Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Before the driver could turn to quote the fare, he was out of the door and sprinting through the dark alley. He was as fast as he’d always been…actually, a lot faster.
The cold slipped under his hoodie as he cut through side streets and slipped between apartment buildings, his muscles thrumming with energy as if begging for more speed.
He didn’t slow until the bar came into view.
The South Side Kings headquarters.
The building used to be a decent dive twenty years ago—a neighborhood hangout where people played darts and bitched about the Sox, or reminisced about the good ole days when Jordan won six championships for the city—until the Kings took it over, and the place became a war zone.
He’d been gone five years, and the club was still there, a nuisance to the community, like a wart that wouldn’t heal.
The sign on the front was new though: The Crown Room.
What tha fuck?
He almost laughed.
Loud bass vibrated the sidewalk. The front door was guarded by two thick-necked idiots with 9mms tucked in their waistbands.
Scar stood in the shadow of a busted-out lamppost, studying it all.
This was his kingdom once. He’d bled for it, killed for it, protected it. He’d done time for these motherfuckers, years of his life stripped away, and he hadn’t given a single name for a lesser sentence.
They owed him respect. But something in his gut told him he wasn’t going to get it. When one was out of sight, out of mind, the streets forgot fast.
He made sure every strand of hair was shoved under his beanie and his hood was pulled low over his forehead before he slipped in through the side door.
Nerve-grating, hardcore rap music ricocheted off the walls. It was dark, and the haze of weed smoke was so thick and saturating the ceiling fans couldn’t compete.
Tables were littered with empty liquor bottles, shot glasses, dissolved lines of cocaine, and ashtrays full of blunt roaches.
Men lounged in red-and-black attire, wearing their weapons like jewelry.
Women in short skirts and red lipstick perched on their laps, grinding hard, laughing, and drinking enough to keep making bad decisions.
Scar eased onto a stool near the end of the bar, keeping his head low. The bartender was new: dark hair, bright eyes, and the kind of curves that kept tips rolling in.
She cocked an eyebrow. “What’ll it be, shuga?”
She wasn’t from Chicago, not talking like that.
“Bud Light,” he said, voice rough from disuse.
“Is that all?” She smirked, pulling a bottle from the fridge. “You look like a whiskey man.”
“Whiskey’s for celebrations,” he muttered. “I ain’t celebrating.”
She shrugged, popped the cap, and slid the bottle over. He took a long pull, savoring the bitter taste, realizing he hadn’t had a sip of alcohol in five years.
His gaze drifted across the room. Same shit with a few different faces.
Some of the young ones he didn’t recognize. New blood, eager and stupid. But others…? Yeah, he knew them.
Killers who’d once stood behind him, was now laughing at tables with promoted leaders.
Women who used to call him lover, who’d cried when he got locked up, were now gyrating on the laps of men and women sitting closest to the crown.
And there—at the far booth near the exit—was the new king.
Rico, a big, broad bastard with gold teeth and a gaudy-ass red fur coat. A pretender sitting on his throne. He’d been a loudmouth enforcer back in the day, all muscle and no brains.
Scar remembered him getting knocked out cold once in a sparring match and crying about it.
Now he was the top dog. Scar curled his lip.
Figures
The barstool beside him groaned as someone dropped onto the seat, the smell of cheap vodka hitting his nose before the voice.
“Double shot of Smirnoff,” he told—not asked—the bartender.
Scar glanced sideways.
Pun.
His government name was Merle Jenkins, but everyone called him Pun, short for Punisher. He was a big dude, with a neck like Mike Tyson and fists to match. He used to be his head enforcer, the one man he’d trusted to protect him and the closest to being called a friend.
Still alive and still drinking bottom-shelf poison.
Scar smirked and said just loud enough, “Will you ever stop drinking that cheap shit?”
Pun turned his head slowly and squinted. “Then buy me somethin’ better, muthafucka.”
Scar’s smile widened.
Same tone. Same quick energy. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed him until now.
Pun leaned closer, narrowing his eyes under the bar’s dim lighting, trying to see under Scar’s hood. He turned his head, letting him.
Pun froze for half a second before his jaw hit the floor.
“No…no way,” he rasped. Then louder. “No fuckin’ way!”
Before Scar could tell him shut up, Pun hauled him off the stool in a bear hug that nearly cracked his ribs.
“Put me down, dumbass,” Scar growled, shoving at Pun’s massive shoulders.
Too late. Heads turned. Conversations stopped.
A few chairs scraped the floor as men rose, staring.