YoungBloods

Chapter 4

The train rocked gently along the tracks, its whistle echoing through the vast fields of the Midwest as it cut its way toward the concrete heart of Chicago.

Inside the private car, cigar smoke hung low in the air like a veil of tension. Sunlight flickered through the windows, casting gold shadows on the polished floor.

DJ sat still in his seat, a thick file spread open in his lap. His face was unreadable—sharpened like a blade, his jaw clenched tight as he flipped each page with precision. He wore a tailored black vest over a blood-red dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing a gunmetal watch and the veins along his arms that twitched with every pulse.

He didn’t speak.

He rarely did when it came to jobs.

Across from him, Aron sat with his feet kicked up, balancing a playing card between his fingers. His tousled brown curls bounced when he laughed, which was often—unless DJ wasn’t in the mood.

Aron glanced up from his hand. “You know, man, we’ve been on a dozen jobs. But somethin’ about this one feels… heavier.”

DJ didn’t look up. “That’s ‘cause it is.”

In the next booth over, Lamar filled up half the bench on his own, broad as a freight train and twice as loud. He had a square jaw, deep-set brown eyes, and a short boxed beard. His knuckles were scarred from too many fights, and he never sat still for long.

He tore into a chicken sandwich like it owed him money.

“Yo, we really goin’ to war with these Midwest boys?” he asked through a mouthful.

Shaun, who sat calmly beside him in a perfectly pressed suit and gold glasses, rolled his eyes. His face was lean, sharp, and expressive—always thinking ten steps ahead.

“Technically, we’re stabilizing a ‘business relationship.’” He sipped from a silver flask. “Which is code for: burn their s**t down and take the crown.”

From the end of the car, Dwight let out a wild chuckle. He was fiddling with a lighter, flipping the flame on and off.

“I packed the goodies,” Dwight said with a grin. “Boom-booms, fire kisses, smoke bombs. We’ll light their asses up.”

DJ closed the file and tossed it onto the table in front of them.

Across the cover were two names, underlined and bold:

MARK "THE HAMMER" CANE

WYATT CANE

He leaned back, cracking his knuckles slowly. “This ain’t some small crew.”

Shaun adjusted his glasses, already scanning the intel. “Mark Cane. Started as a boxing legend—fastest hands in the country. Undefeated. Was one fight away from the world title when he got into a car crash… crushed his spine and knees, ended his career.”

Aron whistled low. “Damn. That’ll break a man.”

Shaun nodded. “It did. Broke him bad. He got addicted to painkillers, started street fighting, running protection rackets. Next thing anyone knew, he wasn’t just collecting debts—he was burying people in shallow graves.”

Lamar grunted. “How’d he get the name ‘The Hammer’?”

DJ answered without blinking. “Because that’s what it feels like when he hits you.”

They all paused.

Shaun flipped to the next profile. “His son, Wyatt Cane. Twenty-four. Grew up rich off daddy’s blood money. Wanted to prove himself, so The Hammer gave him Chicago as a test.”

Dwight smirked. “Little rich boy with a temper and something to prove? That’s my favorite kind of idiot.”

DJ’s eyes narrowed at the photo clipped to Wyatt’s file. Black hair, cocky smirk, sharp suit. Spoiled. Dangerous. Reckless.

Shaun continued. “They’ve got muscle moving into the city. Bought property on the outskirts. Made some quiet threats to a few politicians and real estate guys. If they get a foothold, they’ll turn Chicago into a bloodbath.”

DJ stared out the window now, watching the skyline begin to form on the horizon.

The streets of his childhood were just beyond that haze. The places he used to run. The house with the stormy nights and the warm arms that held him under the covers. His jaw tightened.

Aron leaned forward. “You good?”

DJ nodded once. “Yeah.”

Shaun closed the file. “So what’s the play?”

DJ reached for his coat, sliding the file into his inner pocket.

“We find the allies. We cut off the competition. And if Wyatt Cane wants a war…”

He slid a bullet into the chamber of his pistol.

“…we give him one.”

The train let out a low hiss as it slowed toward Union Station.

Chicago was waiting.

And so was the past.

The train let out a final hiss as it came to a stop at Union Station. DJ stepped onto the platform first, his leather shoes clicking against the concrete. The scent of coal, iron, and old piss hit him like a brick wall—but beneath it, under the grime and grit, was something else.

Memory.

His eyes swept over the city skyline in the distance, then down to the street-level signs, the old alleyways still carved like scars between the buildings.

He was home.

But it wasn’t the home he remembered.

The streets felt narrower now. More bitter. Chicago had always been rough, but now the air carried something sharper—like something had crawled beneath the city’s skin and festered.

They walked a few blocks in silence. DJ didn’t say a word, but his eyes catalogued everything.

The old laundromat on Halston Avenue, once run by the Chows—a kind-hearted Chinese couple who always smelled like soap and fried dumplings—was boarded up. The windows were shattered, glass still glinting like teeth in the sunlight. The sign that once read Chow Cleaners now hung lopsided, letters faded and scratched.

DJ slowed for a second, remembering the afternoons he’d sweep the floors or fold clothes for a few bucks and a can of cola. He used to make Mrs. Chow laugh with the way he folded towels into shapes.

Now it was silent. Empty. Ghosted.

Across the street, the smell of smoke and charred wood lingered.

The old Italian restaurant—Vercel’s—was just a burnt-out husk. Blackened bricks. Roof caved in. Yellow caution tape whipped in the wind. DJ stared at the ashes, jaw tightening.

Mr. Vercel used to hand him bags of leftovers at night. Cold spaghetti, dried-out meatballs, garlic knots that DJ devoured like they were gold. Vercel called him kiddo and never asked why he was always alone.

Now the place was gone.

Someone had wiped it out.

Behind him, Aron noticed DJ staring and didn’t say anything. He just lit a cigarette and kept close.

Shaun adjusted his coat. “This part of town got hit bad. Word is, the Michigan boys wanted to send a message.”

Lamar muttered under his breath. “Yeah? They’re gonna get one back.”

Dwight cracked his knuckles with excitement. “Man, I don’t like this already. Feels like we’re walkin’ into a funeral.”

DJ turned away from the ruins.

“I ain’t here to mourn,” he said. “I’m here to take it back.”

They flagged down a taxi—an old Ford with a busted taillight. DJ climbed in first, gave the driver an address: Vanderline and 16th.

The car jerked forward, tires squealing a little as it took off.

As the city passed by, the memories crawled back in. Places he used to sleep. Fences he used to jump. Kids he used to brawl with. All of it now faded, broken down, painted over in rust and graffiti.

But ahead—just past the river, behind tall black iron gates—stood a sprawling stone compound guarded by two men in suits with tommy guns slung across their shoulders.

The Verona Estate.

The place where DJ had earned his name.

The place that turned a hungry, angry boy into a legend.

As the cab rolled up to the gate, one of the guards recognized DJ instantly and banged twice on the steel. The gate creaked open.

DJ didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. He only stared forward, his voice low.

“Time to remind ‘em whose city this really is.”