Page 3 of DOM: The Miami King

I laughed, low and dry ‘cause I knew better. El Blanca didn’t trust shit. “Trust or leverage?” I asked.

“Both,” he admitted. “You’re smart, discreet, and dangerous. I don’t have to remind you what’ll happen if this goes sideways. I know where your money sits. I know the names of every judge on your payroll. Your sister’s club? I own half the liquor license on paper. Fuck up... and I’ll gut your empire from the inside out.”

He hung up after that like he usually did. It wasn’t no goodbyes, and no ‘thank you.’ It was just straight up pressure. I stared at the phone for a second, then finished the half-smoked blunt, until it was dead. That was funny he said he trusts me. The truth is, I’m the only one that can move clean in both worlds. I broke bread with billionaires and bandits alike. I can talk business in a boardroom, then pull a trigger in a back alley two hours later. I‘am’Miami. Every hustler, politician, and dirty cop had my number, and every fed wished they did.

They didn’t call me the King for nothin’. However, this Victoria situation was different. She wasn’t just blood to El Blanca; she was a legacy piece. The kind of name that got whispered with fear in cartel circles. Her pops was shot execution style and left to bleed out on a church floor by people who knew where he’d be, and that hit was clean… too muhfuckin’ clean if you asked me. So, we knew it had to come from inside. That’s why they put her on ice and kept her tucked away behind 12-foot fences and hired security with eyes like dead men and no names attached to them. She wasn’t raised with toys; she was raised withguns and targets.

But now she was here inmycity, which meant my rules. Problem is, Miami wasn’t what it used to be. It was too many eyes and too many crabs tryna make a name. Simply too many ghosts crawlin’ out from underneath rocks and shit. The moment word got out that Victoria Blanca was breathin’ Miami air, the wolves were gon’ come sniffin’ and I ain’t talkin’ small-time hitters. I’m talkin’ ex-cartel lieutenants, dirty Venezuelan militias, DEA rats who got cut loose and now workin’ freelance. El Dorado? They already had ties in the Port of Miami. If they caught wind that she was here, they were definitely gon’ come for her, and loud too. When they did, they were gon’ die, ‘cause if I took the job, she wouldn’t just be under protection, she’d beunder me.

I wasn’t really tryna babysit some spoiled cartel princess. I needed to know what she knew, what she saw, and whynow. I needed to know if this was a test… or a setup. And I wasn’t trippin’ about finding out ‘cause that’s what I do. I had plenty of penthouses but always thought better in my favorite one. I walked across the penthouse, with glass walls stretching from floor to ceiling looking at the city that laid out beneath me like it belonged to me, ‘cause it did. I built my shit from nothin’ at all, simply from fist fights, drug runs, blood money, and pain.

Our parents grew up broke, so they didn’t have shit to offer us. Their kids made them rich from the dirty games of the world. We didn’t have no fuckin’ handouts, or no luck. But now? I was about to add a new piece to my game: Victoria Blanca. The girl raised in a cage of gold and guarded secrets. I wanted to see if she really needed protection… or if I need protectionfromher.

As the sky cleared up, I found myself on the rooftop with the city lights dancing below. A bottle of Don Julio in my hand, a gun on my waist and one on the table as I watched the skyline like the shit was mine to rule.

My right-hand man Tone stood next to me. Tone was usually so quiet, I forgot he was around. “You good, boss?”

I nodded slow. “Just thinkin’.”

“Bout what?”

“Bout how I just got handed a fuckin’ bomb,” I muttered still staring at the view.

Tone could feel my energy without me havin’ to speak much. He looked like he could kill you and then roast you about your outfit while draggin’ your body out back. He was built like a linebacker with deep brown skin and a bald head that was always gleamin’. He had a tight beard, a crisp line-up, and mouth full of glistenin’ diamonds. He always wore black and gold ‘cause he said it made him feel like death and money at the same damn time.

“Alright, you brought me up here for the view or the bad news?” he asked, grinnin’. “If it’s more bodies, I want hazard pay.”

I handed him the blunt with my jaws tightened. “El Blanca called.”

Tone’s smile faded as he puffed and held the smoke in for a few seconds. “That ghost-linin’ muhfucka? Shit, what’dhewant?”

I turned to face him. “Says he got a niece in town, Victoria… and he wants me to keep her safe.”

Tone choked on the smoke. “Victoria Blanca? Ain’t that the one that been livin’ in a bulletproof bubble since she had baby teeth?” He inquired. If you knew about El Blanca, you knew about that niece he treated like gold. I simply nodded my head. “Shiiit,” he replied, draggin’ out the word. “He just dropped a bomb in yo’ lap and lit the fuckin’ fuse.”

“She already got shot at,” I informed ‘cause she did. She’d been gettin’ shot at since she came out the fuckin’ womb. Whole family was cursed if you asked me.

“That fast?” He laughed and shook his head. “Man, we ain’t even had time to set up the panic button. You ever think about gettin’ into the legal car business for real? Just cars, no guns, no ghosts, no dope, no girls with hit squads chasin’ 'em through Brickell.”

“Nah, that shit too borin’,” I smirked. He looked at me sideways, with a grin sneakin’ back up on his face.

“Damn, bro,” he said, lightly nudgin’ me with his elbow. “We really came a long way from that alley off 8th Street.”

Thinkin’ bout that shit made me chuckle. “You remember that night?”

“Remember it?” He said with his head slightly tilted to the side. “That shit’s why I still don’t trust Hondas to this day.”

I thought back to that very day ten fuckin’ years ago in Little Havana and shook my head.

I was 18, runnin’ solo jobs, still learnin’ how far I could push before breakin’ shit. But the night I met Tone was an eye opener. It was supposed to be a simple exchange, all I was supposed to do was drop off a duffle, grab an envelope, and bounce. I pulled up behind an Arab store in a busted-up Honda Civic. The duffle bag was on the passenger seat, and my gun was under my hoodie.

I didn’t even make it out the car before I realized it was a setup. Two dudes came out the shadows and were both holdin’ burners. From the way they crept, I knew they wasn’t amateurs. One came to my door, with his gun up. The other tried to open the back door. And then…BOOM.

A shot rang out and the dude at my door dropped like a sack of potatoes. His blood shattered all over the glass. The second one spun around, confused as fuck, and caught two to the chest before he could even lift his piece. I jumped out with my gun drawn, and heart racin’, ready for a third, but there wasn’t one. Just a tall-ass dude in a black hoodie, holdin’ a smokin’ pistol, walkin’ up like he did this shit for fun.

“You welcome,” he said, grinnin’ like a devil and shit. “You owe me gas money nigga.” That was Tone.

I found out later that he was there to robthem crabs, which meant the whole hit was gonna go sideways no matter what. But instead of robbin’ me, he saved my life. He said he liked my vibe and we been ridin’ together ever since.

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