Young-Love

CHAPTER 5: ANDRE'S POV

You ever ride through a place knowin’ you don’t belong there? Like, really feelin’ it in your bones? That’s how it felt pullin’ up to Queens High with my baby girl. School’s gates lookin’ like the damn White House — tall, shiny, expensive. Hell, even the trees looked rich. And me? Just an ex-trap nigga with busted dreams held together by duct tape.

But none of that mattered. ‘Cause standing’ beside me was Zuri. My baby. My world.

From the second I saw her in that hospital room fourteen years ago, screamin’ her lungs out and flailin’ like she was fightin’ the world already—I knew. I ain’t give a damn that she didn’t look like me. Didn’t need to. I saw my soul in her eyes. All the love I didn’t know I had? Boom. Hit me like a brick wall. She was mine. Still is.

Her mama, though? Man... That b***h ain’t even look at the baby like she mattered. Didn’t hold her right. Didn’t smile. Just stared like Zuri was some mistake that wouldn’t go away. I swear, I’d never seen someone so cold with their own blood. From day one, I promised myself: Zuri would never feel that s**t. Not from me.

I done a lotta s**t in my life. Dirty money, dirty hands, dirty nights. Coke runs from Flatbush to Newark, holdin’ heat for niggas who ain’t worth a dime. But if it put food on Zuri’s plate? Worth it. If it got her school books? Worth it. If it kept her from beggin’ or stealin’? Worth every risk.

Except the one time it wasn’t.

Three days. That’s how long I was gone on that run. Told Roscoe to look out, but he had his own mess. Zuri got hungry. Mama ain’t fed her. She hit up a corner store, pocketed a bag of chips and some ramen with Kiki.

Dumbass clerk called the boys. Next thing I know, my baby’s in cuffs. By the time I got the news, that s**t broke me. I ain’t never cried so hard. This was the second time Zuri was testing the cell, but this time round she was locked for real, that nigga at the corner store refused to drop the damn charges, even when I begged him.

So yeah, when I found out ‘bout the Queens High tryouts? I wasn’t gonna miss that for nothin’. Even if it meant callin’ in favors, duckin’ debts, and showin’ up to a rich kids’ school lookin’ like I just walked outta Rikers. I needed her to get this. Not just the scholarship—but the future, her future.

She looked at that school like it was a battleground. Eyes sharp. Ready.

“‘bout to make this school my b***h,” she said, and I laughed.

I ain’t say it out loud, but I was thinkin’: That’s my girl.

Whatever happens next, I just pray to God I ain’t cursed her with my sins. She deserves more than the projects. Deserves more than the Youngblood name could ever buy her.

And if today’s the first step for her outta the mud? Then I’m ridin’ for her till the wheels fall off.

Even if I gotta bleed for it.

The second my phone buzzed, I knew it wasn’t good. I had Zuri in my ear, excited about those damn tryouts, and I could barely focus. But when I saw Roscoe’s name flash on the screen, it was a sign. It was never just a friendly check-in when Roscoe called.

“Yo,” I said, stepping further to the parking lot, leaving Zuri waiting, eyes locked on me. “What’s up Ross?”

“Boss wants us, bro. Pronto,” Roscoe said, his voice tight.

I shook my head. “Nah, I’m good. I’m with Zuri right now. Tryouts at Queens High. I ain’t leaving her.”

Roscoe wasn’t having it. “Nigga, you better get your a*s down here at the docks. Shipment’s here, and the boss is pissed. Ain’t enough niggas out here for the job. Come or lose your job, Dre.”

I knew what that meant. The boss never liked to wait, especially when there was money on the line. Tension buzzed through the line. I looked at Zuri, standing there like the weight of the world was on her shoulders, eager to make her mark. My girl was about to step into the world of the rich and the privileged, and here I was, stuck in the mud, doing favours for people who didn’t give a damn about me.

But I had no choice. I hit end on the call, nodded at Zuri, and stepped back toward her.

I told her wassup but had to cook up a story about some delivery s**t, didn’t want my baby girl to worry yet she has her own battle to go face.

She gave me a look, like she knew something was off. “Stay safe, Dad.”

I nodded and walked away, my stomach heavy. It was hard, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do for the ones you love.

###

The train ride to Brooklyn docks was quiet, my thoughts loud. I kept thinking about Zuri, about how she had no idea about the life I was still caught up in. How one day I wanted to get her out of all of it. Hell, I just wanted her safe and happy, but the clock was ticking on that dream.

I grabbed my Glock out of the bag as soon as I hit the docks. If s**t went sideways, I had to be ready, had to stay strapped. No one trusted anyone here. The docks were the perfect place for shady deals, dirty money, and dirty guns. I could hear Roscoe talking low to someone, but I didn’t pay attention. I was too busy scanning the area.

Minutes later, we started carrying the crates. Probably firearms or drugs inside, but hey it’s non of my business.

“This s**t’s too heavy, I beat the s**t outta any nigga that gon’ slow me down right now.” I muttered under my breath.

“f**k out the way, man!!!” I yelled at one of the crew members as I tried to get to Roscoe.

“Damn Ross, why you working extra hard man?” I joked “I ain’t even worked too long, but this s**t too much, there’s enough niggas out here… for this s**t. And when the f**k we gon’ eat?”

“Pipe down Dre, finish this s**t, get our bands and we outta here!” he said.

A young kid, barely twenty years, was standing by the crates, talking s**t. Nico Lovereign, the boss’s son. I couldn’t help but scoff. f*****g kid should be in a classroom somewhere, but here he was, giving orders like he ran the whole city. I whispered to Roscoe, “Can you imagine being ordered around by a nineteen-year-old boy?”

Roscoe shot me a warning glance. “That nineteen-year-old boy is the son to the boss. You wouldn’t wanna mess with him. Just stay in your lane, my nigga! And carry the damn crates.”

As if on cue, gunfire rang out. People scattered. I ducked behind a concrete column, my heart hammering. Some other g**g — they must’ve been waiting for the right moment. Shots flew past me, ricocheted off steel.

“Protect the boss!” someone yelled.

I knew what I had to do. I pulled out my Glock, took a breath, and dashed toward the chaos. Nico was being dragged off, some asshole had him in a chokehold. He was kicking, yelling, crying out for help like a little b***h. I couldn't let it happen.

I raised my g*n, aimed, and shot.

But it wasn’t the bastard who was holding Nico. I had missed.

Nico screamed, blood pouring out of his shoulder, clutching his arm. I couldn’t believe it.

The opps ran away leaving us in a state of confusion.

“What the f**k, Dre? You shot the boss’s son!” Roscoe’s voice cut through the noise.

I froze. I had f****d up. What I didn’t know was what was about to happen next.

Before I could even react, the sound of roaring engines hit the air. A convoy of black Escalades pulled in, the boss himself arriving. Malik Lovereign. His face was like stone as he stepped out, eyes scanning the scene. A crew member shouted, “Boss, someone shot your son!”

Malik didn’t even blink. The fury was there, but it wasn’t just anger. It was the kind of fury that could end a man’s life in a heartbeat.

“Get my son to the hospital,” Malik cried out.

Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. The crew members grabbed me, yanked me up. I could barely catch my breath before they shoved me in front of Malik. He wasn’t looking at me like a man. He was looking at me like I was a dead man walking.

“What's your name?” Malik’s voice was low, cold.

I swallowed, heart thumping in my chest. “Andre Youngblood. I ain’t no opp—I work for you sir.”

Malik’s eyes narrowed. “But, you’ve just shot my son. You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”

I tried to beg, tried to explain. “Please, I got a daughter... Zuri... She’s waiting for me.”

Roscoe came rushing in, hands up, trying to smooth things over. “Boss, please. It’s an accident, sir.”

But Malik wasn’t hearing it. He just paced back and forth. Then, without warning, he pulled out his g*n. The sound of the shot still rings in my ears, but all I remember is the searing pain as the bullet hit my lung.

“You, get rid of the body,” Malik said, cold as ice to Roscoe, his back turned.

“Bro, you gonna be a’ight. You not dyin’ on me or Zuri,” Roscoe said, crouched beside me, hands pressed to my chest. His voice was crackin’, but I couldn’t feel the pain no more. Just cold. Heavy cold.

My vision blurred, sky above lookin’ like a watercolor wash. Light-blue swirl, like Zuri’s eyes.

Funny thing... I’m a gangster but I always pray—in my head. Never out loud. Even when I am deep in the streets, I still whisper a lil’ something to the man upstairs.

So I did it now. One last time.

“Yo God... I know I been wildin’. I ain’t expect no mansion in heaven, no choir singin’ my name. But please... keep Zuri safe. Let her win. Let her rise out this gutter. Let her ball so hard the whole city gotta say her name. Let her smile, laugh, love. Keep the wolves off her. Keep her fire lit. Let her know her pops loved her to death… and after.”

I choked, air gettin’ tighter. Roscoe’s hands started to shake.

I turned to him, blood in my throat, but I forced it out:

“Keep Zuri safe, man… swear it.”

Roscoe nodded, his jaw clenchin’. “I got her, bro. I swear.”

And with that… everything went dark.