Chapter Text
Sammie was a drooler.
He woke up drowning in a puddle of drool and scrunched his face, pulling away with a low groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest. The pillow beneath his cheek was damp and warm, the fabric cool where it hadn't touched his skin but uncomfortably sticky where it had.
Waking up was always such an ordeal. The sun pushed into the room like an unwelcome visitor, aggressive and too bright, turning the inside of his eyelids orange when he squeezed them shut. The quiet whisper of the AC seemed too loud in the morning silence, a mechanical hum that felt like it was coming from inside his skull. Even the crinkle of the sheets and the duvet grated against his ears. Every sound was amplified, every sensation was too much too soon.
He didn't even sleep under sheets normally, just the thick comforter. But for some reason he was under sheets and a thick comforter that was so soft he was practically melting into them.
But then he opened his eyes and squinted against the brightness, and reality came into sharp focus.
Hazy grey skyscrapers stretched against the backdrop of the blue sky, geometric and impossibly tall, their windows catching the morning light. The thin black metal of the unbelievably wide windowpane framed it all like a glossy postcard. The glass so clean it was almost invisible like looking through nothing at all. He could see for miles, see the way the buildings stacked against each other, see tiny cars moving on streets so far below they looked like Hot Wheels.
Chicago. He was in Chicago.
It came flooding back to him in waves that made his stomach lurch, his pulse kicking up in his throat. The taste of pennies in his mouth and the sharp smell in his nostrails—blood, he realized now, here and not quite, remembering the swirling drain of blood sinking down into the Chows' rusted drain trap, dark red against yellowed porcelain, the water running pink then clear. Mr. Chow turning into Bo in the matter of hours, the transformation so complete it still felt like whiplash. One moment he was Lisa’s Daddy, the one that gave him and his family extra groceries on tab that never came due and came to their church every other Sunday with wife Gracie, offering delicious filipino dishes to their potluck, the next he was someone who could handle violence with the kind of efficiency that suggested it wasn't his first time. The memory of tasting overpriced cheeseburger on his lips mixed with something else, something that made his face heat up even thinking about it—
Sammie pushed upright in bed, the movement making the massive mattress barely shift beneath him. This bed was nothing like his twin back at home with its squeaky springs that announced every movement. He stared out at the Chicago buildings, trying to make sense of what it all meant for him, what he had to do today.
Meet his cousins. Stack and Smoke. The thought sent a nervous flutter through his chest, his heart doing that thing where it felt like it was beating too hard and too fast. He barely knew them, saw them at funerals, the occasional family reunion where they'd show up late and leave early, always with something important to handle. Last time he saw them he wasn’t even old enough to accompany them on a walk. They were men had been then with reputations that seemed to stretch the whole of the Sip.
He glanced to his right, cheek pressed against his knobby shoulder, and Bo was there staring at him with those dark eyes that seemed to see everything. Not looking at his phone, not scrolling through messages or checking the news. Just watching.
Had he been watching while he was sleep? Waiting for Sammie to get up.
Lisa had told him once, in one of their late-night conversations when they were supposed to be studying but instead were sprawled on her dorm room floor sharing a bag of hot fries, that her daddy and her mama had her when they were barely fifteen years old and got married before they got their driver's licenses at sixteen. A whole lifetime of knowing someone, of building something together brick by brick, starting from before they even knew who they were themselves. Twenty years of waking up next to the same person, of learning their patterns and rhythms, of knowing what their face meant when it did that thing.
Sammie didn't have twenty years of knowing this man stretched out beside him. Didn't have twenty days, if he was being honest. He didn't fool himself into believing he could read what his face meant, what thoughts he was holding behind those careful eyes. Bo's expressions were controlled in a way that Sammie's had never been, his own face had always been an open book, every emotion playing out across his features whether he wanted it to or not.
"Sleep good?" Sammie asked, his voice coming out rougher than he intended, thick with sleep and something else. Morning voice, his mama called it.
Bo's face cracked with his smile. The corners of his eyes crinkled, lines appearing that spoke of a life lived, of years Sammie hadn't been part of. "Yeah, had more than a few sweet dreams."
The way he said it made Sammie's stomach do a little flip, memories from the night before surfacing like bubbles. His skin prickled with remembered sensation. "Oh. I'm sure. Was that the first time you fucked someone in a year?"
Bo's eyebrow raised, amusement played at the corners of his mouth. "Seem to remember I told you last night I've done all right..." Bo said, his voice carrying just enough smugness to be irritating, that tone that suggested he knew exactly what effect he had. "But if you're fishin' to know if you were the best—"
"Man." Sammie sucked his teeth, the sound sharp in the quiet room. That thing his mama hated when he did it, said it was disrespectful and common. "Can't tell you anything."
But he was smiling despite himself, couldn't help it. There was something about Bo's confidence that made Sammie want to banter back. They had fun poking at each other.
Bo combed his hair with his fingers, the black strands falling back into place with annoying perfection, not even messed up from sleep. How was that fair? Bo came up to sit upright against the headboard, the movement fluid and easy. The headboard was padded leather, deep charcoal grey.
Bao looked like Ye Hao in GQ China.
The sheets and comforter pooled around Bo's waist, expensive Egyptian cotton or whatever they had in hotels like this.
Bo was fit in that understated way that spoke of actual work rather than gym vanity, the kind of body you got from living your life rather than sculpting it. Maybe it was from carrying all those crates of fruit and vegetables and whatever else he did as a grocer had kept him looking tight. His shoulders were broad, strong from lifting, tapering down to a narrow waist. There was a small scar just below his left collarbone that looked like it might have a story, puckered and pale against his skin.
- Sammie was looking disrespectfully, gulping Bo in like he had been walking the desert for 40 days and 40 nights.
There were other scars too. A thin line along his ribs that looked surgical, precise. Something that looked like a burn mark on his forearm, the skin shinier there, raised slightly. Each one probably had a story. Maybe bar fights or kitchen accidents or things Sammie didn't want to think about too hard. Chapters of Bo's life that happened long before he tagged along.
"I told Stack we'd roll up 'round 11," Bo said, reaching for his phone on the nightstand to check the time. "Well, I told him I'd be coming."
The casual mention of his cousin made Sammie's stomach tighten with anxiety. "Still haven't told them about me?" he asked. The question came out smaller than he intended, betraying an insecurity he even know he had.
"Like I said, I wanted you to be a housewarming gift," Bo said simply, but there was something calculated in the way he said it. "Smoke might not throw me out on my ass if you're by my side. If I tell him now, I give him a few hours to think and plan. Compartmentalize his feelings."
That was strategic. Sammie could appreciate that.
"Right," Sammie said. "And you don't think your little plan is going to fall apart when they realize you're fucking their baby cousin?"
Bo turned and grabbed a thick leather-bound book from the nightstand. Room service menu, Sammie realized when he saw the embossed gold lettering on the cover. Fancy. Everything here was fancy in a way that made him hyper-aware of where he came from, what he was used to. "Breakfast? The bellhop switched them out while you were knocked out."
Bo opened the book and flipped through it. "I think they'd be fine. They saw how I was with Grace, and I know how they were before Mary and Annie."
Before Mary and Annie...? The names hit Sammie like a small shock, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. Mary and Annie. His cousins' wives. He known that almost as well as he known his own cousins. Smoke and Annie. Stack and Mary. They came in a pair. But somehow he forgotten the truth of it all, the truth that Bo reminded him, they had whole lives before him.
The truth made him feel young and naive in a way that stung.
"And you ain't going to tell me about that," Sammie said. It wasn't a question.
"Nope," Bo said, perusing through the menu with deliberate focus, his eyes scanning the pages like they held the secrets of the universe. Avoiding eye contact. "'Cause that would actually get me strung up. I'm not asking for your hand in marriage. We're here to discuss business."
He sighed, the sound coming out heavier than he intended, weighted with all the things he didn't know how to say.
Bo glanced up from the menu, and something in his expression softened when he saw Sammie's face, saw whatever was written there. His eyes changed, warmed. The carefully controlled mask slipping just a little. "Baby, I forget what it's like being twenty years old, and that's my bad."
He reached forward and grabbed Sammie's hand, his fingers warmer than expected, rough with calluses that caught slightly on Sammie's skin. His fingers were slimmer than Sammie expected but his skin wasn't smooth. They were almost like Sammie's hands, which were callused from all the time he spent with his guitar, from pressing down on steel strings until his fingertips built up protection. His thumb moved across Sammie's knuckles, a small gesture that somehow felt bigger than the words.
"Don't know if I jumped the gun with the baby thing... I heard most kids your age want long-term, long-distance, low-commitment casual relationships, and if you wanna do that mouthful, I understand. But if this develops into something more, I got no problems staking a claim."
Staking a claim. Like Sammie was territory, something worth marking. Something worth keeping.
Sammie felt his face heat up, warmth spreading from his cheeks down his neck, probably visible even with his darker skin. His heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing again, beating too fast, making him feel dizzy. The casual possessiveness in Bo's voice did something to him that he didn't want to examine too closely, something that made him want to lean into it.
"I'll post you on my IG. Facebook too."
The image of Bo posting couple photos on Facebook like somebody's suburban dad. Sammie snorted. "I actually hate you."
But he was squeezing Bo's hand, holding on, not letting go. And Bo was smiling, real and warm, and that felt like enough. For now.
"They've got this breakfast spread if you wanna take a look. I can also order us some mimosas too." Bo's smile was softer now, more genuine, the edges of his earlier smugness gone. He was trying, Sammie realized. Trying to smooth over the awkwardness, to make this easier.
"I'm good with whatever," Sammie said, settling back against the pillows. "As long as that breakfast has somethin' normal like scrambled eggs and bacon and none of that super fancy crap. I don't want none of that styrofoam turkey bacon."
He'd had turkey bacon once at Lisa's house, her mama trying to be health conscious, and it had been a disappointment that still haunted him.
"I hear ya," Bo said, already flipping through pages, his finger trailing down listings of food that probably cost more than Sammie's textbooks. "I'll order us some fruit too. Anything else?"
"Yeah. Are we stuck in this hotel all day?" Sammie asked, glancing once more at the city that lay just out of his fingertips through the massive windows. The buildings seemed to stretch on forever, a whole world he'd never really explored. He'd been to Jackson, to Meridian once for a debate tournament, but nothing like this. Nothing like a real city that felt alive and dangerous and electric. "I don't mean to sound chill about it. You've got a hit on your life and all that. But do we gotta stay in the hotel all day?"
The words sounded wrong as soon as they left his mouth—too casual, too flippant about something serious. Someone wanted Bo dead. Multiple someones, probably. That should terrify him more than it did. But he was twenty and on spring break and in Chicago for the first time in his life, and some part of him wanted to see things, experience things, live a little before reality dragged him back to campus and classes and pretending yesterday never happened.
Bo looked up from the menu, something shifting in his expression, something Sammie couldn't quite read. "Never been to the city?"
He wasn't shooting down his idea completely, so Sammie took it to mean he was at least open to the possibility.
"Never really had a chance," Sammie said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice and failing completely. He probably sounded like a kid asking if they could go to Disney World. "And it's Spring Break and I want to do somethin'. Tre is in Puerto Rico. Lisa’s in Cabo. I’m…"
In a luxury hotel with a hot Dad that killed four people and an accomplice to murder. If anyone found out about this, he’d be under the jail.
Bo looked like he was going to say something—probably something quippy about tourist traps or safety concerns, something practical that would shut down Sammie's hopes—but he caught himself, biting his lip and nodding instead. There was something fond in his expression. "What were you thinkin', baby?"
The continued use of the endearment sent a little thrill through Sammie that he tried to ignore, tried not to read too much into. Baby. Bo kept calling him that, casual and easy, like it was natural.
"Guess it needs to be somethin' with lots of people and lots of visibility," Sammie said, thinking through it out loud, trying to be smart about this. Safety in crowds, right? That was a thing. "Gotta see the Bean and the Skydeck. Wanted to visit some of the clubs... probably can't do that now." The disappointment in his own voice surprised him. He'd been looking forward to that, half the reason he wanted to visit Chicago, to hearing real jazz and rhythm and blues. Dreamin’ he could be on the same stages as Louis Armstrong and Muddy Waters. "Oh, I want to try this Chicago pizza I hear so much about."
"Right."
"Or—or something like that." Sammie's enthusiasm was building despite the circumstances, despite everything, the idea of exploring an actual city making his pulse quicken. He sat up straighter, his hands gesturing as he talked.
"Wasn't trying to shoot down your ideas," Bo interrupted gently, warmly. Made him feel seen, heard. "We can definitely do that after breakfast. It's better than sitting in the hotel. Cane won't try much, not with cops swarming all over the place and the amount of witnesses. He'd have to be dumb, dumber than he's already actin' right now."
Cane. The name sent a cold spike through Sammie's excitement. The man who'd sent people to kill Bo. Who'd probably try again. This wasn't a game, wasn't some adventure. People were actually trying to hurt them..
"So I'm not on house arrest," Sammie ventured.
"Nah," Bo said, phone already in hand to place their breakfast order, his fingers moving quick across the screen. "We can eat breakfast—you put our clothes’s order in last night. This hotel is like Fort Knox. Nobody gets in unless they're supposed to, and that includes the employee staff."
"Why?" Sammie asked. The level of security seemed excessive even for a fancy hotel. What kind of place needed that much protection?
"This is a hotel that's popular with royals, A-list celebrities, presidents, dictators, tech moguls, those high up in the underworld. They like their privacy and pay a premium to keep it that way." Bo's tone was matter-of-fact, like rubbing shoulders with international criminals was just another Tuesday. "I could have someone from the hotel tail us while we're out, an extra pair of eyes..."
Sammie was geeked, excitement bubbling up in his chest until his face probably hurt from how hard he was smiling. The idea of having his own private security detail felt like something out of a movie. Something that happened to other people, not to college kids from Mississippi.
"Damn, here I was thinkin' you booked this place just to show me how deep your pockets are."
Bo's smile was slow and knowing, something playing at the edges that made Sammie's stomach flip. "Would it have impressed you if I had?"
Sammie shook his head, still grinning like an idiot.
"Just hurry up and order breakfast. I'm hungry."
The day passed in a blur of tourist attractions and stolen glances. They hit all the spots Sammie had mentioned—the Bean, where he took probably fifty pictures and insisted Bo take at least ten with him ("Not like that! You gotta use the .5"); the Skydeck, where the glass floor made his stomach lurch in the best possible way; deep dish pizza that was more like a casserole than anything he'd call pizza but tasted like heaven anyway, cheese stretching long when he pulled a slice away from the pan.
Bo was a dork, pointing out architectural details and sharing random bits of Chicago history. Things like how the Chicago River flows backward, engineered that way to keep sewage out of Lake Michigan, or how the city was raised several feet in the 1850s, entire buildings jacked up on screws while life continued underneath. The kind of facts that made Sammie side-eye Bo and remember the Shrek line “Ogre are like onions.”
Bo had lots and lots of layers. Maybe less like onions and more parfaits. He liked parafaits.
Anyway, there was something surreal about the whole experience being protected by invisible security while eating overpriced ice cream from a vendor on Michigan Avenue and taking selfies like any other couple on vacation. Bo bought him a Cubs hat from a street vendor, adjusting it on his head with gentle fingers while Sammie tried not to think about how domestic the gesture felt, how natural. Instead he swatted off the sacrilegious merchandise, laughing, and tried not to hold onto the feeling ballooning in his chest too tightly.
By the time they headed back to get ready for Verbatim, Sammie felt loose and happy in a way he almost forgot why they were up here.
Verbatim wasn't just a club. It was an experience, the kind you only saw through your little shitty iPhone screen when rappers posted from their VIP booths, all champagne bottles and beautiful people and lights that made everything look like a dream. Sammie could hardly believe this was his life as the black town car let them out at the mouth of the club, right in front of the line that looked like it ran for blocks, people dressed in their best trying to get past the velvet rope.
The bass was already audible from the street, a low throb that seemed to vibrate in his chest, mixing with his heartbeat until he couldn't tell which was which. Bo had his hand on his lower back. They were ushered past the rope with ease he could absolutely get used too.
The interior hit him like a wave, sensory overload in the best possible way. The bass was already thumping, purple and gold lights. The air was thick with expensive perfume, liquor that probably cost more than Sammie's car, and something else.
Sammie tried not to look like a total dork staring at the professional basketball player over there—someone from the Bulls, he thought, tall enough to stand out even in a crowd—or the rapper he had just been listening to in the shower that morning, who was seated in a corner booth surrounded by the finest women he had ever seen in real life. Everything felt hyperreal, like he'd stumbled into a music video, like he was watching his own life from outside his body.
Bo nudged him with his elbow, gentle but insistent, and when Sammie looked at him with wide eyes that probably gave away every thought in his head, Bo nudged him again, tilting his head toward the mezzanine level. Sammie followed his gaze up and saw the red and blue lighting that marked their destination, saw figures moving in the shadows up there.
"There they go," Bo said, his voice barely audible over the music, his lips close to Sammie's ear so he could hear. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down Sammie's spine. "C'mon."
Bo cut a path through the crowd. Sammie followed in his wake, trying not to bump into anyone or step on the designer shoes. He had a stupid hope they wouldn't be discussing business all night, that maybe they could enjoy some of this too, lose themselves in the music and the lights and pretend for a few hours that they were normal like he had spent most oft the day.
The V.I.P. section was styled like a throne room, all gold accents and plush seating that looked like it belonged in a palace, with a view that overlooked the entire club. From up here, Sammie could see everything, the dance floor packed with bodies, the bar lined three deep with people trying to get drinks, the DJ booth elevated and surrounded by lights. It was a kind of opulence that might have made Sammie nervous if he hadn't started his journey in the fanciest hotel he had ever been in and probably would ever be in.
His cousins were seated on a curved golden couch that could have seated eight people comfortably, wearing tailored black suit that were custom-fitted to their broad shoulders and long limbs. Blue accents marked Smoke's outfit—cufflinks that caught the light, pocket square folded with precise geometry, even his watch had a blue face while red was Stack's signature, crimson threading through his accessories like blood.
Sammie understood why they wore different colors. But honestly, all someone had to do was spend a little time around the twins and it was easy to tell the differences that weren't exactly subtle once you knew what to look for.
Like the way Stack's face lit up like the sun as his warm eyes set on Sammie, his familiar wide smile spreading across his features. "Little cuz!" He looked between him and Bo with obvious delight, his eyes tracking the way they stood close together, the way Bo's hand hovered near Sammie's back. Gesturing them over with a sweep of his arm. "Why you standin' all the way over there all awkward and shit? Come here."
Sammie obeyed the command, unsticking himself from Bo's orbit and the subtle cloud of expensive cologne that seemed to follow him everywhere, to move toward Stack.
Stack caught him in a brief but tight hug, the kind that squeezed all the air out of him. He lightly slapped Sammie in the back of the head in that way. "Where are your manners? Don't warn us or anything that you're comin' to visit."
"Got some inches on you, cuz," Smoke said next, his voice carrying that same measured tone Sammie remembered from childhood. "Almost tall."
Sammie felt himself straighten unconsciously, an old reflex from years of being the baby cousin, always the smallest one at family gatherings. "I am tall," he countered. "You just remember me bein' twelve. Think that was the last time I saw y'all." He looked between his cousins, trying to find familiarity like he was just in for a visit and like this wasn’t business. "Mema's funeral."
It had been when he was twelve and he cared the woman in a distant way.
"Been too long," Stack said, his voice softer now. He clapped Sammie on the shoulder. “Your Daddy treatin’ y’all all right?”
It was a common ritual with the twins. Usually the first or second thing they asked whenever they saw him was about his daddy. Sammie knew it had something to do with their deceased father, his uncle. Some responsibility neither twin would expand on.
"Fine. Y'all been keepin' up with Isaiah and them, right? They all in Virginia right now." Sammie settled back into the plush seating. "Saw Daddy doing some real sinners shit on Instagram."
The thought of his father doing all the things he warned about in church, the hypocrisy made him smile.
Smoke hummed, a low sound that seemed to vibrate in his chest, resonant and considering. His fingers drummed once against the table, a tell that Sammie remembered from poker games at family reunions, from watching Smoke calculate odds and read faces. "Not that we aren't happy to see you, little cuz, but I got a feelin' you didn't come up all this way to say hello." His gaze shifted to where Bo stood slightly behind Sammie's chair. "'Specially with Bo's banana ass standing in the back trying to look all nonplussed. You can speak. I know that hasn't changed."
The air seemed to shift, becoming heavier, more charged with unspoken things.
Bo sat down in the plush seating next to Smmie. "No hug for me, boys? I'm hurt." The smile he wore didn't quite reach his eyes, and Sammie caught the slight tension in his shoulders.
Stack laughed. "Not when you use my little cuz thinkin' I won't kick your ass out."
Sammie felt heat creep up his neck. Did they know? Bo had put his hand on his lower back. Had walked into V.I.P like they were those old Greek monsters with four legs and four arms.
Bo held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I wouldn't come into y'all territory without a gift. Y'all never been wine drinkers. I thought on my feet."
"Smooth nigga," Stack said. "What's wrong?"
"Sure y'all heard about it," Bo said, leaning forward slightly, his forearms resting on the table. "Things have been complicated lately."
"Things got complicated." Smoke repeated the words slowly. "That's what you're goin' with?"
The tension at the table was thick enough to cut with a knife, palpable as the bass thumping through the floor. Sammie looked between his cousins and Bo, feeling like he was watching a chess match.
Sammie craned around and caught the eye of the bottle service girl—a stunning redbone with long black hair that caught the light when she moved, wearing that clung to every curve. "Can we get some drinks here? Feelin' parched. Want Coke and Hennessy." He looked around the table, noting the sudden shift in everyone's posture, the way they'd all gone still and focused. "Y'all want anything?"
"Water," Bo and his cousins echoed in perfect unison, their voices flat and serious, the synchronicity eerie.
The harmony was almost eerie, like they'd rehearsed it, like they were all reading from the same script. Sammie felt a chill run down his spine as he realized what that meant they were definitely in serious business mode now. He wondered where the little kids' table was in all this, if there was a place for people know nothin about nothin.
"Yeah, I'm gonna say things are complicated. I wouldn't be comin' to you if they weren't," Bo continued.
"Does Sammie know?" Stack asked suddenly, his attention shifting to focus entirely on Sammie with an intensity that made him want to squirm. “Before we talk like adults.” Stack had a thin toothpick in his mouth, rolling it from one side to the other. "Bo here was a pretty big deal in certain circles—our circles. Had his own operation, territories spanning half the South. Met Gracie while he was out in the streets, and then he decides to take a step back to that grocery store like he's a regular civ."
The casual way Stack laid out Bo's history made Sammie's chest tight with something he couldn't name—defensiveness? He knew just a few seconds ago he wondered where the kid’s table was, but he wasnt a baby and Bo hadn’t just sent him into the lion’s den in a meat skirt. Bo trusted him and his cousins should trust him too.
"I know," Sammie said reproachfully. “He filled me in.”
"Yeah," Bo said. "I had too. This kid keeps uppin' the ante. He sent a few knuckleheads my way while Sammie was there. I had to explain what happened. Had no choice."
Both twins swiveled toward him with. The temperature around them seemed to drop ten degrees. The twins looked poised to fight.
"I took care of it," Bo continued, his hands flat on the table now, fingers spread like he was grounding himself, anchoring himself to something solid. "But I couldn’t let something like that go unanswered. His plan is obvious too. He’ll take me out and I’m sure he’ll come after you next."
"Then he's a dumb motherfucker," Smoke said with calm certainty, like he was discussing the weather or the score of a game that didn't matter. "Monet Tejada is dead, and with that goes Cane's protection."
Bo blinked long and hard. "Monet Tejada is dead? The bitch is six feet under? I can’t believe."
Stack cracked up. "Game goes on even when you decide to post yourself in the middle of nowhere. Tejada's dead. St. Patrick is dead. Even those high and mighty africans have been hit."
"High and mighty africans..." Bo's thick eyebrows knitted together as understanding slowly dawned across his features. His mouth opened slightly, then closed, like he was having trouble processing the information, like the ground had shifted under him. "Noma is dead?"
"Yeah, and that Cane kid was connected to her," Smoke confirmed with a shrug. “Heard they got married but our invite must have gotten lost in the mail same as yours.”
Bo licked his lips, a nervous gesture that seemed at odds with his usual confidence, at odds with the image of the man who'd calmly disposed of bodies yesterday. He shook his head slowly, like he was trying to rearrange his understanding of the world. "Damn. I... don't even know what to say."
Smoke and Stack shrugged in perfect unison, a synchronized gesture that reminded Sammie they really were twins. "Another wheel turn, man. Nothin' to worry about," Smoke said lightly. "Cane is on the outs. He isn't even connected to the St. Patrick's little nigga. He's a rabid dog, and he's lashing out. He'll be his own demise."
"I agree," Bo said, nodding slowly. "He came all the way to Sip to get at me. I know he's here."
"We might have heard somethin' about that," Smoke said, his tone carefully neutral in a way. "Some of my guys spotted some out-of-town cats askin' questions about an Asian dude and a Black boy. Kids these days don't know anything about subterfuge." His smile was sharp. "I would call it disrespect if I didn't think they were just stupid."
"Exactly," Bo said. "I woulda handled it. Back in the day I coulda crushed him like the ant he is, but you know..."
This was new. Bo looked sheepish, like a kid who'd gotten his hand caught in the cookie jar.
"Oh been knew," Stack said with a predatory smile that showed too many teeth, the grin of a shark sensing blood in the water. "Heard Gracie finally dumped your ass. Word is she's munchin' on box."
Bo's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, a muscle jumping that you'd miss if you weren't watching closely.
"With Astrid," Smoke said, shaking his head with something that might have been admiration, might have been amusement. "That was a glow-up if I have ever heard of one. She pulled the Goddess. And since she’s not fucking with you anymore, what, Daddy took her side?"
Sammie could see Bo's carefully maintained composure crack just slightly around the edges, a flash of something—hurt? embarrassment? regret at what he'd lost?—crossing his features before he got it under control, smoothed it away behind the mask he wore so well.
Sammie tried not to think of it too long, tried not to picture Bo with someone else, with the wife he'd mentioned but never really talked about. Tried not to think about how he measured up to someone who'd known Bo for years, who'd been married to him, who'd seen parts of him Sammie would never access.
"Y'all know Grace. She moves on quick and she's always known what she wants, And the family is on vacation" Bo said, his voice carefully controlled, giving nothing away. "So what now?" Bo asked, redirecting, steering the conversation back to safer ground.
Smoke smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant expression. "Now we talk business."
"Business?"
The redbone came back with their drinks, moving with practiced grace, and Sammie drank his anxiously, the Hennessy burning down his throat. Meanwhile the men around him didn't even bother to touch theirs, the waters sitting untouched and sweating condensation onto the expensive table.
"You want our help with your Cane problem, that's fine. We can handle that. But this ain't charity, Bo. You know better than that."
Stack leaned back, watching the conversation unfold with hooded eyes. "Smoke..."
"Nah, let me finish." Smoke's attention was laser-focused on Bo, pinning him in place. "See, we been havin' our own problems lately. Territory's been gettin' squeezed since all New York being all whack with the power dynamics. Too much heat, too many old connections gettin' burned."
"And?" Bo prompted, leaning in slightly, already knowing where this was going, Sammie could tell.
"And we need to expand. New markets, new connections. Problem is, certain communities don't trust Black folks. Asian neighborhoods especially—Chinatown, Little Tokyo, all them spots where real money moves and where the girls are at; men dont want the Spanish, Black, or white; they want that Asian pussy now," Smoke said, shaking his head like he was discussing market trends rather than human trafficking. "Kids these days. Anyway the Asians don’t fuck with us but they might trust someone who speaks the language or looks like them. Someone with the right reputation."
Bo was quiet for a long moment, staring down at his glass for a long moment. "You want me to broker introductions," he said flatly, no question in his voice. Just confirmation.
"I want you to come back," Smoke said bluntly, laying it out plain. "Not full-time, not like before. But we need someone who can navigate those waters. Someone the Triads respect, who knows how the game works on that side."
"I've been out and the dragon would never let me work for someone else—"
"And your name still carries weight," Stack interjected, cutting him off. "You think we ain't asked around? Red Pole Bo Chow. Youngest White Fan in Triad history. They still talk about you in certain circles. And you ain't gotta be on payroll as full time employee. You can be our consultant, yeah, consultant."
"I can't just agree to that. I gotta talk to—."
Smoke waved him off, dismissive. "I know, I know. You got people to answer to. Not expectin a contract right now."
"What exactly are you proposin'?" Bo asked, his business voice fully engaged now.
"Partnership," Smoke said, leaning forward, hands steepled like he was in a boardroom rather than a nightclub. "We handle local distribution, muscle, territory. You handle the import side connections, laundering, international relationships. Clean money flows through legitimate businesses. Your grocery stores, our club, maybe some other ventures. A consultant like my brother said."
"And in return?"
"In return, anyone who comes for you or yours answers to us. Full protection, full backing. Hell, the Dragon might even like all the money I'm puttin in his pockets. Chicago is helluva territory. And Cane Tejada becomes our problem, not yours."
The offer hung in the air, heavy with implications. Sammie could see Bo thinking, could almost watch the calculations happening behind his eyes. Freedom versus security, the life he'd built versus the life he'd left behind.
"Can't be nothin' like the old days. Not on call," Bo said shortly, setting his terms.
"Nigga you know this is no 9-5 but you wont have to run street corners and we'll get you an executive assistant."
Sammie pulled away from his straw and opened his mouth, the word already forming—he could do that, couldn't he? Be useful, be part of this—
"Not you," all of them said in unison, three voices harmonizing in immediate rejection, and Sammie promptly shut up, disgruntled at not even being considered.
Smoke's phone buzzed, the vibration loud. He answered it, speaking in rapid code. Maybe thirty seconds before hanging up, his face transformed into something focused.
"Decision time's up," he announced. "My guys just put eyes on those out-of-town boys with Cane. They're in the building. Boy really is a stupid motherfucker. No fun in this at all."
The lights in the club suddenly cut to red. Emergency lighting, bathing everything in the color of blood. The music stopped abruptly, replaced by the sound of people shouting, confusion rippling through the crowd below like a wave.
Sammie felt Bo's hand on his shoulder, large and heavy, pushing him down just as the first gunshot echoed through the space. The twins stood up.
People screamed. More shots, rapid fire, coming from multiple directions, the sound of automatic weapons mixing with handguns, a symphony of violence.
Stack was moving before the first shot finished echoing.
"What's your answer,” Smoke asked, looking between Bo and Stack disappearing into the fry.
"Guess I'm on payroll," Bo said, his voice calm despite the chaos, despite the bullets flying.
More shots, closer now, the sound so loud Sammie's ears were ringing. Through the chaos, he could hear young voices shouting, aggressive and angry.
“Good answer,” Smoke said, speaking rapidly into his phone in that code language again. "Building lockdown in thirty seconds. He's about to find out why nobody fucks with our spot."
The shooting intensified for a moment, automatic weapons mixing with handguns, the sound layering until Sammie couldn't distinguish individual shots. But then it began to move away from their section, toward the main exit, tactical retreat rather than random violence.
"Professional," Bo observed, cold as Smoke in the moment not even flinching at the confused chaos around them.
"Amateur," Smoke corrected, dismissive. "Professional would've known better than to hit us here."
The gunfire stopped as suddenly as it had started, the silence almost as loud as the violence had been. In the sudden quiet, Sammie could hear sirens approaching from multiple directions, the wail of emergency vehicles converging on their location. The club's emergency lighting cast everything in hellish red, making the scene look like something out of a nightmare.
"This ends now," Smoke said, standing up slowly, deliberately. His voice was cold in a way that made Sammie's skin crawl,. "The fees alone to fix this spot back up because this kid is really pissing me off. The insurance."
Stack reappeared with not a hair out of place. "Building's secure. They hit hard and fast, but we got two of 'em. Rest scattered when our boys started shootin' back."
"Alive?"
"One's breathin'. Barely. Other one's gonna need a closed casket. Sent Rem on a hunt."
“He knows Cane isn’t his to kill.”
“He’s aware.”
Smoke hummed then looked at Bo. "Cane will be handled by us. We got security. Y'all can go back to your hotel."
"You'll text me when it's done?"
Stack smiled was all shark-teeth. "We'll send you the head in one of those fancy boxes. Green still your favorite color?"
They were back in the hotel in the next hour, the ride silent and tense. Sammie had kicked his shoes off and had laid down on the bed as soon as they got through the door, staring at the high ceiling with its perfect plaster and recessed lighting. The ceiling tiles were smooth and unblemished, so different from the water-stained ceiling tiles in his dorm, so far removed from the violence they'd just witnessed. His fingers drummed on his stomach, restless energy he didn't know what to do with, adrenaline still coursing through his system with nowhere to go.
"You alright?" Bo said. The bed dipped as he settled next to Sammie, the mattress barely registering his weight. He didn't lay down, just sat upright, giving Sammie space to process.
"Define alright."
"Fair point."
Sammie turned his head, looking at Bo's profile against the window, the city lights painting him in shades of gold and shadow. "My cousins are really gangster," he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "You weren't kidding. I know back at home everybody is scared of them but I had no idea… like did you hear them. I think they talked about selling people into prostitution. I took a class on keeping my eyes peeled on people being sold! A head in box like the dang Godfather!"
"Sammie…" Bo's voice was careful, measured, the tone of someone trying to find the right words.
"And you're going back to that. You're going to sell girls that look like Lisa or Keisha, my little sister. Work in fuckin’ logistics. Probably add more meat to the freezer. Don't think I'm dumb."
The words hung between them, ugly and true and impossible to take back. Bo didn't deny it, didn't try to pretty it up or explain it away or make it sound like something else. He just licked his lips, like he was choosing his words carefully, like he knew this conversation mattered.
"This is why I wanted you to stay at home," he said finally, his voice heavy with something Sammie couldn't quite name. "Your cousins, me; this isn't some BookTok dark romance smut where there’s no collateral and you’re my soft spot. I'm not going to make any excuses about what I am and what I've done. It's how the world works. Not the world you know, maybe. But my world. This world."
Sammie shook his head, his throat tight with emotions he couldn't sort through. "What would Lisa think? What would your wife think?"
Bo's jaw clenched, muscle jumping, his hands curling into fists against the expensive sheets. "I'd prefer you not tell Lisa. The less she knows the better. She's got her own life, her own future. She doesn't need this shadow over her. We intentionally kept her out of this life." He paused, his eyes distant, looking at something Sammie couldn't see. "Grace is different. She knows and that's all I'm going to say about that." Another pause, longer this time, weighted. "What about you, Sammie. I've got the suite until the end of the week. What do you want to do. We can have fun and then go our separate ways after."
The casual way he said it made Sammie's stomach drop, made his chest feel hollow. Like this was temporary. Like they were temporary. Like everything they'd built over these few days was just a spring break fling that was bound to end. Sammie rose up on his elbows, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. "What?"
Bo turned to face him fully, his expression serious, unguarded in a way Sammie hadn't seen before. "I'm back on the clock, Sammie. Those were the terms of the deal and if you want to be with me, if this turns into something more, you have to understand the stakes. I won't have eyes on you all the time. There will be more after Cane and they will know you are important to me. They’ll be smarter than Cane…" He took a breath, steadying himself. "I know the trajectory your cousins are on. They will be Dragons in their own right and the U.S. Government will be looking at any angle to try to catch them. You might be called in with or without your consent. Are you going to talk?"
The question was direct, brutal in its honesty, asking Sammie to confront who he was and who he wanted to be. Sammie felt like he was being tested, weighed and measured against some standard he couldn't see.
"I'm no snitch," he said automatically, the words coming from somewhere deep, from growing up where you learned early that some things you just didn't do, that loyalty mattered more than law.
"You say that now," Bo said, his voice gentle but firm, not unkind. "But when you're stuck in a tiny room with the threat of your freedom being restricted or they bring in your siblings, your daddy, your mama. Things get tangled easy. Real easy. Principles don't mean much when they're threatening everyone you love."
"What are you tryin' to—push me away?"
"I'm not, Sammie. I'm not," Bo said, and there was something raw in his voice. "You've just got to understand is all. You're a good kid. Always have been. I'm just letting you know that I'm okay with the bed I've made. Been living this life since I was twelve years old. Since before I knew there were other options, other ways to be." He reached out, his hand hovering near Sammie's but not touching, like he was afraid of contaminating him. "Lisa has Grace and her grandpa. She'll be fine. But you. You've got a life, a real good life, and I don't want you to go blowing it up or try to be my knight in shining armor. Don't need to be saved."
"Bo," Sammie said, his voice cracking.
"Sammie. I'm rambling but I'm just trying to say. I'm not a good man. Never pretended to be."
"I know that," Sammie said, and he did. He knew it, had known it from the moment he saw blood in that drain, maybe even before. But knowing something and feeling it were different things, and his heart didn't seem to care about the distinction.
Bo's eyes were dark, serious, holding Sammie's gaze without flinching. "Those men from yesterday are in my freezer next to the halo-halo. I'm going to cut them up and dispose of them. And there will be more. Are you okay with that?"
The question hung in the air between them, impossible to answer simply. Was he okay with it? Could he be? Should he be? What did it say about him if he was?
"I don't know," Sammie said honestly. "But I like you. A lot and I don't want to give that up. Is that okay?"
Something in Bo's expression softened. "Yeah," he said simply, then added, "I'm okay with that. I know what I want to happen though."
Bo moved closer, close enough and he was still covered in that wonderful expensive cologne. He could see the slight stubble on Bo's jaw, dark against his skin, could see the way his Adam's apple moved when he swallowed.
"What do you want?" Sammie asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Instead of answering with words, Bo reached up and cupped Sammie's face, his palm warm against Sammie's cheek, calluses rough against smooth skin, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. The kiss was soft.
They paused.
"That," Bo said quietly. "That's what I want to happen."
"Okay," Sammie managed, feeling oddly shaky. "I want that too."
Bo's smile was soft as the kiss. "Good."
"So what now?" Sammie asked.
"Now we wait," Bo said, pulling back just enough to see Sammie's face, to read whatever was written there. "Your cousins are gonna handle Cane, and then we go back to Mississippi and you go back to JSU and do your homework. Maybe I visit you."
The thought of Bo in his dorm room, surrounded by cheap paper posters and textbooks. "Oh. You wanna have sex on my squeaky extra long twin sized bed? Tre will wear his large headphones."
Bo laughed, the sound genuine and warm, the tension breaking. "I can already feel my back hurting and the awkward morning after." He shifted, laying down next to Sammie on the bed, their bodies aligned, close but not quite touching. "So jazz clubs tomorrow?"
"Don’t even play with me! We have a full roster tomorrow," Sammie said, enthusiasm flooding backt. Tomorrow. They had tomorrow. Maybe that was enough. Maybe they'd figure out what came after when they got there. "Do you think that bathtub can fit the two of us?"
Bo turned his head, a slow smile spreading across his facet. "Let's go try."
Oh God. What was Sammie going to tell Lisa?