“Was? Shid, we can do sum’n with dat.” Tunan’s brow raised.
“Yeah. That nigga dead, bro.”
Tunan’s brow rose even higher.
“Not my body.”
“Oh, aite. Continue.”
I poured more liquor, watching the syrup-colored liquor splash into the glass.
“Bahati was too deep in her feelings, fuckin’ up the money, so I let her go. Solana’s fiancée found her and, apparently my toddler, and now, I’m here.”
“And dem niggas?”
“MIA. But not fo’ long.”
I left out the details of Don’s plans and would fill Tunan in when we didn’t have such mixed company in our space. Openly talking about mob business at a bar was just plain stupid, and I knew better.
“So now you got baby mama and Solana at the crib?” Tunan asked, his smirk appearing again.
I took the shot, and this time a sigh followed it. “Not exactly. Solana, since she on that shit, she’s in rehab.”
“Rehab? Like a facility?”
“Nah. Real nigga rehab.” Italian had given it that name, and I could barely say the shit without laughing.
“How you feel ’bout dat?”
Picking up the glass, I swirled the ice around. “To be real, bro, I feel a lot of shit that I’m still sorting through. Solana should be dead for the shit she pulled. But then, Bahati was supposed to be dead too.”
“So dat’s why you drankin’ that old-man-ass liquor? Both yo’ hoes got yo’ mind gone!” Tunan laughed.
“Old-man-ass liquor cuz I’m old. Just told you I’m double my age. Life ain’t been consistently sweet.”
“Oh, I feel you on dat shit. But on the real… What’s next? I ain’t tryna tell you some shit you don’t already know, but you still gotta find a wife. I know you tired as fuck of hearin’ dat shit, especially from Don. If dat nigga gave me a deadline, I’m sure his ass ’bout to light fye under you. You got baby mama at the crib, and Solana being watched by yo’ people. How you gonna bring somebody new in dat?”
Picking up the bottle, I twisted the pour spout, and it came off with a pop. I filled the glass halfway and placed the bottle back down beside the glass. “I ain’t, Tune.”
“Hunh?”
“I ain’t bringin’ nobody new in.”
“Wait… You sayin’ you… Naw, bro. One on dat shit and the other been playin’ hide and go seek. Fuck you mean you not bringin’ nobody new in?”
“I gotta marry one of ’em.”
“You ain’t gotta do shit but stay black and die.”
“Yeah, well, according to Don, I gotta stay black, die, and marry either Bahati or Solana.”
Tunan dropped the chicken wing he’d just picked up back onto the plate and twisted his lip. “On God?”
“On foe ’nem.”
“The fuck? Heeeeelllll nawl. What’s the alternative? I ain’t finna believe dat shit yo’ only option.”
The alternative is leaving the fucking mob and making my own way. But if I leave, you ain’t in. If I leave, I’m leaving my family behind—my blood. I can’t watch their backs if I ain’t in. I can’t make sure everything is running smoothly on the front and back end if I ain’t in. Me leaving is going to cause a whole domino effect of shit. Plus, as easy as it sounds, no one just walks away from the mob.
