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EVERY ANGEL HAS A PAST
♛
Location: Harlem High-Rise, New York City Date/Time: October 12, 2001 – 11:48 PM
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The city never slept. It tossed and turned.
Yellow cabs cut across Harlem like veins of neon blood. Steam hissed from sewer grates, rising into the October air like ghosts. The skyline was a jagged grin, lit by high-rises with glass teeth, each one stuffed with secrets.
DeVantè "Swing" Hall stood in front of floor-to-ceiling windows in a penthouse that wasn't his—but it would be by sunrise. He had a glass of Hennessy dangling from his fingers and a Black & Mild balanced on his lip. Smoke curled up lazy, like the city was bowing to him.
In the reflection, he watched his girls. His Angels.
They weren't the type to wear wings. They wore leather, silk, and fire. They wore looks that could hustle the skin off a man's bones.
Charlie had angels that saved people. Swing's angels? They buried 'em.
He smirked to himself, voice low, velvet-dipped in menace.
"Charlie had angels that wore halos. Mine? They wear Timbs. And trust—ain't a soul in this city safe when they move."
Behind him, they were gearing up.
Silk slid her legs into thigh-high boots, humming a Sade joint under her breath as if tonight was just another show.
Blaze popped the clip out of her Glock, checked it, then snapped it back with a grin. "Locked and loaded, baby," she said, flashing her gold tooth.
Vixen crouched by the window ledge, assembling her rifle with surgeon precision, not saying a word.
Trix? She was flipping a fake NYU ID between her fingers like a magician, the lamination catching the penthouse light. Her smile was sugarcoated poison.
