Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The sound of Ace’s crocodile shoes slapping against the marble floors did nothing to drown out the roaring in his ears, the voice in his head begging for blood.
He stormed past the host without a word, his mind only barely registering his youngest brother, Von falling in step to his left and his head of security, Ray, to his right.
His pulse thrummed and his blood sang with anticipation.
His fingers flexed as he awaited the opportunity to get his hands on the nigga who decided playing with his family’s money was a smart thing to do.
Ace was there to dispel that misinformed notion.
He hardly ever handled these things personally anymore but every once in a while, a point needed to be made.
This was one of those times.
Von spoke with one of the waitresses who guided them in the direction of the private section of the lounge where Tyrell and his crew could be found.
The rising businessman had taken out a loan from the Kings and defaulted on his payments three times now, warranting a visit from Ace.
Tyrell sat in a VIP section with a waitress perched on his lap. He smiled broadly as the woman poured expensive champagne into his glass, then the outstretched glasses of his associates.
Ace heard Ray chuckle beside him. He was sure his anger rolled off him in waves and his friend knew that he was about to be on one. Wordlessly, they made their way to the section. Before they even made it to the velvet rope closing it off, Tyrell noticed their approach and froze.
Ace smiled. It was a wicked smile. A sinister smile. A smile that told Tyrell that he should listen to that uneasy feeling in his gut warning him of danger.
Instead of unlatching the rope, Ace tipped the metal rods holding it up over, sending them crashing to the floor with a loud clang that drew the attention of nearby patrons.
Seeing who was making the commotion, they all averted their gazes. Not everyone knew how deep the King influence ran or how dark their roots were, but most knew that Ace and his family ran New York and it was best to mind your business where they were concerned.
“What are we celebrating?” Ace boomed with a fake jovial tone over the soft music playing throughout the dining area.
He snatched the champagne glass from Tyrell and sat on the chair across from him, kicking his feet up on the table that divided them.
Von pulled up a chair and wedged himself in between two of Tyrell’s men and Ray stood at the entrance of the section, posted up like a sentry.
Ace cut his eyes to the waitress who looked on with concern.
Wordlessly, he tipped his head in the direction he’d just come from.
Understanding his silent demand, she stood quickly and scurried to the exit without question.
Ray stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm and handed her a knot of cash for her trouble and silence.
Ace turned his attention back to Tyrell whose light skin had visibly paled. He took a sip of the champagne and nodded in approval as the taste greeted his tongue. He picked up the bottle the young lady had left behind and took a photo for future reference.
“Motherfucka’ has good taste,” he remarked to Von. “This bitch smooth.”
Von raised a brow. “Word? Aye pour me a glass,” he instructed the man closest to him, nudging him with the barrel of his gun. Shakily, the man took the bottle from Ace and poured a shallow glass. Von’s entire face screwed up.
“The fuck is you rationing for my nigga? Y’all paid for this shit with our money anyway. Pour me up, before you piss me off,” he barked. The man jumped and did as he was told, pouring more of the expensive champagne into Von’s glass.
“Stingy ass motherfucka’,” Von mumbled watching the man fill up the glass.
Von snatched it from him then took a long swig, smacking his lips obnoxiously as he savored the flavor of the spirit.
After a moment, he nodded in agreement. “Hell yeah. This motherfucka hit,” he co-signed.
Ace chuckled. If he couldn’t count on anyone else to indulge him in his theatrics, he could always count on his little brother.
Whether they wanted to admit it or not, they were two sides of the same coin.
Whereas Ace’s violence was calculated and refined into stoicism after years of training, Von’s was manic and reckless, but between the two of them, they were missing more than a few screws.
Ace pulled his pistol from where it was holstered in the back of his dress pants and kicked his feet back up, setting it on his lap as he took another swig.
“Now Tyrell. Explain to me how the fuck you have the bread to be out here entertaining hoes, renting out sections, and buying thousand dollar bottles of champagne but you still owe us $80,000,” Ace said calmly. “Break it down to me like I’m five cause I don’t understand that shit.”
“Man Ace, look I-”
Hearing the name of the man who’d interrupted their evening made the men with Tyrell sit up straighter. Ace was well known by name, but rarely seen in the streets. His reputation preceded him though, and having to come deal with you personally was an inconvenience that you would pay for.
Ace held a finger up, cutting him off. “Until that debt is reconciled, you owe me money. Ain’t nothing worse than seeing a motherfucka that owe you money out having a good time. What, you thought we wasn’t gon’ notice?”
“I didn’t know man,” Tyrell shook his head. “My bad, I’ll fix it.”
Ace chuckled feeling his temper flare. “You didn’t know? That’s yo final answer?”
Tyrell’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water but no words exited for much longer than Ace could tolerate.
He felt his anger multiply with each passing second he didn’t hear anything convincing enough to let the man in front of him continue breathing.
After a full 30 seconds of silence, Ace drained the contents of the champagne flute and slammed it down roughly, causing the glass to shatter.
Ace reached across the table and gripped Tyrell by the collar of his designer shirt, then snatched him over the table.
Shards of glass scraped him and his clothing as Ace dragged him over it.
Ace reared his arm back and sent two blows to his nose, satisfied when he heard the crack of the bone and saw the blood begin to flow.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ace saw movement from Tyrell’s associates but they were quickly halted when Von cocked and aimed his gun.
“It’s enough bullets in this bitch to go around if that’s what y’all want but I suggest you sit the fuck down,” he warned. Slowly, they all reclaimed their seats, resigned to watching their friend face his consequences without them.
Though he was outnumbered, Von was surgical with his shit and between him and Ray — who’d been standing guard silently until then — they’d be able to take them all down without so much as a graze.
“You didn’t know huh? You know how to count right?” Ace growled, towering above Tyrell who kneeled in front of him with a bloody nose.
“Yes,” Tyrell whimpered.
“You sure? Math ain’t everyone’s strong suit.”
“They lost me when they started adding letters to the shit but I had no issues with addition and subtraction,” Von chimed in.
Ace turned his attention eyes on Tyrell. “What about you? You good at math?”
“Y-yes,” Tyrell answered. The terror glistening in his eyes only spurred Ace on further.
“Yeah? Let’s see. You seem like the kind of nigga who still counts on his fingers.”
Ace gripped one of Tyrell’s hands and bent the index finger back until the finger was at a 90 degree angle and the bone protruded from the skin.
An agonizing scream flew from Tyrell’s mouth and Ace punched him in the face to quiet him. “Go ahead nigga, count.”
“O-o-one,” Tyrell barely breathed out.
“Good shit,” Ace said then did the same to the middle finger, this time slapping a hand over Tyrell’s mouth to quiet his screams. Ace removed his hand once the vibration of Tyrell’s scream ceased and waited but nothing came from Tyrell but sobs.
“I can’t hear you nigga,” Ace barked.
“Two,” Tyrell wailed, his eyes barely staying open.
On his ring finger Ace did the same and glared down at Tyrell waiting for the next number.
“T-t-three,” he sobbed.
“Ah, so clearly you can count.” Moving his grip from Tyrell’s collar to his neck, Ace squeezed and stood bringing him with a crushing grip on his windpipe.
“So either you’re incompetent and can’t handle simple counting or you lied to my motherfuckin’ face.
Did I give you the impression I played them type of games? ” Ace asked through gritted teeth.
Tyrell whimpered and did his best to shake his head. Ace squeezed Tyrell’s throat tighter and sent a punch to his mouth. “I don’t speak sign language nigga. Did I ever give you the impression that you could play with me or my money?” Ace asked again, voice booming above the sound of the music.
“No,” Tyrell wheezed out, breathless with pain.
“No,” Ace echoed. “This ain’t charity nigga.
I ain’t running a Salvation Army.” Still unsatisfied, Ace released Tyrell letting him fall to the floor then began raining punches down on his face.
Ace relished in the crunch of bone under his fists as he administered blow after blow to the man beneath him.
He put all 260 pounds of his weight behind each punch, showing no mercy as he doled out his punishment.
“Ace.”
The calm voice of his brother Jrue cut through the fog of his rage, effectively pausing his movement. The single word a signal that the man on the other side of his fists had had enough. Reluctantly, Ace stood, leaving the thief a bloodied, broken mess on the ground.
Of Ace’s four siblings, Jrue was the second oldest—directly under Ace—and the only one who could help reign in his violent tendencies when he let them off the leash.