❝𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄❞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱

Travis

As I left the store, my phone buzzed loud in my pocket. I didn't need to look to know who it was, so I fished it out, already hittin' answer. "Boss," I muttered, keepin' my tone steady. Silence on the other end, just faint footsteps and whispers floatin' through. Then he finally spoke.

"I'm at your complex."

Another heavy quiet fell, thick as smoke. I clenched my jaw, lettin' out a long breath through my nose. Soon as the call cut off, I was already movin'.

Fear? That don't exist for me. Ain't in my blood. But I'll admit, sittin' one-on-one with the boss never felt right. Not that he was really ever alone, though; nah, his crew was always around, hangin' back but close. Right now, they loungin' on my couch, got their feet propped up on my table like it's theirs, mumblin' and blowin' smoke rings like they own the place. Jerome, his right-hand, was standin' by with his arms crossed, that usual stone-cold glare fixed on me. Looked like he'd tear me apart if the boss just gave the word.

I scrunched my nose, lookin' at them, but I ain't come here for them.

My focus went right back to him: Darius Jenkins. Where do you even start with this dude? Maybe by sayin' he's the kinda name that holds weight in the streets, someone that everybody know not to mess with. Darius run the Black Fist with an iron grip—ain't got time for no playin' around. Just like his brother, he's all about business, but he got his own style. We ain't just out here pushin' drugs and guns, nah. We got our hands in everything that matters. He keeps us tight, lookin' after the hood, protectin' the folks that need it.

That's why I look up to him like I do. Aside from my uncle, Darius been there. He gave me my first piece, showed me the ropes, taught me what it means to stand by family and not fold under pressure.

So, I knew he was disappointed, but his whole nonchalant look? Yeah, it told a different story—that's his way. The tiny, almost invisible twitch in his eye as he watched me, the long, drawn-out drag on his blunt. "Got a call from our suppliers," he muttered, the smoke curling around his words as he exhaled, real slow-like. "See now, Travis, I know you ain't like the rest of these fools, messin' things up just 'cause they can't keep their heads straight. I sent you for a reason."

He shifted in the chair, kicked one leg up over the other, leaning back all casual. "And now, we got no more weed suppliers. These folks were the only ones left that'd work with us. Called me up, talkin' 'bout they don't wanna deal with us no more. Man explained it all."

I rubbed my hands together, the cold sweat pooling in my palms. "Look," I said, voice low, "some went down, a bad transaction. But, like you said, you know me—I'mma fix it." I swallowed, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my nerves in check.

Darius flicked his gaze over to his henchmen, one of them, Jerome, turned, giving me this tight-eyed glare. "By 'bad transaction,' what you mean, exactly? All you had to do was pick up the damn bag."

All eyes zeroed in on me, the room heavy with silence. I shifted, teeth digging into my bottom lip, fighting to stay calm. "Some happened. That's all."

The quiet got even thicker.

Then Darius chuckled, but there wasn't a drop of humor in it. "Heard you got booked this mornin'," he said, his voice smooth like it wasn't a big deal, like he was just talkin' about the weather. And yet, I felt every word sink in. Damn it, why's that gotta come up again? Man, I been arrested more times than I could count, but suddenly now it's an issue?

"So," Darius cut back in, eyes narrowed as he scratched his beard, like he was deep in thought. He huffed a laugh—dry, humorless. "You got booked, and now you messin' up transactions?" His head snapped around, back and forth between me and his goons like one of those damn cartoon characters. He shrugged, laughing a little louder this time. "Am I stupid, or y'all ain't seein' what I'm seein'?" And, sure enough, the rest of them caught on, chuckling like they were in on a joke.