Chapter 7
1140 Words
Aron flicked the match, the sulfur lighting his cigarette with a soft snap in the warm, muggy air. He took a drag, exhaling slow as his sharp, angular jawline tensed with thought.
“She’s a pretty one,” he said, watching the club entrance across the street. “You wanna make a move now? Send a little message?”
DJ didn’t respond right away. His eyes remained locked on the gold-tinted doorway, on the moment Wyatt dragged her inside. His jaw clenched as her pale blue dress disappeared into the shadows.
“No,” he said finally, the toothpick shifting slightly between his lips. “Not yet. We need to see what we’re dealing with first.”
Aron shrugged, tossing the burnt match. “You’re the boss.”
Without another word, DJ turned on his heel, heading down the street. His crew followed.
The city had grown darker in his absence—filthier, more dangerous. The sidewalks were cracked, trash clung to alleyways like the plague, and the faces of the people were hollow with fear.
They passed old storefronts, some shuttered, some barely hanging on.
Then—
“Well, well… look at what the cat dragged in.”
The voice came from behind them.
DJ stopped.
He knew that voice.
He turned slowly to find Maybelle, standing on the sidewalk with a bag of groceries in one arm, a hand on her hip, and one eyebrow c****d in defiant amusement. Her big brown eyes were lined with that signature fire that never quite burned out, even after all these years. Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid, and despite the years, she looked every bit the spitfire he remembered.
DJ pressed his lips into a firm line. “Maybelle.”
She tilted her head, stepping closer, eyeing him from head to toe. “Damn,” she muttered, “Its been years and not a single postcard? Not even a drunk telegram?”
He exhaled. “It’s been a while.”
Maybelle scoffed. “Yeah. I’d say about ten years—but who’s counting? Not my best friend, who waited and cried for your black ass for some of those years.”
DJ’s jaw tightened.
Behind him, Lamar and Dwight exchanged awkward glances. Aron was biting back a grin. Shaun mouthed “Damn.”
DJ’s eyes never left her. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
Maybelle took a slow step forward, her tone losing its sass for a split second. “Yeah? Well, it did.”
Then her eyes shifted to the group of men behind him, scanning them quickly. “This your entourage?” she said with a flick of her hand. “Don’t look like you’re back for a casual stroll through memory lane.”
DJ took a deep breath. “I’m here on business.”
Maybelle raised both brows. “Business,” she echoed dryly. “Right.”
She looked away for a beat, then back at him, her voice lowering. “Well, do what you gotta do. But leave when it’s done.”
DJ didn’t respond.
Maybelle stepped closer, lowering her voice further. “And make damn sure Lia doesn’t find out you’re here.”
The sound of her name made something in DJ’s chest twist.
Maybelle leaned in, her expression steely. “I’m not picking up the pieces again.”
There was no warning in her tone—just truth. Raw, unapologetic truth.
She stared at him for one more beat, then turned on her heel and walked away without looking back.
DJ stood in place, silent.
“Yo,” Dwight muttered, scratching his head. “Who the hell was that?”
DJ finally moved again, starting to walk forward.
“Trouble,” he muttered.
The sky was bruising with dusk when DJ and his crew found themselves parked in an alley two blocks away from Wyatt’s newest club. A rusty fire escape loomed above them, a place where shadows clung like secrets. The city pulsed with distant jazz, laughter, and the occasional scream — but here, it was silent. Just the soft scrape of DJ flipping through notes and street reports he'd gathered over the last few hours.
Shaun leaned against the wall, chewing gum, arms crossed. “So what’s the verdict?” he asked.
DJ licked his thumb, turned another page. “Wyatt Cane’s not just arrogant,” he muttered. “He’s a goddamn white supremacist with a god complex.”
Lamar grunted. “We got enough of those crawling around already.”
DJ didn’t look up. “Every one of his clubs, his bars, his hotels—run by whites, for whites. Blacks, Italians, Irish, Chinese... banned. Tossed out. Beaten if they don’t leave fast enough.”
Aron pulled the cigarette from his lips, smoke trailing from the side of his mouth. “Figures. You can smell that kind of rot before you even step in the door.”
DJ nodded slowly. “He’s been gutting the community. That old laundry store? Chows?”
“Boarded up,” Dwight added with a frown. “Glass busted out. Saw it myself.”
DJ’s voice was like steel. “Wyatt had it shut down last month. Said they were ‘dirtying up the street.’”
Shaun spit his gum into a crumpled wrapper. “And the Italian place? Vercel’s?”
“Burned to the damn ground,” Lamar said darkly. “No fire department report. No investigation. Like it never even existed.”
Silence fell over them for a moment, thick and bitter.
“He’s not just trying to take over,” DJ said, finally closing the folder with a snap. “He’s trying to cleanse the city. Turn it into some twisted white man’s paradise.”
“And the boss back home thinks we can just scare him off?” Aron asked with a dry laugh. “This ain’t business. This is a crusade.”
DJ looked down the alley, eyes narrowed. “He picked the wrong city for that.”
Lamar cracked his knuckles. “Damn right.”
Shaun smirked. “So what now?”
DJ stepped out of the shadows, the amber glow of a lamppost casting his sharp jawline into relief. His suit—clean, sharp, black pinstripes with a red dress shirt—cut through the night like a blade. His eyes, dark and unreadable, glinted with a simmering fury.
“Now,” DJ said calmly, “we watch. We learn. We let him get comfortable thinking he’s untouchable.”
He paused.
“Then we burn his entire empire to the ground.”
The others nodded in unison, the bond between them stronger than steel.
Because DJ wasn’t just there to stop a power grab.
He was there to remind Chicago who it really belonged to.
And Wyatt Cane?
He’d just made things personal.
- Writer
