After years of observation in the shadows, Judah, a notorious and well respected drug trafficker, becomes obsessed with a basketball lover, Kianna-after being tasked with killing her-despite her unawareness of his existence. He proceeds to carry out...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Judah's fingertips gripped the zipper of his pants to pull it back up while his eyes remained on Renee as she dragged her nose across a line of white powder on the desk with spit and semen still plastered all over the bottom half of her face.
He pulled a Louis Vuitton belt through the loops of his jeans, adverting his attention to the Nokia cell phone that rung in his pocket. After buckling the belt, he removed the phone and placed it up against his right ear.
"Boss, it's Traydon. Clear." One of the main-but most simple-rules of the game, never speak first on the phone.
Even though tapped calls were a thing of the past, the cops and federal agents in New York often got ahold of numbers of certain business men by certain employees of said business men, hoping they'd implicate themselves and save the police from having to do the work.
The men employed under Judah knew to always announce that it was clear to speak. If it wasn't and they were in the presence of law enforcement, a specific code would be said. Only his men knew the code. He kept a very tight circle.
"What's good?" Judah gestured for Renee to leave with a head tilt, and she did as told after scooping the last bit of powder into the palm of her hand.
"We got a problem down here. Cane here and this nigga say he ain't leaving 'til he see you. He said somethin' 'bout niggas tryna hit at yo' pops or somethin' like that." Traydon muffled out into the phone.
"Kill hi-matter fact, don't touch 'em. I'm on my way." Judah ended the call without waiting for a response, flipping the phone closed.
He grabbed the jacket to his suit and slid it over his shoulders while making his way to the large brown door that separated his office from the hallway. He locked it behind himself and then stepped on the elevator that was at the end of the hall.
There were five floors in the seemingly abandoned warehouse deep in Spanish Harlem, known commonly as East Harlem. Almost every window was cardboard covered and damn near half of the building was underground from past incomplete demolition.
The top floor only held Judah's office and a miniature apartment because of how much time he spent here. Most nights he didn't have time to go home. He was always working. You'd think that with as successful as he was, he could leave it up to his employees to get everything done. Nobody got shit done like him though.
Second floor was where most of the weaponry and ammunition was stored. Any and every gun you could name, Judah had it. Handguns, pistols, revolvers, rifles, AK's, M16s, machine guns, shotguns-the whole nine yards. He had grenades too, if his collection of guns wasn't impressive enough.
The third floor was mainly for his guys to chill in during their down time. It had an exceptionally large kitchen, four bathrooms, a laundry room, and six PS5 monitors for them to play games on. There were three maids and three cooks that rotated working days to make sure his men were always taken care of, 24/7.
