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)
One of the lieutenants swaggered toward them, drunk. “What’s going on, Pun? Got yourself a new girlfriend?”
Pun laughed. “Nah, bitch. Look who it is! Scar’s back from the fuckin’ dead!”
Scar clenched his jaw as the sound of his name spread like wildfire. Fast, hot, and dangerous.
He could already see the skepticism on their faces. Some were shocked, some were afraid, but most were suspicious.
The South Side Kings didn’t do resurrections.
A man near the bar choked on his drink. “So when did life in a maximum-security prison mean a few years?”
Scar didn’t answer, just stared him down until he looked away.
Pun scratched his beard. “Yeah, I was wonderin’ that myself. What the hell you ’doin out, man? You pull a fuckin Shawshank Redemption.”
“Opportunity presented itself…I took it,” he gritted.
Pun bumped his fist over Scar’s heart in a gangster’s salute. “That’s my fuckin’ boy.”
But the others weren’t smiling. The air shifted as eyes cut toward the new king’s table.
A woman in black skin-tight leather and a red halter top sauntered over, hips rolling, her perfume—sweet and expensive—approaching him before she did.
Drea.
Model-pretty, with a small, curvy frame that he used to mold with both hands. Honey-brown, smooth skin, long black braids hanging down her back, and a mouth he’d once sworn deserved a trophy for what it could do.
She was a rich, rebellious daddy’s girl, slumming it on the wrong side of town, fucking bad boys to get his attention.
She moaned as she slipped into his space. “Scar, baby. Damn, I missed you.”
Fuck. His lower half reacted on instinct.
Years without a warm, willing body making him feel good had his blood stirring and his cock thickening.
But now wasn’t the time to lose focus. Not with jealous eyes assessing, plotting, and deciding whether he lived or died at that moment.
Scar kept his face neutral and his fists clenched at his sides.
He wasn’t there for pussy, nostalgia, or sweet welcomes.
He was there for glory.
He pulled again at his beanie, careful not to let anyone see the unnatural white of his hair.
“Cool out, Dre,” he whispered, easing her off him.
The enforcer who’d questioned him sneered. “What kinda opportunity you talkin’ ’bout, huh? Like the informant kind? The bitch-snitching kind?”
Scar snapped his glare toward him. “The presumed-dead kind.”
The new king rose slowly, every part of him screaming ego as he came toward him.
His gold chains clinked against each other when he walked, his entourage clinging to him like lint. His personal enforcers preceded him, with their guns visible.
Scar stood to his full six foot one height.
The king stopped in front of him, women hanging off his arm.
“Look at this. The devil of the South Side, back from hell.”
“What’s up, King?” He knew the guy’s name, but he’d used the title deliberately, acknowledging it, letting him know he wasn’t there to dethrone him…yet.
King narrowed his eyes. “It’d take fuckin’ Houdini to walk outta Florence Pen and not be seen. Unless…”
Scar gritted his teeth. “Unless what?”
The room went quiet enough to hear the bus approaching the stop outside.
“Unless you the feds’ new bitch.”
The word bitch hit like a hammer to the back of his head.
An enforcer edged forward, hand on the butt of his Glock. “Talk, Scar.”
Scar didn’t speak, moving before anyone blinked.
He snatched the half-full vodka bottle from the bar and smashed it over the enforcer’s head. The man dropped like dead weight, shards of glass and alcohol raining over his shoulders.
Scar yanked Pun’s lighter from his jacket pocket—knowing it would be there—flicked the flame to life and held it inches from the puddle.
“Anyone else want me to talk?” Scar growled, scanning the room. “Call me a bitch again, and I’ll have plenty more to say.”
The flame rose higher, as if the fire itself wanted to satisfy his anger as much as he did.
Pun stepped between them. “Yo, everybody fuckin’ chill. This is Scar. He ain’t no narc. Y’all remember the shit he handled? The bodies he dropped for this crew? He don’t flip. Never did, never will.”
The king’s jaw flexed. For a long, taut moment, no one moved. Then he finally spat on the floor.
“I don’t give a fuck what he’s done before. Right now, he better get the fuck outta my bar before I put a bullet in his head for every life sentence he was supposed to serve.”
Pun scowled, positioning himself in front of him. “Then you gonna’ have to shoot through me, King.”
Pun wasn’t just any soldier. He was an OG. A legacy. His father and grandfather had been personal enforcers for the Kings, long before any of these new clowns learned how to hold a gun. If the king dropped Pun, there’d be real backlash. The kind that started block wars.
“I’m the fuckin’ king, remember that shit. Now get him outta here, Pun, before I change my mind. Scar, you can tell the feds that the only thing you’ll get from my crew for them is a bullet in your goddamn skull.”