Page 31 of Rose
His moment shattered with the sharp ring of his phone. He pulled it from the pocket of his black sweats, blunt still resting between his lips. A FaceTime call from his cousin lit up the screen—Macho.
“Wassup, ugly ass nigga!” Macho’s voice cracked through, loud and wild as ever.
Savior let out a low chuckle, the smoke from his lips curling in the air. He was calm. Always. Macho matched his energy, but in a different way—loyal, crazy, unfiltered. They were family through blood and fire. His mother Marley and Savior’s mom Selene were twin sisters. Macho had chosen a different path, built a barbershop instead of joining the Carter empire, but that didn’t mean he was soft. Trained just like the rest of them, Macho could smile while pulling a trigger—and Savior respected that.
“Wassgood?” Savior exhaled, watching the smoke blend into the breeze.
“Knew your early-bird ass was up. Block jumpin’. Come through the shop, get a cut. Ma barbecuing.”
“Aight. I’ll be there in a few.”
He ended the call, finished off the blunt, and headed inside. The quiet followed him into the house, but the weight in his chest didn’t lift. He moved on autopilot, stripping down and stepping into the steaming shower. The heat hit his back, rolling down his frame like liquid steel, but it couldn’t burn away the ghosts.
They always came in moments like this—quiet, still, when there was nowhere to hide. Flashbacks moved like static behind his eyes, pieces of every mission, every scream, every final breath. The job wasn’t for the weak. You had to lose your heart or harden it past the point of no return. Sure, it came with perks—money, freedom, control—but it also came with hell. A private kind. A loop of every face you’ve ever sent to the grave playing on repeat behind your eyelids.
Everything Savior had done, he did for family. For legacy. For the name his father built and the weight he carried with it. He was proud of who he’d become—the man Havoc raised him to be—but there were things his father didn’t warn him about. Things like how it felt to play God. To decide who lived, who died, and carry that judgment home in your soul.
He wasn’t a bad man. But even monsters get tired.
Some nights, it was the blood. Other nights, it was the look in their eyes right before the kill—the flicker of realization, the rush of fear, the silent prayers. And while the world only saw villains in his targets, Savior couldn’t shake the truth. Those villains had families. Had kids. Had someone who thought they hung the moon. He thought about those people more than he wanted to admit.
Cynthia and Franklin Ross didn’t deserve to walk the earth, not after what they did. They poisoned it. Used children and women like currency. Monsters in designer clothing. Still, it wasn’t his choice to take them out—it was his duty. But they had a son. A boy who would graduate in a few years. A boy who woke up to headlines and grief. Savior had bought him his dream car anonymously. Made sure there’d be a six-figure job waiting after college. But none of that erased what he took from him.
And that was the part that clung to Savior like second skin.
He bowed his head under the water, hands braced against the tile, and closed his eyes. The steam clouded the glass, the guilt pressed harder on his back than the heat. He whispered a prayer—soft, broken—for the boy’s peace, for his strength, for his mind. Because Savior knew what it was like to be young and broken by loss.
And even if the world never knew it, he carried every life he took.
After cleansing his body and letting the high of the weed still the war inside him, Savior stepped out of the steam, water trailing down his sculpted frame. He dried off and wrapped a towel around his waist, moving into his ritual with quiet precision—lotioned his inked brown skin, brushed his teeth, rinsed his face. Every move was deliberate, every breath steady. By the time he finished, he looked exactly like what the streets whispered about him: a killer—deadly, composed, untouchable.
Savior Carter stood 6’7 of silence and sin. Smooth chocolate skin wrapped tightly over a frame built from discipline and violence. His waves glistened under his durag, a sea of control. His beard, full and edged with precision, could slice through steel. Tattoos covered him like scripture—bold lines of pain and purpose etched across his neck, down his arms, trailing stories no man dared to ask about. His eyes? Cold. Brown. Still. They didn’t carry light. Only consequence.
Women worshipped him. They prayed to the ground he walked on, threw themselves at him hoping to be his peace, his weakness. But Savior didn’t chase lust. He didn’t crave flesh—he craved silence. Loyalty. He didn’t entertain casual. And only a few women on this planet ever knew what he felt like from the inside.
He stepped into his closet, a space large enough to rival boutiques in the design district. Walls of untouched designer pieces—Balmain, Dior, Amiri—hung with the arrogance of wealth, most still with tags. He rarely wore them. Flash wasn’t his style. Power was. Presence was. Today wasn’t about making statements. It was about comfort.
He threw on a crisp white muscle tee that clung to his chest like second skin, grey sweats that hugged his thighs just right, and laced up a pair of wheat Timbs—heatwave be damned. His waves still held from the night before, but his edge-up wasn’t fresh. He pulled a fitted low over his brow, beard oiled just enough to glisten. A spritz of cologne kissed the air—rich, dark, unshakable. He slid a single gold chain over his head. Not because he needed to shine. He was born to.
Downstairs, his pits—Brasi and Bishop—met him with low growls of approval and wagging tails. Their presence was more than loyalty. They were trained protectors, monsters disguised as pets. He fed them, giving them both a nod before making his way to the garage.
Ten cars sat gleaming under low lights like trophies of war—Bentleys, McLarens, Range Rovers, muscle cars built from vengeance and speed. But today wasn’t for flash. Today was for movement. He chose the blacked-out GMC Sierra, the silent beast. No purr. Just growl.
The ride into the city was smooth, the bass of old-school R&B pulsing through the speakers. By the time he crossed into the deeper parts of Miami, the energy shifted—warm, raw, real. This was the Carter side of town. His family’s roots. The soil where killers were raised and legends buried.
He double-parked in front ofGrim Kutzlike he owned the street. And in some ways, he did. The block pulsed with life—kids running, grills blazing, basslines shaking the air, and voices floating like music. It felt like a family reunion dipped in sunshine and legacy.
He was home.
OGs leaned against candy-painted Chevys and Cutlasses, bass thumping from open trunks with classic Southern rap shaking the pavement. Kids dashed through bounce houses, laughing loud, faces sticky with syrup from snow cones and juice pouches. Dominoes clacked under porches, grills smoked, aunties danced barefoot in the grass, and Black joy rolled thick through the air like incense—unfiltered, earned, sacred.
Savior sat back behind the wheel, watching it all through tinted glass. The world outside pulsed with a rhythm that belonged tohim. This was his kingdom. These were his people. And every corner, every face, every brick was protected by blood ties and silent killers. The block was full of ghosts—but they were all family.
It wasn’t just him and his siblings who lived this life. Havoc had started a legacy of shadows—a team of assassins so silent and precise the government once called them fiction. Now they served under a new name, a new ruler. Khaos. And they respected him like they did Havoc. Savior hadearnedthat.
He stepped out the truck, and the Miami sun greeted him like an old friend, wrapping golden arms around his inked skin. The heat licked every muscle, the scent of barbecue and collard greens swirling in the breeze, smoke and soul fusing into the air. This wasn’t just a block. It was an empire. A living, breathing testament to survival. To strategy. To sacrifice.
Here, he didn’t have to look over his shoulder. Didn’t have to walk with his hand near his waistband.
