Page 2 of I See You

Hassan and Roman ran their operation like a well-oiled machine. There were no outsiders. No weak links. Just them. The corner boys they hired only knew what they needed to know—nothing more, nothing less. When it came to their international dealings, their million-dollar weight, and the business that kept their empire thriving, it was always just them two.

“Fuck.” Hassan muttered, his jaw clenching as he realized he had forgotten.

A low chuckle came through the phone. “I knew yo’ ass forgot,” Roman said, amusement laced in his voice. “Don’t even worry ‘bout it. We pulling up on you. And I hope these niggas ready to lose they money tonight, ‘cause I’m takin’ everything.”

Hassan exhaled, shaking his head with a smirk. Roman wasn’t lying. Gambling was his thing—and he was a menace when it came to the game. He didn’t just play; he ate. Any chance he got, he was at Hustle and Flow Casino, hunting for new victims who thought they had luck on their side. Hassan had lost count of how many times he had to step intoaltercations Roman caused after emptying a rich man’s pockets. Some took their losses with grace. Others? They got reckless.

And Hassan had no patience for disrespect.

A few men had learned the hard way that running their mouth after losing to Roman was the last mistake they’d ever make.

“Aight,nigga.”Hassanendedthecallandrefocused,rollinghis shoulders as he got back to business.

Numbers.

They had always come naturally to him. Money. Weight. Percentages. Profits. He didn’t need a calculator—he was the calculator. With just a glance, he could break down a sum, pinpoint a missing dollar, spot a flaw in any equation. It was second nature.

His grandmother used to tell him that kind of intelligence came from his father, a high-profile accountant who worked with powerful men, keeping their books clean. But Hassan never knew much about his parents. And at this point, he didn’t care.

They were dead. He had gotten revenge. And that was enough.

Hassan buried himself back in his work, trying to drown out the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind. Numbers. Money. Business. That’s what mattered. That’s what kept him steady.

But the sharp knock at his office door shattered his focus.

Seconds later, Roman strolled in, a familiar, mischievous grin plastered across his face. Hassan didn’t even need to look up—he knew that smirk like the back of his hand. It only meant one of two things: either Roman had already gotten into some shit, or he was about to.

“This nigga always working,” Roman drawled, shaking his head. “Missed my whole celebration.”

His white teeth flashed as he smirked, but there was no real anger behind his words. Roman knew how Hassan operated—work came first, always. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t call him out on it.

Roman had always been that nigga—commanding presence, undeniable charm, and the money to make men jealous. Women flocked to him; men envied him. Standing at 6’4, his frame was all muscle, his caramel skin inked from his neck down, tattoos layering over each other like battle scars. The one above his eyebrow—Rylan, his daughter’s name—stood bold, a crown inked under his opposite eye. He had the look of a ruthless man, and in many ways, he was.

Roman wasn’t like Hassan when it came to killing. He wasn’t the type to take a man out with his bare hands. But when it came to a gun? He was a surgeon. Precise. Deadly. If he aimed, he didn’t miss.

Hassan hated guns. The sound of a single gunshot could drag him straight back to that house—to the bloodied living room, to the bodies ofhisparentscrumpledbeforehim,tothesilencethatcameafter. Butevenwithhisaversiontothem,hecouldn’tdenyhisadmirationfor Roman’s skill. The man was gifted with a piece, and Hassan never stopped him from proving it. As long as he wasn’t close enough to hear the shots, Hassan could deal.

“Mane, that’s on me,” Hassan exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “Today been a long ass day. Had to check shit here.”

His tone was low, smooth—calm as ever. But Roman had known him since they were ten years old. He could see past the quiet, pastthe blank expression Hassan wore like armor. He could read him. And right now, something wasn’t sitting right.

“Everything straight?” Roman asked, dropping into the leather chair across from Hassan’s desk, his tone casual but laced with real concern.

Hassan hesitated. His jaw flexed. His fingers tapped absently against the desk. Finally, he spoke.

“Nigga, it’s Madea,” he muttered, voice tight. “Her sickness getting worse… and it ain’t shit a nigga can do about it.”

“Her and Harper the only family I got left,” he admitted, but just as quickly, he bit the words off, shaking his head

That was all it took for his voice to shut down. The weight of the words, of the helplessness behind them, threatened to pull too much out of him. He hated emotions. Hated dealing with them. Hated the way they made him feel weak.

So, he shut it down. “Shit cool.”

But Roman saw it—the storm brewing behind his friend’s eyes, the way his shoulders tensed like he was holding himself together by sheer willpower. Hassan had spent his whole life suppressing shit. Refusing to acknowledge it. That’s just how he was built. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

And Roman knew better than to push.

Hassan had demons. Heavy ones. His bipolar disorder wasn’t something he ever spoke on, but Roman had seen it firsthand. When Hassan was triggered, it was like staring the devil in the face. Anything could set him off, and once that fuse was lit, there was no stopping it.

---