Page 123 of Riot

“I don’t want no speech, ‘Melo,” I said, lighting a Black & Mild. “I need soldiers. You still one or not?”

He paused, then nodded. “Fuck yeah. I ain’t lettin’ your bitch ass brothers get away with killing my Pops. Just checking the temperature.”

I exhaled slow, the smoke curling past my lips like breath I’d been holding in for years. “Oh I’m def still burning with revenge.”

He walked up closer, pulling out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “These the guys we bringin’. Tight crew. Hungry. Ain’t none of them scared to shoot.”

I unfolded it and glanced over the names. Some I knew. Most I didn’t. Didn’t matter. As long as their bullets hit my fake ass brothers.

I knelt, using a stick to draw a rough map of King’s Vine in the dirt. “Main entrance is here,” I said, pointing. “That’s where you’ll post Jay and Trigger. Tall boy with the dreads and that twitchy Dominican kid. They’re backup in case things get sticky at the gate.”

“Got it.”

“South end of the property’s got the blind spot. No cameras. No motion sensors. That’s where you come in. You, Renzo, and Gutta. Sweep in through the vines, use the terrain for cover.”

Carmelo squatted down beside me, watching the lines I drew like they were gospel.

“North barn?” he asked.

“Diversion,” I said. “We rig a small blast to pull security toward the wrong side. Won’t kill nobody. Just rattle the cage. When they run toward that smoke, we move inside.”

He nodded slow. “And the target?”

“Riot and Creed,” I said flat. “Front and center. We make a scene. Big. Loud. Bloody. I want everyone there to see them fall. This ain’t about death. It’s about shame.”

I could feel the pulse in my neck, steady and mean. I’d been dreaming about this for too long. Riot, looking up at me from the dirt, confused, ruined. Knowing it was me who did it.

“You sure the press gon’ be there?” Carmelo asked.

“Yeah. Creed’s got some senator comin’. Journalists, buyers, all types. It’s their grand debut, right? We gon’ make it unforgettable.”

Carmelo grinned. “You really tryna make the front page.”

I flicked the cigarillo into the street and stood. “I’m tryna destroy a legacy.”

Just then, I heard soft footsteps behind me. Malia.

She was wrapped in my hoodie, her long curls messy, sleep still clinging to her eyes. She moved like she didn’t belong in the chaos we were planning, but I knew better. She was forged in it.

“You good?” she asked, her voice low, concern hidden under sass.

I walked to her, letting her arms wrap around my waist. Her touch calmed something wild in me, but not enough to stop the mission. Just enough to center it.

“I can’t believe you’re really doing this,” she whispered.

I nodded, pulling her close. “You my inspiration.”

She tilted her face up, searching mine. “Promise me you’ll come back. Make them burn but don’t get burn’t yourself. ‘Cuz I need you. And our son needs you more.”

Her words cut deeper than any blade. I cupped her cheek, brushing my thumb over her skin. “I ain’t going nowhere. I made it outta worse than this. I’ll be back before dinner.”

She smirked a little. “You better. I’m making oxtails.”

I kissed her, slow and deep, memorizing her. Just in case.

When I pulled away, I saw something in her eyes that wasn’t doubt. It was belief. In me. In this.

Carmelo stepped back toward his car. “We should roll. Boys’ll meet us upstate soon.”

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