Concrete Shadows

Chapter One

The city had a heartbeat.

If you stood still long enough, you could feel it pulsing through the sidewalks, humming in the flicker of busted streetlights, rattling through the pipes of abandoned buildings. At night, the heartbeat got louder. More desperate. More dangerous.

Dante Reyes knew that rhythm better than anyone. He’d grown up on it — the rhythm of sirens, deals whispered in alleyways, gunshots that cracked like punctuation. He didn’t flinch at the sound anymore. He couldn’t afford to.

Tonight, the city’s pulse was in his chest, pounding fast as he crouched behind a dented Honda Civic on 134th and Lenox. His palms were slick with sweat, his hoodie pulled low over his brow. The deal was supposed to be quick. Simple. But on these streets, nothing ever stayed simple.

“Yo, D, you sure about this?”

The whisper came from his boy Rico, skinny frame bouncing nervously as he scanned the block. Rico wasn’t built for pressure — not like Dante. He talked too much, moved too fast. But he was loyal, and that was currency you couldn’t buy.

“Relax,” Dante muttered, eyes fixed on the corner where a black Escalade had just rolled to a stop. “We handle this clean. In and out.”

The Escalade’s tinted windows reflected the streetlights like dead eyes. Two men stepped out, big frames in leather jackets, moving with the weight of people who didn’t need to talk much to be understood. One carried a duffel bag.

Dante stood, brushing off his jeans, sliding his mask of confidence back on. In this game, fear was blood in the water. You let someone see it, they’d drown you.

He stepped forward, hands loose at his sides. “You got it?”

The taller of the two men unzipped the bag just enough for Dante to glimpse stacks of cash. The sight always did something to him — a spark, a rush, like adrenaline mixed with hunger. Money was oxygen. Out here, if you didn’t have it, you couldn’t breathe.

Rico handed Dante a shoebox wrapped tight with tape. Inside: two bricks, uncut. Product worth more than either of them had ever legally held in their lives. Dante didn’t blink. He locked eyes with the man holding the bag.

“Count it if you want,” Dante said.

The man smirked, shaking his head. “We don’t count with Ghost’s people. If he sent you, it’s straight.”

That name — Ghost — carried weight like a loaded gun. Marcus “Ghost” Hill ran half the block, and Dante was one of his up-and-comers. A protégé, some said. A pawn, others whispered. Either way, Ghost’s shadow stretched long over the city.

The men slid the bag across the hood of the Civic. Dante reached for it, already calculating what this money meant — rent for his mom’s overdue apartment, new books for Janelle, his little sister, maybe even a chance to stack enough to get out.

Then the sirens cut through the night.

Not distant. Not faint. Right on top of them.

“Five-O!” Rico shouted, his voice cracking as red and blue lights splashed across the block.

The men cursed in Spanish, grabbing for their weapons. Dante’s instincts screamed. He snatched the bag, shoving Rico toward the alley.

“Move!”

Tires screeched, doors slammed, and suddenly the block erupted — cops pouring out of unmarked cars, guns drawn, voices barking commands drowned out by chaos.

Dante sprinted, bag clutched tight, sneakers slapping against cracked pavement. He knew these alleys like veins in his own hand. Left at the bodega, over the chain-link fence, through the courtyard where old heads played dominoes by day.

Behind him, Rico wheezed, struggling to keep up. “Dante, man — wait!”

“No time!” Dante shot back.

Bullets cracked. Not warning shots — real ones. Cops didn’t fire like that unless they meant it. Unless they wanted to make a statement. Dante’s chest burned, but he pushed harder, adrenaline turning his legs to pistons.

He dove into the stairwell of an abandoned building, dragging Rico with him. They crouched in the dark, lungs heaving, hearts rattling like dice in a cup. The bag of cash sat between them, heavy, undeniable.

“Yo…” Rico gasped, wide-eyed. “We dead, man. They saw us. They *saw* us!”

Dante pressed his back against the wall, sweat dripping into his eyes. He thought about Janelle, probably asleep on the couch with her textbooks spread around her, trying to study through the sound of sirens outside. He thought about Ghost, who’d sent them out here like bait. He thought about the city, its heartbeat thundering in his ears.

Dead? Maybe.

But not tonight.

Dante pushed himself up, gripping the bag. “We’re not dead till they put us in the ground.”

Outside, the sirens wailed louder, closer, echoing off the concrete like a promise.

Cliffhanger Ending for Chapter One:

Dante and Rico have escaped into the abandoned building with the cash, but the cops are right on their heels. Readers are left wondering — will they get caugh

t, or will this close call drag Dante deeper into Ghost’s world?