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Chapter 4: Push It

Assad sat on the leather couch, a half-burnt blunt dangling between his fingers. Smoke coiled in lazy patterns above his head, the dim light from the corner lamp barely cutting through the haze. Black was pacing in front of him, talking fast, his words blending with the distant sound of Houston's streets outside.

"I'm tellin' you, dawg, we hit them too hard last night. Them Russians gon' come back with some real heat," Black said, his voice edgy, but not quite scared. He was more anxious—waiting for the storm he knew was coming.

Assad leaned back, eyes narrowing as he watched Black move. He wasn't sweating it. Sure, he knew Avgust wouldn't let it slide, but he wanted it like that. Avgust was the kind of man you had to draw out, make him feel the bite before you could take him down. He wasn't some two-bit hustler on the block. No, this was chess, not checkers.

"That's the point, Black," Assad said slowly, his voice low and sharp like a blade. "We shake 'em, see how far they'll go. I need to know what kind of man Avgust really is."

Black stopped pacing, staring at Assad. "Man, he's Russian Mafia. You really think you don't know what he's about by now?"

Assad snuffed the blunt in the ashtray with deliberate slowness. "Nah, Black. You don't know a man till you push him to the edge. Then you see if he breaks or if he bites back."

Black shook his head, exhaling heavily. "This is more than just street beef, bro. That white boy's got resources, connections. We takin' this shit personal, and he's playin' on a whole other level."

Assad stood up, his height towering over Black. His eyes were cold, but underneath that cold exterior was a fire he couldn't put out—something that burned hotter whenever he thought of Avgust. It wasn't just the power struggle. It was deeper. The way Avgust had looked at him when they'd first crossed paths, like he saw straight through Assad's tough exterior, as if the streets were nothing compared to what Avgust had survived.

"I want him to come at me. I need to see how much he's willing to risk to keep his grip on this city," Assad muttered, mostly to himself, but Black caught it.

"You keep talkin' like this, you soundin' more like you admire this dude. That what this is? You got a thing for him or somethin'?" Black smirked, trying to brush it off, but there was a question in his eyes, something he didn't fully understand.

Assad's jaw clenched. He didn't like talking about what was gnawing at him. It was more than business with Avgust, but it wasn't something he could explain to Black—or even to himself.

Before he could respond, a knock came at the door. One of Assad's boys leaned in, the look on his face saying more than words could. "Yo, boss, you gotta come see this."

Assad gave a curt nod, following the guy out with Black trailing behind. They stepped into the back alley where a black SUV was parked, sleek and silent. Assad's eyes narrowed when he saw the man standing by it—lean, tall, dressed in a black leather coat. It was Avgust. Alone. Like he had walked into enemy territory without a single worry.

"That Russian prick," Black muttered under his breath.

Assad waved Black off, signaling him to stay back. He strode forward, his boots heavy against the pavement. Avgust stood there, calm, like he wasn't just standing in the heart of Assad's block.

"So you came," Assad said, stopping a few feet in front of Avgust. His tone was cold, but there was something else there. A tension that had been brewing for weeks.

Avgust gave a small smile, barely there. "I told you, Assad. I always handle my business personally." His Russian accent was thick, his words measured.

Assad crossed his arms, staring hard at him. "You got some nerve walkin' into my hood alone. What, you think this some kinda game?"