Young-Love

CHAPTER 7: NICO'S POV

I woke up with a needle in my arm and a fire in my shoulder.

The world spun. Lights above me flickered like they couldn’t decide whether to stay on or give up. I heard beeping machines and the faint squeak of nurses’ sneakers across the linoleum floor. My mouth was dry. Throat tighter than a snitch’s silence. I tried to move, and pain slapped me like a brick.

“He's awake!” someone called.

Voices. Nurses. The shuffling of chaos, but all I could focus on was that cold, heavy weight in my chest.

Where the f**k am I?

And then it hit me — the docks. The crates. The f*****g ambush.

I clenched my jaw as memory pieced itself back together like shattered glass. My shirt — soaked in blood. Gunshots. That opp grabbing me. Some guy shouting. Then... pain. Blinding, searing pain.

Some nigga shot me?

But dude was aiming for the opp. But still — it was his trigger that sent me here, f**k.

“Mr. Lovereign?” a nurse asked, leaning over me. “Try not to move. You’re stable. We’re monitoring blood loss and internal bleeding. You’re going to be okay.”

I didn’t respond. Just stared up at the ceiling, thoughts racing faster than my heartbeat.

I’m supposed to be the heir. The fuckin’ next in line. Malik’s son. Mansa’s bloodline.

How the hell did I get hit?

This ain't supposed to happen. Not to people like me.

They were supposed to protect me. Hell, nigga was supposed to protect me but shot me in the goddam arm. Bro got poor aim, I'm sure Bella got better aim, for real.

That name’s already ringing down the corridors of my mind like an echo I don’t really quite recall it very well. My body’s stitched up but my pride? That s**t’s still bleeding.

A light knock came at the door. I turned slowly, expecting a nurse or maybe Carl checking in.

It was my mother — Contessa.

Her heels clicked softly as she walked in, her eyes heavy but still glowing with that regal Italian steel. She always looked like she stepped off a magazine cover, even when the world was burning.

“Oh my baby,” she whispered.

She came over and kissed my forehead gently, brushing my curls back. “They said it went through clean. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky,” I muttered, voice dry like sandpaper.

“You’re alive. That’s luck enough in this world,” she said, sitting beside me.

I swallowed. “Where’s Dad?”

She hesitated — just for a second — and that was enough to tell me he hadn’t come yet. I wasn’t surprised. Malik’s love came with conditions, and even a bullet couldn’t buy affection.

“He’s handling things,” she said softly. “The docks, the retaliation... you know how it is.”

Yeah. I knew.

This wasn’t just about me anymore. This was business. The Lovereign name took a hit the second my blood touched that concrete.

“Did you hear about who ambushed us?” I asked, shifting slightly, pain flaring again.

“No. But your father’s already got people on it,” she said. “You don’t worry about that. Just focus on getting better.”

I nodded slightly, but inside? I was boiling.

###

Pain meds knock you out, but they don’t knock out thoughts.

It got me thinking being Malik Lovereign’s son ain’t a gift.

It’s a fuckin’ assignment.

They say I was born into power. That I got it easy. Rich kid, private schools, mafia bloodline, name heavy enough to clear rooms. I see the way Carl looks at me sometimes—like I’m wearin’ some invisible crown he was supposed to inherit.

But truth is?

That crown weighs like hell.

Since I was twelve, Pops been groomin’ me. “You speak like a man, Nico. Not like some street kid.” “Keep your hands clean, make the dirty ones work for you.” “Never show love. Love makes men soft.”

I had to learn every code, every name, every blood debt owed by this family before I hit sixteen.

Had to sit in meetings with old heads twice my age, nodding like I understood everything, when deep down, I wanted to be anywhere else.

Basketball? Art class? A damn walk in the park with my girl!!!

Never had that.

Carl and I—we used to be tight. But the older we got, the more it felt like a quiet war.

He’s stronger. Louder. Sharper with his hands a goddam party animal with bitches.

But I’m the one Dad called “my successor.”

He don’t say it out loud, but I know it burns Carl up sometimes. Not that he wants the throne — but because he hates being in the shadow of someone who don’t even want it.

I never asked for this.

I never wanted to lead a damn army of ghosts and bullets.

But it’s my job, cause I’m the next in line for the throne.

Yeah you heard that right, the next Don of the Five Families after my father—Dad was the first born son of Grandpa Mansa-Musa, so he was next in line as the heir to the throne, guess who is the first born son of dad—it’s me, f**k, I’m next in line even when I’ve got a cousin brother that is one year older than me—it’s still me, the next mafia boss.

And every scar I carry is a reminder — legacy isn’t a reward. It’s a sentence.

I got shot doin’ a job I didn’t want, for a man who’s more machine than father. My blood’s on a hospital floor and Malik didn’t even blink.

All he cared about was how it made the family look, how many assets went missing in the ambush.

And if that’s what power is?

Maybe I’m not cut out for it s**t after all.

But I ain’t about to abandon my siblings — not Bella, not Carl.

If I’m gonna carry this name…

I’ll carry it my way.

Even if that means burnin’ down the damn script they wrote for me.

My eyes were still locked on the room watching the sunlight crawl up the walls, deep thoughts continued running down my mind next thing I could think about was the look on my little sister’s face the last time I saw her.

Bella.

Most people call her Queen B at school, like she’s some royal ruler. Truth is, she’s just trying to survive the crown they placed on her head the day she was born.

And the worst part?

Our father — Malik — don’t treat her like no queen. And don’t even get me started on Grandpa Mansa and my uncles.

They treat her like she’s glass. Not the fine kind. The breakable, fake kind. Like she don't belong.

And I don't get it.

She’s got the looks, the brains, the name. Bella walks into a room, and everything stops. She's sharp, dangerous, strategic as hell. Half the soldiers in the Five Families would be eating out of her palm if she ever chose to play the game.

But to Dad?

She’s nothing but a burden.

I’ve seen it — the way Dad won’t look her in the eye for too long. The way Grandpa dismisses her with a single wave like she’s a fly in the room.

It don’t sit right with me. Never has.

Carl might not say it out loud, but I know he feels it too. We’ve been shielding her from this family's bullshit since we were kids. Playing decoys, covering up her screw-ups, keeping her name clean. Because if we don’t? No one else will.

She's our sister. Flesh and blood.

So why they act like she ain't?

Unless… unless there’s something we don’t know.

I hate thinkin’ like that. Makes me feel like I’m betraying her just for wondering. But I’ve heard the whispers. The arguments between mom and dad behind closed doors. Muffled words like “liability” and “not part of the legacy.”

Something don’t add up.

A knock on the door.

Carl walked in. Hoodie, chain, Air Forces, all black. My brother don’t play with subtle.

“You look like s**t, man” he said, smirking.

I tried to sit up but hiss in pain. “You try getting shot and lookin’ fly, nigga.”

He laughed. Then it faded. We both fell silent for a second.

“You good?” he finally asked.

“I will be.”

“Who tried to put holes in you?” he inquired jokingly.

I shrugged. “I dunno, man. Some nigga I can't recall the name—was by mistake, he was tryna protect my ass.”

Carl shook his head. “s**t dude, I'm gon' bust his ass.”

“Chill man, he meant no harm, we cool.”

“You're sure you don't want me to pop him.” Carl demanded.

“I left Dad at the docks, he's prolly fixing the matter.” I responded.

“We both know how Dad operates. Fear before facts. Power over peace.” Carl pointed.

“Nah he wouldn't…” I started.

“Yeah. You said it— dad stayed to fix the problem.”

That cold hit my chest again, I believe dad has a heart, he wouldn't end an innocent man's life.

We’re both quiet again.

I looked out the window, at the skyline of a city that eats its own.

“We’re sons of kings, Carl,” I said, voice low. “But sometimes I wonder what kind of corrupt kingdom this really is.”

“I’ll tell you sumn.” Carl sighed. “One where queens don’t even live long.”

I turned my head sharply toward him.

“Wait, you talkin’ ‘bout Bella?”

He shrugged. “I’m sayin’... she gotta watch her back. Just like we all do.”

But that ain't good enough.

Bella shouldn’t watch her back. Not in her own fuckin’ family.

And if I gotta be the one to protect her from our bloodline, so be it.

###

Mom returned to the hospital room with Bella. Bella jumped on me like a missile.

“Careful little one, you may end me.” I jokingly said but she looked more worried than usual.

“You can't die on me big bro.” She mumbled.

“Well I ain't going anywhere anytime soon.”

The room quieted down, Carl's big-a*s footsteps pacing the room like a watchdog on steroids. Mom was crying, holding my hand like I was about to die. I wasn’t. But it felt like I had and Bella hugging on me. Jeez!!! Too much drama.

After a while, the nurse said they had to leave and give me rest. Carl shot me a warning look—You better not die while I’m gone. Bella mouthed I’ll be back, even though her eyes said—Don’t you fuckin scare me like that again.

The second the door shut behind them, I exhaled. My whole chest burned. Not just from the gunshot. From everything. I decided to get a rest.

About ten minutes later, the door creaked open again. I didn’t even need to look.

Pops.

He walked in like he owned the place. Okay he probably did. Ain’t no doctor gonna tell Malik Lovereign he can’t stroll into a hospital room like it’s his damn office. His coat still had blood splatters on the cuff. Not mine. Someone else’s.

He stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed.

“How you feelin’, son?”

I sat up slightly, wincing. “It’s nothin’ but a scratch. I’ll be good, sir.”

He gave a nod. Short. Controlled. Like I was reportin’ in from war.

But instead of askin’ about the pain or the meds or whether I could breathe right, he went straight into his real agenda.

“You recognize who hit us?”

I blinked. “What?”

“The ambush. The crew. You saw their colours?”

I stared at him, my whole chest tightening.

“Dad… I got shot. I was bleedin’ out in the docks. And you’re askin’ me if I saw colours?”

He didn’t flinch. Just raised one eyebrow.

“I need answers, Nico. We lost product. Men. That shipment was worth more than ten mil.”

Something snapped in me. The bandage on my arm tugged, but I didn’t care.

“I almost died!” I shouted. “You sent me out there with half a crew and a clipboard. I took a bullet for your operation and all you care about is fuckin’ inventory?”

"Don't you raise your voice on me, boy." He snapped. "And mind your tongue when you talking to me."

“Yes, sir.” I mumbled.

He stayed quiet for a second. Then his lips curled slightly. Like he was tryna offer some twisted form of comfort.

“If it makes you feel any better…” he said, “I got rid of your shooter.”

My blood ran cold, but I had expected it.

“What?”

He stepped closer, face unreadable. “The man who shot you. He’s gone.”

I shook my head slowly, not believing it. Fifteen minutes ago Carl told me the same thing—dad was gonna get rid of him.

“He shot my son,” Dad said flatly.

“He saved me,” I snapped. “That shot was accidental. He was tryin’ to stop the guy who had me. He wasn’t the threat!”

Dad’s jaw clenched. “He missed. That makes him a liability to the Five Families.”

“You killed an innocent man, at least you could’ve fired him from his job.” I said, my voice rising. “Do you even give a second thought whether he had a family? A kid? Someone waiting for him to come home for dinner?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re growin’ soft, Nico. You continue thinking like that, you won’t last a week runnin’ this empire.”

“I’m not tryin’ to run anything right now. I’m just tryna raise my voice.”

He shook his head, disappointed. Like I’d failed some silent test.

“I raised a leader, not a boy who cries over pawns.”

I stared at him. Really looked at him.

He turned, already done with the conversation.

“I’m disappointed,” he muttered. “We’ll talk when your head’s clear.”

Then he walked out.

Just like that.

And I was left in that quiet white room, my arm numb, my chest on fire.

Not from the bullet.

But from everything that made me his son.