PROLOUGE
Today in Chicago, the atmosphere was unlike any other day. The heaviness in the air made it feel like Mother Nature was aware of the difficult day ahead. The gloomy weather matched the somber mood I was feeling. Although it hadn't started raining yet, I knew it was only a matter of time before the sky would release its pent-up emotions.
The air hung heavy with grief, a tangible weight pressing down on Nina as she stood before the open casket. Her father, once a towering figure of strength, laughter and power, laid still, his face serene in death. A single rose, she held, was placed on his chest.
The funeral home smelled faintly of lilies and regret, a scent that would forever be etched in her memory. Her mother, a fragile silhouette in black, wept silently beside her, her trembling hand reaching for Amelia's. The pastor's words, though kind, felt hollow, unable to penetrate the numbness that had settled in everyone's heart.
As the eulogy spoke of her father's accomplishments, Nina struggled to reconcile the man being described with the one who had taught her to ride a bike, made silly jokes at the dinner table, and always had a warm hug waiting for her. The images, once vivid and comforting, now felt like faded photographs from a life lived long ago.
The finality of it all, the realization that she would never again hear his voice or feel his strong arms around her, washed over her in waves of despair. She squeezed her mother's hand, offering silent promise that she would always be here for her.
The air hung heavy with grief and unspoken tension as the family of Chicago's most notorious drug lord was being carried outside by his close friends and family. Beneath the oppressive Chicago sky, mourners gathered, their eyes fixed on the procession, a silent symphony of sorrow and apprehension.
At the front left, the eldest son stood, his face a mask of icy stoicism. Mirroring him on the opposite side, the second eldest bore the same frozen visage, a chilling testament to the weight of the inheritance they now shared. Behind them, the youngest son, barely a man, held the back of the casket, his youthful features etched with a weariness far beyond his years. He, too, held his composure, his grief locked behind a wall of forced stoicism. At the very back, flanking the coffin like a silent, menacing guard, stood the kingpin's brother, his eyes cold and calculating, and a phalanx of close soldiers, their expressions mirroring the stoicism of the family.
Every eye, whether veiled in mourning or glittering with greed, knew that something had shifted, the tectonic plates of Chicago's underworld now unstable. The king was dead, a void yawning open at the heart of the city's illicit empire. Debts, colossal and unyielding, loomed like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash chaos upon the streets.
The family, once unassailable, now stood vulnerable, exposed, and the whispers that rippled through the crowd spoke of power struggles, betrayal, and the inevitable bloodbath that would follow. The silence, thick with the scent of lilies and the undercurrent of fear, was a chilling testament to the precariousness of their new reality. The city held its breath, waiting for the storm to break.
King's wife, her heart a leaden weight in her chest, approached the hearse. Her hand, trembling slightly, brushed against the polished wood of the casket. A wave of grief swept over her; the dam of her emotions broke, and she wept uncontrollably, the raw, unfiltered sound of her sorrow echoing through the quiet streets of Chicago. Her sons, instantly alerted to their mother's distress, rushed to her side, their own grief amplified by the sight of their mother's despair.
The funeral men, their faces etched with compassion, stood back, waiting. King's wife clung to the casket, her fingers digging into the wood, refusing to let go, her body wracked with sobs. Each son, their voices strained with anguish, gently tried to pull her away, as their sister stood to the side crying quietly.
As the casket was finally settled in the hearse, A speeding black car screeched to a halt before the church as four masked me dressed in black stepped out. The men wasted no time as their guns barked mercilessly, bullets spraying towards the family gathered to bid farewell to their loved one. The neighborhood erupted with screams and panic as innocent bystanders fled in terror.
The Banks family, steeled by grief and determination, responded with gunfire of their own, Dom, King's right hand man hunched behind the van where his fallen friend laid, Dom's gaze darted across the chaotic scene, searching frantically for King's wife and daughter. Spotting them huddled on the pavement, he unleashed a barrage of shots, piercing one of the men in black.
As the man crumpled to the ground, Dom took the opportunity, shielding the frightened girls from the relentless gunfire. His urgent summons reverberated through the chaos, calling for reinforcements to prepare their escape vehicle.
Despite the overwhelming grief consuming him as he laid his friend to rest, a surge of anger built up within Dom. The audacity of the men to disrupt such an occasion filled him with grief, yet a part of him knew the harsh reality of the world he operated in.
As a black van pulled up, Dom's instincts kicked in. Gathering Nina and her mother, he swiftly ushered them into the vehicle. Nina, her eyes still brimming with tears, clung to her mother, desperately checking for any injuries.
The thought of losing both parents days apart didn't sit well with her. 'Are you okay?' she asked, her voice trembling. Her mother nodded mutely, struggling to regain control of her breathing. Dom, accustomed to seeing Trina as an unyielding force, couldn't help but be taken aback by her apparent vulnerability. Yet, he reminded himself, this was far from an ordinary day.
'What about my brothers?' Nina inquired, her voice laced with concern. 'They can handle themselves,' Dom replied.
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please do not copy in forms of this book. This book is fiction, everything is made up of my imagination.
