Page 127 of Riot

And then Riot saw me.

His whole posture shifted.

His eyes narrowed like he’d just remembered I existed.

“Where the fuck were you?” His voice cracked like a whip.

Creed turned sharply. “You were supposed to be head of security.”

“I was securing the east lawn,” I said coolly, slipping the gun into my holster. “There were vulnerabilities on that side. Somebody had to watch it.”

“The east lawn?” Riot growled, marching toward me. “Nigga, we gave you the whole perimeter. Your ass should’ve been in the control keeping your eye on the fuckin’ cameras so that you could see anything.”

“Y’all didn’t say shit about that. You told me to secure it the best way I saw fit,” I replied, voice flat but firm.

“Are you retarded nigga? Are you a fuckin’ idiot? You are the most useless piece of shit Pops ever nutted. This is why he never took your dumbass seriously. Why we never took you seriously. You can’t do shit. Look at my shit!” He said extending his arms to the wreckage on the property.

My blood was boiling hearing the way that he was speaking about me. I was not an idiot nor was I retarded.

“I’m fuckin’ ashamed that your last name is King. You need to change that shit to whatever your hoe-ass mama name is!” Riot barked at me.

And then it happened. His hand came across my face in one loud, open-palmed slap that echoed louder than the gunshots had.

Smack.

My head turned with the impact and stumbled back. I tripped over a turned bench and fell to my ass. When I looked up, Riot was hovering over me. I could see the hatred in his eyes and he reached his fist back ready to throw another blow. I slid my hand to the gun in my waist, but then Creed’s savior ass came and saved the day.

He was between us in an instant. “Yo, chill?—”

“No,” Riot snapped, pointing at me like I was a roach in his kitchen. “He left us wide the fuck open. That was a hit. We could’ve died.”

I wanted to kill him.

Right there. Right then. Pull my piece and put one in his smug fucking face. Let him know I wasn’t to be played with. That I wasn’t some background character in his success story.

But I didn’t.

Because as much as I hated them in that moment—hated the way they looked at me like I was a fuck-up, hated the sting in mycheek and the shame blooming in my chest like mold—I still had a card left to play.

They weren’t dead. But their reputations? Their brand?

Shot to hell.

The press got everything. The screams. The bodies. The senator passed out like some bitch at a Michael Jackson concert. The footage would circulate within minutes. King’s Vine wouldn’t be remembered for the grapes, but for the gunfire. For the chaos. For the blood.

And that gave me joy.

I smiled, slow and bitter, like I was tasting poison and finding it sweet.

“You know what?” I said, voice low but even. “Next time, handle your own perimeter. I quit this fuckin’ family.”

Let them clean the blood off the wine barrels. Let them explain this to the press. Let them rebuild, without me.

I got up and I turned before they could say anything else. Before the rage bubbling in my gut made me do something permanent.

“Nigga you was already fired. Don’t ever show your face around King’s headquarters, or nothing. And don’t expect a dime from the company, you bitch ass nigga!” Riot shot back.

My jaw still throbbed. My hands shook with the urge to retaliate. But I walked off.

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