The storm Rages

Chapter 2

Mikey sat back in his grandmother's living room, a haze of smoke hanging in the air. The couch beneath him had seen better days—its fabric worn from years of use, but it was home. His baby cousins, nephews, and nieces ran in and out of the room, laughing and shouting, their little feet pounding against the hardwood. The place smelled like fried chicken, weed, and something sweet his grandma had baking in the kitchen.

He watched the Elders, his uncles mostly, all posted up around the table, bottles of cheap liquor in front of them. They were loud, their voices mixing with the kids' shouts, smoke rising from the cigars and blunts being passed around. They were a mix of heavyset, rough-around-the-edges men with gold chains and tattoos peeking from under their sleeves, all wearing serious faces. This wasn't just another get-together.

Mikey, quiet as always, leaned back in his seat. His eyes scanned the room, taking it all in. He was like a shadow, calm and collected, but his presence was heavy, the kind that made people take notice without him having to say a word. He wore a plain white tee, a simple gold chain, and jeans—nothing flashy, but it was the way he carried himself that mattered. Taller than most of the men in the room, with sharp eyes and a face that rarely gave anything away, he commanded respect.

"That damn Reapers crew out here pushing that poison!" Uncle Ray barked, his belly about to burst from his wife-beater as he slammed his fist on the table. "They don't respect boundaries no more—shootin' up the corners like they own this place. We gotta show 'em what's what."

Another elder, Uncle Dre, leaned back, puffing on his cigar. "Ray, you tryna get us all locked up? Cops already circlin' like vultures. You think they need more reason to roll up in here, tear down the whole damn block? We move reckless, they got all they need."

"Man, to hell with that," a third elder, Pop, chimed in. "We let the Reapers slide, they gon' think we soft. Next thing you know, they takin' over the whole district."

The Reapers—young bloods from the other side of town—had been creeping into their turf for weeks now, pushing hard drugs, stirring up violence. It wasn't just a business dispute; it was a disrespect of the highest order. The Jaguers, Mikey's gang, had held this territory for generations, keeping the peace while protecting their own, ensuring kids could still play on the streets without dodging bullets. But the Reapers didn't play by the same rules.

Mikey remained silent, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee, eyes watching the smoke swirl above his head. He let the noise wash over him—shouting, swearing, threats—all of it. His presence alone was enough to command attention, but he rarely raised his voice. He knew the weight his words carried, and he didn't use them carelessly.

Uncle Ray pointed across the table. "So what, Dre? You wanna sit on our hands and let 'em run us out? 'Cause that's what they gon' do if we keep playin' nice."

"I'm sayin' we be smart, Ray! Think about the kids, the families—cops come in heavy, it ain't just us they takin' down. They shut down the businesses, tear apart the homes."

The noise continued, escalating until it was just a mess of voices overlapping, tension mounting. 

The screen door creaked open, and Grandmama stepped in. Her presence alone cut through the chaos. She was small, but every man in that room sat up straight when she appeared, her sharp eyes scanning the chaos. Her silver hair was pulled back into a bun, and she wore a floral dress and an apron, wiping her hands as she entered.

"What y'all yellin' about in my house?" she asked, her voice stern.

Nobody dared to answer. The uncles shifted in their seats, looking down, trying to avoid her gaze. She smacked the back of Uncle Ray's head with a swift, practiced hand, and then Pop's, each grown man wincing like scolded children. "Y'all gon' hush up and act like you got some sense in my house," she said, her voice sharp.

The room went quiet, heads bowed slightly. Even the kids running around paused to look up, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. "Don't you know better than to raise your voice in my house?"

"Sorry ma..." The Elders all muttered, looking like a bunch of babies in nappies in her presence

Yara, a neighborhood girl and Mikey's childhood friend, followed behind with a tray of food, placing it on the table. A young woman with a bright smile and braids pulled into a ponytail, her eyes flickered to Mikey, softening for a moment, but he didn't meet her gaze. Her eyes lingered on him, a soft look there that she didn't bother hiding. She set down more plates from her tray, of cornbread, collard greens, and fried chicken, a peace offering and a call for calm all in one. "Y'all can't talk business on an empty stomach," she said, giving Mikey a small smile.

Grandmama lowered herself into her chair, her eyes moving over each man in turn. "Y'all actin' like y'all ain't got no home trainin'. Ain't no good comin' from bustin' heads just 'cause they crossin' lines. We don't want no more heat than we already got." She gestured around, her eyes sharp. "We keep the peace 'cause we the ones who gotta protect this community. War don't do nothin' but take that away."

"But, Mama—" Uncle Ray started, only to be silenced by the look she shot him.

"Don't 'Mama' me. We gon' handle this smart. We got history here, ties in this neighborhood that run deep. Ain't no need for bloodshed if we can settle it another way." Grandmama folded her arms, looking around the table. "Now, listen here. I know y'all thinkin' 'bout fightin' back. And I get it, I do. But this ain't the time for that. Them hood rats out there, they want a reaction. They want you to act reckless so they can bring trouble right to our doorstep. You give 'em what they want, we lose."

The room fell into an uneasy silence as her words settled over them. Even the most hot-headed of them knew better than to argue when Grandmama spoke.

"Sometimes, the strongest move is patience. You gotta play chess, not checkers. Find another way to handle it. Talk to their leader, make 'em see it's not worth it to start a war."

Her words sunk in. Mikey's eyes stayed on her, his expression unreadable. The men around the table nodded, slowly coming around.

Just then, a sharp, jarring ring cut through the silence. Mikey's hand went to his pocket, pulling out the old flip phone—black, scratched up, looking like something straight out of the early 2000s. Heads turned, eyebrows raised.

"Man, that thing still work?" Pop muttered.

Mikey flipped it open without a word, his expression shifting only slightly as he listened. The call was brief. He snapped the phone shut and stood, his eyes focused and sharp.

"Where you goin'?" Uncle Dre asked.

Mikey didn't answer immediately, slipping his hands into his pockets as he moved towards the door. The elders shouted after him.

"Yo, Mikey! What's the call, man? We goin' to war or what?"

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder, his voice low and calm. "Y'all just wait."

Then he was gone, leaving the room in silence.