Betrayed (Season Two)

EPISODE TWO

The Funeral

Where We Are... Our Heart Should Be

My mother winced as I helped her out of the vehicle. Her hip has been bad for years but her firm grip around my elbow was as strong as ever. The morning dew turned the ground soft so I made sure I was more than just eye candy, I was her crutch. Race walked behind us. Although he wasn't blood, he was just as much as her son then I was. She practically raised him from age ten and I believe he was as fond of her as he was of anything or anyone.

The sun mocked us. It was the most beautiful summer's day, bright and warm. No one should have to be buried when the weather is so damn perfect.

"Chris, baby," my mother said faintly, "I can manage on my own, honey."

"Yes ma'am," I said with a laugh, surprised by the sudden feeling of it. It's been a long time since a smile crossed over my face. Strange that it would happen here. Although I've had moments creep up, blank stretches of numbness, threatening to overwhelm me, the pain of it all, the loss, just didn't seem real to me until now. Izarah is dead. No longer could I pretend this wasn't true. "You raised me to be a gentleman, mom."

"And you never learned to listen, little man, so don't start now. I know you have things you must do," She pulled my head down low enough to kiss my cheek. "I can manage, honey. Raymond will look after me. So go on, child."

Reluctantly, I allowed her grip to loosen. Race replaced me by my mother's side. I watched him walk her over to the hundreds of chairs sat out in many rows facing my brother's casket. They walked down the center aisle between the lines and even though I knew she was there, my mother's frame had been swallowed up by the extraordinary assortment of people whom had already settled into half the seats. Others started to usher in as well: businessmen, street men and women, a few cops, perhaps some of Izarah's old college friends and a priest. They all had on their Sunday's best as though they had come to observe a televised award show.

The next group of people that arrived was the obvious pretenders. They were the ones that wanted to show me respect by showing up, hoping to get a bigger cut of the pie and then there were the others that showed up just to make sure my brother was truly dead. None of these bitches were here for the funeral.

"Chris," said Biggie tentatively, "Roland is here."

He slightly nudged his head towards the parking lot. Roland Raimondi, a half black half Italian, young punk, trying to regain the streets Izarah and I claimed when his father died. He tried to make some noise a few months back. We had to take out his lead dealer, Matt Emersion, to set an example. These corners are not for sale. Now this idiot has the balls to spread word on the street that he had my brother taken out. He wants a war and if his ass keeps pressing me... that's exactly what he is going to get.

"Chris," called Rolando cheerfully as he placed his hands over his heart, pretending to be dismayed, "my deepest condolences."

"What can I do for you, Raimondi?"

"Just a moment of your time," he said and I could see that my firm look wiped the cheerful gaze off his face.

"A real short moment," I expressed to him. "What do you want?"

We began to walk away from prying eyes and good ears.

"The same thing I wanted a few months ago," he said ominously, "room to breathe."

"You can have all the room you want as long as it isn't in my house."

"Understandable," he replied carefully. "But your house has a big yard... makes it hard to find food to eat."

"These metaphors are starting to get ridiculous, Rolando. You're boring me," I told him, refusing to take another step. I was done with this ambitious asshole and it took everything I had not to cut his throat. "Get to the point, nigga."

Rolando grimaced at the word. He hated being associated with his black half so calling him a nigga to remind him of this little fact was an insult. That's right bitch, I thought to myself, trying my best to keep a smile from my face, it's not my fault your father likes his side chicks dark.

"Alright," he said bitterly. "Your people have been advancing on my lot. You can't expect me to sit back and not respond in kind."

"In kind?" I repeated. This sounded oh so much like a threat. "Explain that."

"When your life is the streets you might as well be married to a woman with anger issues.... no matter how kind you appear to be it doesn't change the fact that you're in love with a bitch," he replied indignantly. "Rather we divide the pie or we fight over the scraps."

I could feel my face harden. Any trace of the smile I had earlier was a distant memory to me now, "My brother use to say that you could hide what you are while wearing a suit and in a lot of ways he was right about that. But don't get it twisted my nigga, behind this suit is a gangsta and I'll always be about this life. You keep that in mind the next time you wanna talk crazy."

"So you don't think we could ever peacefully compromise?" he asked.

"I believe what's mine is mine," I said darkly, playing games with this fool went out the window the moment he pulled up. "And out of respect for your father, I will allow you to keep what's yours for now."

He smiled. And it was a smile that fit his ostentatious way of things perfectly. He was here to size me up. War was coming. it was apperent, if not painfully unavoidable.

"If you don't mind I will pay my respects now," Roland said indifferently.

"No, I don't mind but keep your people in check around my family. This is holy ground."

"This isn't personal, you know," he replied stiffly.

"It never is nor should it be," I told him. "Your father taught me that."