Ricky sat stone still.
Satan raised his head. Listened. Then looked to his master.
He heard it too.
Someone was here.
Ricky didn’t have to wonder who it was. He knew.
He’d been expecting this visit all evening.
His aunt had gone to her niece’s house in Scottsboro. She would stay there until this was over. It was best. Things were going to get ugly around here. No place for an old woman.
This was his trouble. He would deal with it.
He was prepared. Satan was at his feet and his Glock lay on the table next to him.
Let the bastard come.
The knob on the front door turned with a creak. Ricky sat back in his aunt’s ragged old recliner and waited.
No fear. That was the way to handle this shit.
If the son of a bitch smelled fear, it would all be over.
The door flew open, banged against the wall.
The King stormed in, his bodyguards right behind him like a trio of shadows, falling into place around him as he stopped in the middle of theroom. The King never went anywhere without his unholy trinity—his three most trusted men.
Ricky knew better than to stand or even move. “What’s up, Ty?” Satan trembled with the tension of holding back his primal instincts. “Still,” Ricky cautioned the loyal animal. He had a series of one-word commands for Satan. The animal obeyed him faithfully. He knew if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be eating for a day or two. That was the key with these beasts. Keep them half-starved and they did whatever you wanted.
Tyrone sent a disgusted look at the dog, then rammed Ricky with a piercing glare. “You skating on thin ice, Ricky boy. I am not playing with you no more.”
“I didn’t start this, Tyrone.” Ricky’s fingers itched to reach for the gun, but that would be a bad mistake. If he showed the slightest indication of aggression, even twitched, he was a dead man.
“That’s the truth.” Tyrone stepped closer, settled his tall frame into a chair. “But you going to end it.”
Tyrone Nash was three years older than Ricky’s twenty-eight. He’d started out running drugs for anyone who needed a fast pair of legs. He’d cheated and killed his way to the top. One dead tweaker at a time.
He called himself the King. Dressed like a rap star, with all the bling to prove either claim. He’d earned or stolen the respect or fear of every single human being living in the village. Most of the cops in the west precinct were scared of him. He ran all the sex workers this side of the Parkway, owned some portion of the drug business in the whole city. And nobody,nobodydared to cross him.
Old Tyrone was slick as shit and as hard and cold as pure ice. He didn’t care about anyone but himself. He’d just as soon kill you as look at you.
And he was looking at Ricky right now.
“Whatever you say, Ty. I got no beef with you. I know my place, man.”
Tyrone smiled, his teeth a brilliant white contrast to that black-as-night skin. “But Ricky, my man, I got a beef with you. I got adead bitch in my territory and another smart-ass bitch digging around in my business. I can’t get it right in my head why you let this shit happen.”
Hell. Ricky swallowed back the fear clawing its way up the back of his throat. “I tried to keep that crazy Shelley under control, but Braddock was putting ideas in her head.” Ricky laughed, the sound as pathetic as a scared little girl’s. “I’m pretty sure she thought she was gonna help take you down or something.”
Ricky didn’t blink, didn’t even breathe for the next few seconds. Ty stared long and hard at him. Like he was trying to see the lie. Ricky wasn’t stupid. No way was he gonna lie to the guy ... not to his face, anyway.
“That’s why she’s dead,” Ty said at last.
Ricky nodded. “That’s why she’s dead.” Shelley should’ve known better than to mess with the King.
“What did you tell Braddock?”
