CHAPTER ONE
ღ
Nivea's head moved in a slow, steady rhythm as Lorenzo's low groans filled the room. Living Room Flow by Jhene Aiko hummed softly in the background, the bass vibrating through the sheets beneath them.
"Fuck, Vea," he muttered, toes curling as pleasure rolled through him.
When it was over, Nivea leaned back, wiping her mouth before looking up at him with a knowing smirk.
"Me and you both know you won't ever find nobody as good as me," she said.
Lorenzo laughed under his breath as he sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. "You right," he said easily. "Got a nigga so fucked up about you, for real."
She watched him for a moment, her smile fading.
"Since you so fucked about me," she said, snapping her neck slightly, "why don't you make me your only one, Lorenzo?"
He exhaled sharply. "You ask me this every time."
"And you give me the same bullshit answer every time!" she snapped, her voice rising just enough to make him lift an eyebrow.
"I'm always there when you call. I'm always the one bailing you out when shit goes left. Don't you think I deserve more than this?"
He stood, rubbing his hands down his face. The tattoos across his back—roses, guns, names etched like scars—shifted under the dim light.
"I know you deserve more, V. And I promise you—shit gon' change."
She rolled her eyes as he pulled her into him.
"None of them other bitches got shit on you."
"I know they don't, Saint," she said, pushing away from his chest. "But I want more. I need more. I don't wanna be the girl you lay up with when it's convenient. I wanna be your girl. The only one."
Lorenzo sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
"I know," he said quietly.
"So why won't you let it happen?" Nivea asked, her voice softer now.
He stood, grabbing his jeans from the floor and digging into the pockets. She watched him, hurt flickering in her eyes as he pulled out a thick stack of cash.
"Because I'm in too deep," he said. "This life I'm in... it don't come with exit signs. And when it does, they usually lead to a grave."
She pulled the sheet tighter around herself.
"You think I don't know that?"
"I think you know," he replied. "But you still got hope. And I ain't tryna kill that in you."
He walked over and placed the money in her lap.
"What's this for?" she asked, confused.
"Just something to hold you down till I get back. I got a drop tonight—gotta check in with Fredo first."
"So that's it?" she asked.
"For now."
She looked down at the money, then back at him.
"You keep treating me like some pretty little secret you can tuck away."
"You not a secret," he said firmly. "You my peace. That's why I keep you out the mess."
He kissed her forehead, but she didn't lean into it.
"I'll be back tonight," he said. "We'll finish this conversation later."
Then he was gone.
Nivea stared at the door long after it closed.
She knew exactly who she wanted—and it was Lorenzo, not just Saint. And no matter how much he pretended otherwise, she was his. She wasn't going anywhere.
⸻
The matte-black AMG GLE-63 rolled to a stop outside Fredo's spot—an old two-story with a busted porch light and a camera duct-taped to the roof. Lorenzo stepped out, hoodie up, chains tucked.
Three knocks. Pause. Two more.
Fredo opened the door with a blunt hanging from his lips and a Tech-9 slung across his chest. "Took your slow ass long enough."
"Had to check on Vea."
"That why you smell like cocoa butter and sex?" Fredo laughed.
"Shut up," Saint muttered, pushing past him.
Inside, two young boys played 2K in the living room, a pistol sitting between them on the coffee table like it was nothing. Saint didn't even blink.
"She still pressing you?" Fredo asked.
"She not wrong," Saint replied. "I just can't give her what she deserve right now."
"You could if you got out."
Saint laughed, no humor in it. "And do what? Sell sneakers online?"
"You smart. You could flip this shit clean."
"It don't work like that for us," Saint said. "You get out, you either disappear—or get snatched."
"So what you gon' do?"
Saint checked his phone. The drop was still green.
"Handle this run. Get this money. Then maybe figure out how to give Vea what she want."
Fredo shook his head. "You better hope she still around."
"She will be," Saint said firmly. "All this? It's for our future."
⸻
The black Suburban rolled through Queens slow and quiet. Saint drove, Fredo rode shotgun, and Antonio watched the back.
"This spot look sketchy," Antonio said.
"Taz said it's good. Two keys. In and out."
They pulled behind an abandoned auto garage. Headlights off.
Inside, Taz waited with a nervous bounce. Beside him stood a skinny kid they didn't recognize.
"Who the fuck is this?" Saint asked.
"Zeke," Taz said quickly. "Big A couldn't make it."
Saint didn't like it—but he nodded.
"Show me the bread."
The duffel was clean. The bricks were clean.
Then Fredo stiffened.
"Back left," he said quietly.
Everything moved at once.
Gunfire cracked through the garage.
Saint dropped one shooter. Fredo fired into the shadows. Antonio tackled Zeke, pressing the gun to his face.
"You tryna set us up?" Antonio growled.
"I didn't know!" Zeke cried.
Saint stood over Taz, gun aimed. "If I find out this was you... I won't miss next time."
They left fast.
Back in the Suburban, Saint's phone buzzed.
Vea: I love you. But I won't wait forever.
Saint stared at the screen, jaw tight.
"You either choose her," Antonio said, "or let her go."
Saint drove on, silent, the weight in his chest heavier than the money behind him.
