Chapter 14
1323 Words
The stench of expensive liquor, cigar smoke, and arrogance hung heavy in the air of Wyatt Cane’s private lounge above the club. The velvet wallpaper soaked in the heat of rage as Wyatt paced like a caged lion, boots thudding heavily against the hardwood floor. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, his suspenders hanging at his hips, chest heaving in long, furious breaths.
He hadn’t said a word since his crew dragged in Frankie—one of his mid-tier enforcers—and tossed him onto the leather sofa. The man was trembling, a welt blooming under his eye and blood on his collar. He was the one who brought the news.
Wyatt turned slowly, his lips twitching in a half-snarl as he stared down at the shaken man.
“Run that by me again, Frankie,” Wyatt said coolly, his voice thick with venom. “Say it real slow this time, yeah?”
Frankie swallowed hard. “D-DJ Spencer. Him and his crew… they lit up the warehouse last night and beat the piss outta Joey’s boys outside the speakeasy tonight. Real public. Real clean.”
The room was silent. Tense.
Wyatt took a slow drag from his cigar and blew smoke in a thin stream toward the ceiling.
“I know who he is,” Wyatt muttered. “The Black Devil. f*****g New York puppet.”
“He’s makin’ moves, boss,” another crew member chimed in. “Word is, he’s protectin’ colored businesses. Gathering allies.”
Wyatt snapped his gaze toward him. The man flinched.
“Protectin’?” Wyatt mocked, his voice rising. “He thinks he can come into my city—my f*****g city—and play goddamn Robin Hood?”
Frankie sat up, holding his side where a rib might’ve cracked. “Maybe we call your old man. Just—just to scare him a little. Your pa’s still got pull. Maybe a visit from The Hammer’ll make these spooks crawl back to New York where they belong.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut throats.
Wyatt stared at Frankie, unmoving, unreadable.
Then slowly, deliberately, he stubbed his cigar out on the mahogany desk beside him.
“You think I can’t handle this?”
Frankie’s eyes widened. “No, boss, I didn’t mean it like—”
“You think I need Daddy to come clean up my mess?” Wyatt said, stepping forward. His voice was quiet now, deadly. “You think I ain’t man enough to keep control of my own f*****g kingdom?”
“No—Wyatt—please, I was just—”
Wyatt didn’t let him finish. He lunged.
Fists collided with bone.
Blood sprayed across the wall.
Frankie screamed once before it turned into wet choking. Wyatt didn’t stop. He rained punches, bare-knuckled, until Frankie’s body was a twitching heap on the lounge rug. Rib bones cracked. Nose shattered. A tooth rolled to a stop near the leg of a chair.
When it was done, Wyatt stood over him, face flushed and hands dripping.
The rest of the crew stood frozen, too scared to breathe.
Wyatt straightened, shaking out his fingers. “Anyone else got bright ideas?” he hissed.
No one answered.
Wyatt kicked Frankie’s body once. Hard.
“Drag that s**t out of here.”
Two crew members moved quickly, dragging the corpse like a sack of garbage. Wyatt ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, breathing hard.
“This city is mine,” he said aloud. “Mine. My clubs. My streets. My future.”
He glared at his men. “And no street mutt from Harlem is gonna take that from me. You find DJ Spencer. You find his crew. You watch every block, every shadow. I want their blood spilling in the gutters before the week’s out.”
He walked over to the bar, poured himself two fingers of whiskey, and downed it in one go.
His eyes were wild now. Burning.
“Tell the city the prince is done playing games.”
---
The gates of the Verona compound groaned shut behind DJ and his crew, the iron clanking like a closing vault. The night air was thick with smoke and sweat, the adrenaline of the street brawl still pumping in their veins. DJ walked ahead, calm as ever, a fresh toothpick tucked between his lips. His knuckles were still bruised, the blood dried under his nails.
They made their way into the old manor’s war room — the same place where DJ had once stood as a hungry street kid. It hadn’t changed much, save for the added security and the dust of aging power. As they stepped inside, a younger Verona soldier handed DJ a folded sheet of paper, his face pale.
DJ opened it without a word.
The bounty flared in bold black ink:
$25,000 for Devon "DJ" Spencer — Dead or Alive
Aron whistled low. “Damn. That’s the kinda price you hang on kings.”
Shaun leaned over DJ’s shoulder, chuckling. “We hurt the little prince’s pride, huh?”
Dwight grinned, bouncing a cherry bomb in one hand like a child with a toy. “Think he’ll pay extra if we send him back his boy’s testicles in a gift box?”
Even Lamar, usually the quiet muscle, gave a low rumble of a laugh. “He’s scared now. You only put bounties on men who make you piss the bed.”
DJ didn’t laugh. He simply folded the paper and placed it on the desk.
“They’re desperate,” he said. “And desperate men make sloppy moves.”
His crew nodded, the mood buzzing with confidence, but DJ drifted. His eyes weren’t on the bounty anymore. They were elsewhere — somewhere far softer.
She had danced like sunlight through dirty glass. Red silk on cream skin. That scent… rose and honey. That smile. That voice.
Aurelia.
Aron caught the shift. DJ’s jaw had tensed, and his fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the edge of the desk. The usually impenetrable wall in his eyes had a flicker of something human.
“Hey,” Aron said, coming to stand beside him, lowering his voice. “Was that her?”
DJ didn’t look up.
“The girl you used to talk about back in Harlem? The reason you didn’t f**k around with feelings?”
DJ nodded.
Aron sighed, grabbing a bottle off the table and pouring two glasses. He slid one toward DJ but didn’t toast. Instead, he leaned in.
“I gotta ask, D…” His voice was steady but serious. “Is she gonna be a problem?”
DJ’s eyes finally met his. Cold, unreadable.
“We can’t afford distractions, man,” Aron continued. “Not now. Not when we’ve got heat on our backs and a psycho rich kid trying to burn the whole city down. I’m not saying cut her off… but if she gets in the way, what are you gonna do?”
The room was quiet for a moment.
DJ stared into the glass, watching the amber liquid settle.
“She ain’t a problem,” he said finally, voice low and even. “She’s just… part of the past.”
Aron gave him a long look. “Yeah… but sometimes the past got claws.”
DJ didn’t respond. He downed the drink in one go, let the fire in his throat pull him back to focus.
Outside, thunder rolled low over Chicago, and DJ stood, slipping his coat back over his broad shoulders.
“Get some rest,” he said. “Tomorrow, we take the next piece off his board.”
He walked to the window, eyes scanning the city skyline glowing with streetlamps and corruption. Somewhere out there, Aurelia was asleep. Somewhere out there, Wyatt Cane was plotting.
And somewhere deep inside, DJ felt that old hunger rise again — not just for war, but for something worth coming home for.
- Writer
