Page 9 of Kentrell

Some hitmen take any job that comes with cash. Not me.

My roots ran too deep in the concrete, and I wasn’t about to spit on the street code that kept my people alive. I saw the game early. Watched my pops grease palms to keep his stable thriving—beats, lieutenants, even a commissioner or two. All of ‘em had Pretty Kenny on speed dial when they wanted to party dirty.

But when my mama got jammed up for his murder, them same cops ghosted like we never existed.

Left me, Kenwan, and Kensei out in the cold. No protection. No favors.

Like my old man hadn’t made half they kids off-duty babysitters with the money he spread around.

That’s when I realized: they ain’t ever give a fuck.

And truth be told, the shit didn’t add up. Never did. Not the crime scene. Not the confession.

But maybe that was the point.

Because I killed him.

“If you could just spare a moment to explain,” Malcolm said, reaching out to grab my shoulder.

I stopped cold. Stiffened.

Let him feel the warning in my silence.

He had to step around to face me again—'cause I wasn’t turning for him.

“Please.” His voice dropped, pleading now. “If you think I’m gonna use this as leverage, I won’t.”

"I don't do favors, either."

I stepped into him, hard enough for his breath to hitch.

He didn’t flinch. I’ll give him that. But he wasn’t slick. Just scared enough to be real.

“I’ll pay youdoubleyour fee,” he offered, damn near whispering like we was in church. “I just need this little problem to disappear before I go public.”

Double.

That meant desperate.

He was close to losing something. Probably everything. And whoever had him sweating this hard? Had to be a real threat.

I didn’t respond. Just watched him squirm.

“I just have a minor situation that needs sorting out.”

A “minor” situation. That’s what they all say right before they hand you a name that turns your whole world upside down.

“Situation like what?” I crossed my arms over my chest, my eyes following a woman nearby as she slipped on a cropped jacket in the mirror. Since this nigga had pulled me into conversation, a few more people had filled up the store. I spotted Kensei making his way through the crowd, dapping folks up on his way in.

“C’mon, you need to wrap this shit up.” I snapped my fingers, already done entertaining whatever shady deal this was about to be.

“There’s this woman I need gone,” he said, low and calm. “I’ve got a file on her—everything you need to know about her and the people she’s connected to is in there. I’d prefer not to get explicit here, but I can if?—”

“Nah, save that shit for another time.” I cut him off, regretting it soon as the words came out. I saw it in his face—the way he thought I was interested now. Like he had me.

“Okay, that’s better,” Malcolm said, his shoulders dropping as a smug little smile crept across his face. “Her name is Zoe Davis. She’s with Anderson & Hartman.”

I barely caught what he said after that, because my eyes had landed on four women walking through the entrance. Laughing. Arm in arm like some clique of homegirls who stayed booked and unbothered. Heads turned, and I didn’t blame them—every single one of them looked like money and trouble.

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