week I had, though, I could use a drink…
or ten. Still, I never let myself get too faded, especially not around strangers.
I needed to be sharp, alert, and aware of everything breathing near me.
“These bitches slap!” Chi hollered, tossing a bone into the wing basket like he was shooting for MVP. He was on his second order.
For him to be built like a damn toothpick, the nigga ate like he had a tapeworm and a trust fund.
I sat back and sipped my dark liquor in silence and let the burn settle on my tongue before it slid down my throat. My eyes swept the rooftop—discreet, casual, but calculated. I clocked every exit, every security camera, and every shady corner where somebody could hide a secret or a weapon.
The setup was what one would expect: a pool, a pool table, a poker table, and plenty of half-naked women—some of which definitely should’ve consulted a full-length mirror, a best friend, and maybe a priest before choosing their outfits.
There were bottle girls twirling around like glittery mosquitoes, handing out overpriced liquor, watered-down drinks, finger foods they kept calling “gourmet,” even blunts.
Yes, blunts —pre-lit, passed around, mystery blunts; the kind only a damn fool would take.
And guess what? The rooftop was packed with plenty of fools flexing for the ‘Gram’.
Niggas were dressed in $1,200 outfits with $12 mindsets, acting like the skyline was their backdrop for a Forbes feature.
Chains, heavier than their ambition, swung around necks that couldn’t carry a real plan.
Niggas were posted up like CEOs but couldn’t spell “entrepreneur,”.
Then there were those who were loud as hell when the music dropped but went mute when the check came.
It was a parade of delusion with niggas dressed like wealth, searching for a free connection and a come-up.
Then there was me.
I sat in the far corner, posted up in a lounge chair with my hood pulled low like a man either in mourning or allergic to socializing.
I didn’t go there to be Imanio Kors; I went to lay low, breathe, and watch the room not run it.
I just wanted to chill. No cameras. No “Aren’t you the guy from—?
” No fake-ass handshakes or folks asking for favors they couldn’t afford.
I didn’t want niggas sliding in my space trying to network with a smile and desperation in their eyes.
I wasn’t there to save, sign or entertain nobody.
I just wanted air, peace, and maybe a few minutes of not being him.
And if anybody mistook my silence for softness, the Glock tucked near my ribs and the look in my eyes would clear that up real quick.
Chi, on the other hand, was in his natural habitat.
Loud. Flashy. Dripping in designers.
He was all laughs and dap-ups.
“And why you sitting yo’ ass over here looking like the Grim Reaper at happy hour?
I also saw yo’ photoshoot from the other day.
How you a whole billionaire but still look like you hate money?
It’s like, you were mad they direct-deposited the money?
Yo’ stiff ass was on the front page of Rich Man Digest looking like somebody ran over yo’ puppy, peed in yo’ cereal, snatched yo’ inheritance away, and repossessed yo’ yacht… all before breakfast.”
“Maybe that did happen… not the part about my yacht, though,” I said.
None of that happened, of course. But don’t play with me about my yacht—that was one of my most prized possessions. Whenever I needed an escape from the madness, the media, from Imanio or even Gatez, I’d hit the water; just me, the waves, and whatever playlist matched my mood that day.
Chi leaned back in his chair, wiping wing grease off his mouth.
“Yo’ ass need yo’ own magazine… something like Billionaire Behavior Weekly or Forbes his lemon pepper–coated fingers hovered in the air like he wasn’t sure if he needed to grab his drink or his Glock.
“Talk to me about what? Nigga, I don’t know you,” I stated, voice low, calm, and dry as ash.
“My cousin Jamal! He used to run with Dre and them! He told me you the man to see if somebody need something handled on the low, ya feel me?”
Chi let out a long breath through his nose then tapped the dude’s elbow with the back of his ringed hand.
“Aye,” he said, grinning without humor. “You real bold for somebody who just walked into a lion’s den with lunch money and assumptions.”
Ol’ boy frowned. “Say what?”
Chi pointed a chicken bone at him like a wand. “You talking to the wrong muthafucka, my boy.”
“Nah, I’m just saying, I respect his work. I ain’t trying to be on no disrespectful shit.”
“That’s the problem.” Chi’s grin grew wider, still lounging like nothing was serious. “You came over here thinking this was casual… like this nigga take walk-ins.”
I didn’t say a word; I just stared at him, unblinking.
He finally turned back to me.
“Look, man, I got a lil’ situation I need help with. All I’m asking for is a tiny favor.”
I took one slow sip of my liquor, then set the glass down gently.
“Your first mistake,” I finally spoke quietly, “was approaching me like you earned the right to.”
I locked eyes with him, confronting the quiet, coiled darkness that most people only whispered about but never dared to confront. My expression was blank—devoid of mercy or warning. It was a silent promise: keep playing, and you’ll discover exactly what I’m capable of.
“Second… you said a name I don’t recognize. Gatez?” I leaned back, tugging at my beard, then glanced over at Chi. “You ever heard of a nigga named Gatez?”
“Nah.” Chi shook his head, wearing the most serious expression.
“Never heard that name round here before. But he sound like the type of nigga I wouldn’t wanna cross paths with.
Probably the kind that’ll charge you interest just for breathing near him…
and send a receipt after. Shid, you look at him wrong, next thing you know yo’ light bill tripled. ”
Me and Chi laughed that shit off to throw ol’ boy off, leaving him more confused than he already was.
“Definitely,” I said, the sound dying quick in my throat as I cut my eyes back on him, letting him know playtime was over.
“Look, I hate to be the one to disappoint you, but that Gatez nigga ain’t me, homie. We all got a twin out here somewhere—mine must be the one people whisper about when the lights go out.”
I let that lie float in the air while watching him fold under the weight of it.
“But… if I was this Gatez nigga—just speaking hypothetically—I wouldn’t entertain small talk or tiny favors; I’d handle endings and would probably charge more than most people’s lives are worth.
And from the looks of it, you wouldn’t be able to scrape together the kind of money it’d take to make me move.
So I don’t know who the fuck boosted yo’ head up to come over here to talk to me, but whoever it was, they should’ve also told you to keep yo’ distance . ”
Chi stood, towering over the nigga just enough to apply pressure.
“Nigga, you out here calling ghosts like you ready to join ‘em. I don’t know what you thought you was gon’ get from this conversation, but it’s obvious you came over here to make a deal. Instead, you might be leaving with a message.”
“Wh-what message?” he stammered.
Chi leaned in real close. “The kind of message they don’t deliver in envelopes; you gon’ carry it on your body in bruises, in silence, maybe in a casket if you push it.
Next time, don’t approach the executioner like he's a customer service rep. Now, you got ten seconds to get the fuck from over here before one of us turn yo’ lil’ ‘situation’ into your eulogy. ”
Ol’ boy backed up quick, nodding like his neck was on a swivel.
“Aight. Aight. Respect. My bad for the misunderstanding. Y’all enjoy the rest of y’all night.”
He dipped so fast he nearly collided with a waiter.
Chi slid back into his seat with a head shake. “Misunderstanding my ass! That nigga was bold as fuck for approaching you; I’ll give ‘em that. Common sense? Not so much.”
“None,” I muttered. “And who the hell is Dre anyway?”
Chi shrugged. “Hell if I know… sounds like a snitch alias to me. You want me to run a check?”
I gave a quick nod. “Definitely.”
Chi checked his phone, then squinted at the screen, holding it away like it had spit in his hand. A second later, he grinned, but it came with a side of stress.
“Speaking of girlfriends, nigga, one of yours just texted me.”
I frowned. “Nigga, I ain’t got no damn girlfriend.”
“I was being sarcastic, muthafucka.”
Before I could clap back, a bottle girl rolled up beside us.
“Hold that thought,” Chi said, giving her his undivided attention.
“Hey! Can I get y’all something else to drink? Eat maybe?” she asked.
“Yeah, bring my man here something dark, smooth, and violent,” Chi requested.
“Whatever makes him human again and stops him from plotting murders in his head for ten minutes.” Chi leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing a deadly secret.
“The last time he was this quiet, a man disappeared and his shoes showed up on Craigslist.”
The waitress’s eyes stretched. “I—um…”
“No, for real… just make it quick. This crazy nigga starts pacing when he gets thirsty… and we don’t want that.”
The waitress looked at me like I was plotting the downfall of humanity.