Concrete Shadows

Chapter Two

The stairwell smelled like piss and mold, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes no matter how fast you ran. Dante crouched low on the crumbling steps, his chest still heaving, ears tuned to every creak in the building. Rico sat a few feet away, bent over, sucking air like he was drowning.

“Man… I told you this was a bad idea,” Rico muttered between breaths, wiping sweat off his forehead with a trembling hand.

Dante shot him a sharp look. “You talk too much. We’re still breathing, ain’t we?”

Rico didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the bag resting between them, the glow of streetlight slipping through broken windows and catching the edges of the bills. It didn’t even look real. That much money in one place was enough to change a life — or end it.

The sound of boots echoed outside. Radios crackled. The cops hadn’t given up yet.

Dante’s jaw tightened. Ghost hadn’t said anything about a raid. Ghost never *forgot* to mention heat. Which meant one of two things: either the cops were watching the block heavy tonight… or Ghost had known all along.

“Come on,” Dante said, grabbing the bag and pulling Rico by the sleeve. “We can’t stay here.”

They moved fast, cutting deeper into the building until they found a side door that creaked open onto a narrow alley. Dante poked his head out — the coast looked clear, though sirens still bounced off the walls like a curse.

They slipped out, staying low, moving quick. By the time they reached the next block, Dante’s adrenaline had cooled just enough for his mind to start working again. He wasn’t about to take the bag home — not with Janelle there, not with cops crawling the neighborhood.

“Where we headed?” Rico asked nervously, still glancing over his shoulder every two seconds.

Dante didn’t answer right away. His thoughts flicked to Ghost’s corner spot, the smoky back room of the barbershop where deals were made and futures decided. If Ghost had set them up, going there was a risk. But holding this bag without Ghost knowing? That was suicide.

“We go see Ghost,” Dante finally said.

---

The barbershop looked normal from the outside, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, a couple old heads getting fades and arguing about basketball. But everyone in Harlem knew the real business happened in the back.

Dante pushed through the swinging door, Rico trailing close behind. The room was hazy with cigar smoke, a card game spread across a table, money stacked high. Ghost sat at the head like a king in his castle, his sharp suit a contrast to the grit around him. Mid-forties, dark-skinned, bald head shining under the yellow light, his eyes were cold marbles that measured everything and missed nothing.

“Well, well,” Ghost said, leaning back in his chair, lips curling into a grin that never reached his eyes. “Look who made it out alive.”

Dante dropped the bag onto the table. The thud silenced the card game. Everyone’s eyes flicked to the money, then to Ghost, waiting for his reaction.

“Wasn’t easy,” Dante said evenly. “Cops came down on us heavy.”

Ghost tapped ash into a tray, unfazed. “Cops come down heavy every night. That’s the city, boy.”

“Not like this,” Dante pressed, voice low. “They were waiting. Like somebody tipped them.”

For a second, Ghost said nothing. He just stared, smoke curling from the cigar between his fingers. Then he chuckled, shaking his head.

“You young cats always looking for someone to blame,” Ghost said. “Cops do what they do. You did what *I* told you to do. And you came back breathing. That’s all that matters.”

Dante felt heat rise in his chest. Ghost was brushing it off like it was nothing, like Rico and him hadn’t just run for their lives. But Dante swallowed the anger. Ghost wasn’t a man you challenged openly. Not unless you were ready to bury yourself.

Ghost reached out, unzipped the bag, and flipped through the stacks with thick fingers. He nodded, satisfied.

“You held it down,” he said finally, his eyes locking on Dante. “Not everyone would’ve kept their head with sirens in their ear. I see potential in you, boy. More than most.”

The words were meant like praise, but Dante knew better. Ghost’s approval was a leash. He pulled you close just enough to make sure you couldn’t run.

“Take care of your people,” Ghost continued, tossing a smaller bundle of cash toward Dante. “You earned that.”

Rico’s eyes widened at the money, but Dante didn’t move right away. He wanted to ask — *Did you set us up? Did you feed us to the wolves just to test me?* — but the words stuck in his throat.

He pocketed the cash. “We good?”

Ghost’s grin widened. “For now. But keep your ears open, Dante. Storm’s coming. And when it hits, I need soldiers who don’t fold.”

Dante felt the weight of the words even after he left the barbershop. Ghost didn’t give warnings. He gave prophecy.

---

Back at his mom’s apartment, the world felt smaller, quieter. The cracked walls, the peeling paint, the smell of arroz con pollo still hanging in the air from dinner. His mom was asleep in her room. Janelle was on the couch, her textbooks spread around her, head resting against the cushions.

Dante stood there for a moment, just watching her. Sixteen years old, all brains and ambition, she was everything he wasn’t. She wanted out through scholarships, college, maybe law school. She believed in a future Dante couldn’t even picture.

He draped a blanket over her and sank into the armchair, exhaustion finally settling into his bones. The sirens outside were distant now, but the tension in his chest hadn’t left. He thought of Ghost’s words, the way his eyes had lingered on him like a hawk.

A storm was coming.

And Dante was already standing in the rain.

He closed his eyes for just a second. That’s when he heard it — the sharp knock on the door.

Three knocks. Then silence.

Then three more, heavier.

Dante’s eyes snapped open. His hand went instinctively to the piece stashed under the chair cushion. Nobody came knocking at this hour unless it was trouble.

Janelle stirred, rubbing her eyes. “Dante… who’s that?”

“Shh,” he whispered, standing slowly, gun heavy in his palm. He moved toward the door, every muscle coiled tight.

Another knock. Louder this time.

And then a voice.

Low. Rough. Familiar.

“Open up, Reyes. NYPD.”

Dante’s blood went cold.

Cliffhanger Ending for Chapter Two:

The police have tracked Dante down to his home, putting not just him but also

his sister Janelle at risk. Readers are left on edge: will Dante open the door, run, or fight?