YoungBloods

Chapter 9

The morning sun filtered through the cracked blinds of the Verona compound’s backroom office, casting long stripes across the floor. Dust floated lazily in the stale air. DJ sat at the head of the table, a toothpick rolling slowly between his teeth, the file folder from last night still open in front of him. Around him sat Aron, Lamar, Shaun, and Dwight—each man quiet, focused, waiting for the boss to speak.

Lamar leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Word is Wyatt’s running rackets through every street from West End to Madison. Gambling dens. Protection scams. Shakedowns. Even some of the liquor routes.”

“Kids,” Shaun muttered, shaking his head. “White boys with daddy’s money, acting like they built something. Tch.”

Aron flicked ash from his cigarette into a tin ashtray. “He’s got warehouses stashing booze near the river. We burned through the routes last night—saw one up on 18th getting a shipment from Michigan.”

DJ nodded slowly, absorbing it all. He’d been up at the crack of dawn, combing through reports and street whispers. Wyatt Cane’s operation was aggressive and well-funded—but sloppy. The kind of arrogance that only came from inherited power.

“He’s running too hot,” DJ finally said, voice calm, controlled. “Doesn’t care who sees him, who hears him. Like he wants the attention.”

Dwight snorted. “He’s got that look. A little too clean. Soft hands. That cocky smile. Ain’t never had to bleed for anything.”

DJ’s jaw flexed.

He looked down at the map on the table, the locations marked in red ink—warehouses, clubs, known associates, liquor routes.

“We’re not going for the head yet,” DJ said, tone sharp. “We cut the legs out first. Hit his shipments. Burn his stash. Bleed his money till he starts to panic.”

“And the businesses he’s been leaning on?” Aron asked. “Chow’s used to be one of your spots, yeah?”

DJ’s face darkened at the mention of the boarded-up laundry storefront. He nodded. “We start there.”

He stood, and the rest followed.

“Every colored business he’s tried to scare off—we’re going to make sure they know who’s got their back now. Black, Irish, Italian, Chinese—I don’t care. If they’re not his, they’re ours now. Protected.”

Lamar grinned. “You sure you want to be this loud about it?”

DJ stared at him, the corner of his mouth twitching with just the faintest smirk. “I want him to hear us. I want him scared. We’re not just taking turf—we’re taking back the soul of this city.”

They all stood in silence for a moment, letting the weight of his words hang in the air.

Then Aron crushed his cigarette under his boot. “Alright, boss. Let’s go shake the city.”

The day wore on with a quiet intensity. DJ and his crew fanned out through the Southside, walking shoulder to shoulder, boots hitting the cracked pavement like the beat of a war drum.

First stop was a little diner on Vernon Street. It used to be run by an Irish woman and her Puerto Rican husband, but now a young Black couple had taken it over—"Manny's Kitchen." The windows were smeared, the neon barely flickering, and a sour tension lingered in the air.

Manny stepped out from behind the counter when DJ walked in. His eyes widened a little, not with fear—but recognition.

“DJ?” he said, squinting.

DJ gave a tight nod. “Manny. Heard Wyatt’s boys been sniffin’ around here.”

Manny rubbed his palms together, anxiety flickering in his eyes. “Yeah… been rough, man. They come in every week for money we don’t have. We got a baby on the way. I ain’t trying to be a hero.”

“You don’t gotta be,” DJ said, stepping forward. “You just gotta know you’re not alone anymore. No more payin’. No more bowin’. We’re watchin’ your back now.”

Manny hesitated. “You want a cut?”

DJ shook his head. “I don’t want your money. I want your respect—and when the time comes, your loyalty.”

Manny looked him in the eye, and something in DJ’s stare silenced the room. “You got it,” he said finally.

From there they hit every spot: the old barbershop that still had DJ’s name scratched in a seat, the Chinese-run grocery store with an iron gate halfway off its hinge, a jazz lounge tucked between crumbling buildings.

The older folks remembered DJ. “Little Devon James,” they whispered with disbelief. “Didn’t think we’d see you again.” They welcomed him with tight hugs and cautious smiles, like seeing a ghost that promised vengeance.

But the newer business owners—those who only knew Wyatt’s rule—were unsure. One shopkeeper, a middle-aged Haitian woman, clutched her rosary and asked in a heavy accent, “Why now? What do you want from us?”

DJ knelt to her level and said it slowly, firmly: “Nothing but your faith. Your loyalty. You ain’t alone no more, ma’am. Not with me here.”

By dusk, the word was spreading like fire through the alleyways and tight streets.

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The sky turned purple over Chicago’s jagged skyline. Night fell like a cloak. DJ and his crew parked in the shadows across from a red-brick warehouse just off the river—a known drop spot for Wyatt’s imported liquor shipments.

Through binoculars, Aron scanned the area. “Four guys posted. Two by the doors. One patrolling the alley. Last one’s near the loading dock, smoking.”

DJ checked the chamber of his pistol, calm and deliberate. “We go in quiet, get what we can. Then light the rest up.”

Lamar grinned. “Thought you’d never say it.”

“Let’s make some noise,” Shaun added, slipping brass knuckles into his coat.

The five of them moved like shadows—silent and sharp. Dwight took out the first lookout with a quick chokehold behind a dumpster. Shaun sucker-punched the dock smoker with a crack that echoed like thunder.

Once the perimeter was clear, DJ signaled. Aron rigged a small charge at the rear entrance—just enough to blow the lock and announce their presence.

BOOM.

The door flew open and chaos erupted.

Gunfire blazed through the warehouse. The air filled with the sharp, metallic scent of bullets and blood. Crates splintered. Bottles shattered like glass rain. Flames danced along the wooden rafters as Aron tossed a Molotov into the corner stash.

Wyatt’s men were shouting, firing blindly—but DJ walked through the haze like a man untouched by fear.

He moved like smoke—controlled, precise. Every shot he took hit its mark. He ducked behind a crate, took out two guards with one bullet each, and spun to cover Lamar’s flank without missing a beat.

His coat flared with every turn, his face unreadable, eyes dead calm.

The warehouse was hell—but DJ was the devil walking through it.

Meanwhile, his crew was a storm. Lamar barreled through gunmen like a battering ram, laughing as he tossed one over a railing. Shaun moved fast and low, slicing ankles and shoving barrels over. Dwight and Aron worked like clockwork, planting explosives for the final blow.

When it was over, the last man standing on Wyatt’s side dropped his gun and bolted—only to be clipped in the thigh by DJ’s bullet.

DJ stood over him, gun still warm.

“You tell your boss,” he said coldly, crouching low, “that the streets he think he owns? They’re mine now.”

Then he stood, turned his back, and walked away as Aron lit the last charge.

BOOM.

The sky behind them burned orange as they disappeared into the night, flames licking the clouds.

The war for Chicago had begun.