Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
CHAUNCEY
The energy shifts. I’m still staring at Simmy’s phone like she might respond, praying I ain’t pushed her any further away. I notice Simmy watching me for a second before he reaches over and snatches his phone out of my hand.
“Aye,” he says, firm.
I cut my eyes at him instantly.
“Give me my shit.”
“Not right now. Give me a minute,” I replied, calm yet unmoving.
“It’s time to get back to fucking business.”
That lands differently because that tone ain’t about Rhy—it’s about the streets. Coop shifts off the wall, cracking his knuckles once. True walks through the door, jaw tight.
“We got the drop,” he says. And just like that, everything in me changes.
The softness?
Gone.
The hurt? Buried. Now it’s just me—cold, focused, dangerous.
“Where?” I ask, voice low.
“South side, nigga. Little apartment off Ophelia Court. They all there.”
“Oh yeah?”
Silence fills the room for a second—heavy—because everybody knows what that means. I lean back slowly, dragging a hand over my mouth, eyes dark now. Rhy? Gone from my face. Not my mind—but my face? Yeah… she’s gone.
“Are they comfortable?” I ask.
True smirks slightly. “Too comfortable.”
I nod once. “They shouldn’t be.”
And there it is—the switch. From love to war.
“Lock that shit down,” I say, my voice steady now. “I want eyes on that building. Nobody in, nobody out.”
Simmy nods. Coop is already reaching for his phone. True is grinning like he’s been waiting on this all night.
“And when I get out of this bed…” I add, eyes fixed straight ahead, “…I’m handling this shit myself.”
No yelling.
No extra words.
Just promise—the kind that don’t fucking miss. My niggas move like bosses. Simmy first—a real street nigga, calculated, every step measured. Coop? Silent killer. A nigga will never see him coming. And True… True is the one you know is coming—the worst fucking way.
Phones muted.
Eyes peeled.
No drama. Only business.
By nightfall, the city whispers. By midnight, Simmy texts: we got one. Photos. A scrambled location. A driver’s name. They peel into a block of busted stoops and flickering porches—the kind of place the sun forgets on purpose.
Two cousins—lame ass niggas with more bravado than sense—get scooped at a corner store.
One goes down with a rolled wrist; the other gets caught mid-run, lungs burning, jaw clamped shut.
Coop’s grip is the kind that leaves an imprint you don’t forget.
No theatrics—just quick hands, blindfolds, and brute efficiency.
Kori’s place is quieter—a cramped apartment with curtains stitched tight to keep the world out. The room stays quiet—but I’m not alone. Simmy’s phone sits in my hand now, speaker low, a second line patched through as if I never left the streets at all.
Every breath. Every shuffle. Every word. I hear it. Clearly.
“Can I help you?”
Her voice.
Light.
Fake.
Like she doesn’t know death just knocked on her door. Simmy doesn’t answer right away—and I know why. He’s letting it breathe, letting her feel it.
“Aye… you Kori Johnson.”
A pause.
“Who wants to know?”
I lean back slowly against the hospital bed, jaw tightening, eyes locked on nothing.
Still listening.
“You got about ten seconds.”
Simmy pauses for a beat.
“Your time is up.”
The crew’s movement is swift, calculated, and unrefined. A muffled gasp. Then—confusion erupts.
“WAIT—!”
Her voice cracks now. Not as polished. Not as confident.
“Please—please, I ain’t?—”
A thud. A struggle. Then silence again. Controlled, yet professional.
My niggas.
I exhale slowly through my nose, dragging my thumb across my lip.
“Put her on,” I say.
Calm.
Too calm.
There’s a shuffle on the other end. Fabric. A chair scraping.
Then— “…hello?” Her voice was smaller now.
Shaking.
Good.
“You know who this is?” I ask, low.
Silence.
Then—“…Chauncey?”
My jaw tightens. “Yeah,” I say.
A breath leaves her as if she’s been holding it all night. “Listen—I didn’t mean for any of that to happen, I swear?—”
“Stop.”
One word. She goes quiet instantly. “I don’t care what you meant,” I say. “I care what happened.” My fingers tap once against the phone. Slow but measured. “You called them lame ass niggas,” I say.
She hesitates.
Wrong fucking move. “Answer me.”
“…yes.”
There it is. Truth always sounds different when it’s afraid.
“I just wanted them to scare her,” she rushes out. “I didn’t know they were gonna shoot?—”
“Her?” I cut in. That word lands heavy. Because now I’m listening differently. “You were trying to touch her?”
Silence.
Too long.
“I—”
“Answer me.”
“…yes.” Everything in me goes still. Not loud. Not explosive.