Page 27 of Sinful Chains

When we stepped in with our guns drawn, his expression flickered from shock to acceptance within a span of seconds. He sat up straighter, setting his drink down on a coaster sitting on a side table.

“Fuck…” he muttered, rubbing his chin. His gaze moved between the three of us as his skin went pale. “Who sent you?”

“Take a guess,” Cruz said. Me and Titan didn’t react to that, but we were both irritated. We didn’t talk to these motherfuckers. In and out. Clean. That was the plan.

Cruz liked to play with his food.

Whitman’s eyes narrowed. “Bailey?”

Cruz smiled. “Try again.”

Whitman let out a dry chuckle. “That’s precisely my problem. It could be anybody.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I should’ve retired to the south of France.”

Cruz went to speak, but I beat him to it.

“Too late, motherfucker.”

I squeezed the trigger, and it was lights out for Harlan Whitman.

His eyes didn’t close. That happened sometimes, and I always hated it. Like the others, his eyes were wide and pleading, but the light had dimmed behind them. He was gone.

Disposal was methodical. Guns cleaned, dismantled, and tossed in the Aerimus river. Our gloves and clothes were incinerated. There was nothing to find. Nothing to trace any of it back to us.

Cruz lit a pre-roll as we walked back to the car, taking a few hits before passing it to me. I took one hit, because that’s all I ever did, and Titan passed as he always did. It was another ritual of sorts. It helped us relax.

But I couldn’t get loose.

Whatever this was that was gnawing at me had put me in danger tonight. Titan saw it.

But the target was handled without any casualties to us. I didn't take that for granted anymore. Not after Rev. I went back over tonight's job in my head, trying to figure out what made this one so smooth compared to the one that got our brother killed.

Our movements were precise, as always. Communication, good. Positions, exact. Execution, clean. Just like tonight. Literally everything that made a job work.

Back in the car, we sat in silence as Cruz drove us back to the house. Titan had shotgun, while I was content to stretch out in the back seat and watch the city out of my window, neon and electric, the perfect distraction from my loud inner thoughts. I closed my eyes and tried to nod off, but Titan made sure that didn’t happen.

“She still wants to sell,” he said, loud and sharp.

Of course she did.

Santari didn’t have the same attachment to that house.

But for us, it had always been so much more than a structure we happened tolive in for four years. That place was a world in and of itself.

It wasn’t a perfect world, that was for damn sure. I still remember the night Marcell Stokes got alcohol poisoning. We’d been so fucking reckless that night, passing bottles like we were impervious to the effects, clowning any nigga who even looked like he wanted to stop. We sobered up quick when Stokes collapsed in the hallway, struggling to breathe.

He lived, but barely.

Then there was the shit with Ronan—a sorority chick said he tried to assault her. I wasn’t there, I didn’t know what happened, but the frat circled the wagons until the investigation was done. No charges were ever brought, and the girl admitted she made it up, but it changed the way I saw that nigga for good.

It was the hazing that got Omega Theta suspended from campus, though. It was supposed to be a harmless tradition, no different than what our forefathers had done going all the way back to 1922. But lines get blurred when egos get involved. The university had to come down on us hard,and, honestly, we deserved it. Two brothers were permanently scarred behind that.

But it wasn’t all bad. More often than not, shit was quiet and studious. Books and paper spread out across every hard surface, all-nighters, quizzing each other until the A+ was a foregone conclusion. And in between, there was laughter. Celebration. The step shows and parties and cookouts drew people from all over campus to come and just…have fun. Chill. Get a reprieve from all the fuck shit black folks go through every day. It was our sanctuary.

I wouldn’t have made it without the support of my brothers. A select few saw my tears, and Revere was one of them. It ain’t too many people a black man can go to when he wants to work through his emotions, but my brothers were those people for me, and I was one for them.

And despite the university putting out a statement in the school paper about Problematic Fraternity Culture, we did a lot of good in the community, too. Fundraisers, clothing drives, readathons, volunteering at local shelters, even blood donation drives—we did it all.

Right inside that house.

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