Page 50 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

Ren snorted. “Man, ain’t no right or wrong in this shit. Just power moves.”

“Exactly,” I muttered, my mind already spinning with everything that led up to this moment.

The last two days, I’d barely stepped out of the penthouse. I’d spent every second either buried inside Parker or lying in bed with her warm body curled up against mine. But in the quiet moments, when my body wasn’t keeping me distracted, my mind had been replaying that conversation with my father over and over. The conversation that sealed Silas’s fate.

The room smelled like cigar smoke and aged liquor, a combination that had been ingrained in my childhood, tied to every memory I had of my father. Seth sat behind the heavy oak desk, his fingers steepled together, his expression unreadable.

I stood across from him, my stance loose, but my mind sharp as hell. “You sure about this shit?” I asked, voice even.

Seth scoffed, taking a slow sip from his glass. “Boy, you don’t get to question me like I ain’t been runnin’ this shit since before you could walk.”

I stayed quiet. I already knew his mind was made up. Silas had fucked up. He’d been caught slipping, thinking he was smarter than the family that made him, and he wasn’t.

“You know what happens when niggas get too close to the feds, Shooter,” my father continued, voice low. “They gotta go.”

I knew that, but knowing it and making the call to kill my own brother were two different things. I kept my face blank, even as I felt the weight of eyes on me. Not just my father’s. I glanced toward the hallway just past the office door. My uncle Rob was somewhere in this house.

Sick as hell, retired from the business, but still listening. Always listening. I didn’t trust that shit. Seth must’ve seen something flicker in my expression because he smirked, leaning back in his chair. “You worried about your uncle?” I didn’t answer. Seth chuckled darkly. “That old muthafucka is too weak to do shit. And even if he wasn’t, I ain’t worried about him.”

I wasn’t worried. At least not about him doing anything, but about what he knew. It didn’t matter, though. The deal was sealed that night.

Silas would be dead by sunrise.

I clenched my jaw, the weight of that memory settling heavy in my chest. And now, almost seven months later, I found out that conversation had been recorded by Uncle Rob.

“Shit ain’t adding up,” I muttered under my breath.

Ren side-eyed me. “You think it was personal?”

I shook my head. “If it was, he woulda came to me first. This ain’t about revenge. It’s about… morality. Gotta be.”

Ren let out a sharp laugh. “Nigga, ain’t no fuckin’ morality in this shit.”

That was the truth, but Rob had always been different. He stepped back from the life years ago, but my father still let him live under the same roof, still had people watching over him, taking care of him. I needed to know why he recorded that conversation.

The loud vibration of my phone cut through the heavy silence. I glanced at the screen, seeing Seth’s name flashing.

I answered. “Yeah.”

“You on your way?” my father’s voice came through, cold and impatient.

“Yeah,” I said, my grip tightening on the wheel.

“Good. ‘Cause I’m ready to kill this bitch nigga.”

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “Relax. I’m on my way.” I hung up, my fingers drumming against the wheel.

Ren glanced at me. “This some real fucked up family drama, my boy.”

I exhaled slowly, staring out at the dark stretch of road ahead. “Tell me somethin' I don’t know.”

The gravel crunched under the tires as I pulled up to the small, isolated cabin, the headlights cutting through the thick darkness of the woods. Seth’s car was already parked out front, engine off. He’d been here for a minute. Ren shifted beside me, checking the clip on his gun before tucking it back into his waistband.

“You sure you don’t wanna just let your Pops handle this?” I gave him a sharp look. He exhaled, shaking his head. “Right. You gotta do everything your way.”

I stepped out of the car, the cold night air biting at my skin as I adjusted my jacket. I pushed open the door without knocking. The inside of the cabin was dim, the only light coming from a single overhead bulb swaying slightly. And there, in the center of the room, sat my uncle Rob. This nigga was tied to a wooden chair, wrists bound with thick rope.

His head was tilted downward, strands of graying hair hanging in his face, but I could see the faint rise and fall of his chest. He was alive, but I couldn’t say for how long with my father pressing a gun against his temple. His expression was unreadable, but his grip on the gun was steady. Too steady.

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