Page 21 of A Kingpin's Weakness
I turned, slow and deliberate, until I was facing him fully. “Money always moves,” I said. “I could make money in my fuckin’ sleep, Ronnie. That don’t mean the feds ain’t out here building a RICO. This shit… It ain’t about the money. It’s about how you move.”
I took a step forward, steady, and unblinking. “I built this from the ground up. Blood, loss, hustle. No shortcuts. And I’ll be damned if you or some 17-year-old with a death wish bring that shit down.”
Around us, a few of the soldiers nodded.
“Respect,” one mumbled.
“Facts,” another added.
I let my gaze sweep across the room. “Y’all run your corners how you want. That’s your business. But the second your mess starts spilling over into my house? We got a fuckin’ problem.”
I glanced at Ronnie. He didn’t speak, but his stare said enough. Ronnie was skating on thin ice, and we all knew it.
“I don’t like noise,” I continued. “I don’t like heat. We here to get money, go home, feed our people. That’s the code. You break it…” I paused, letting it hit. “I’ll kill for mine. I don’t like killin’ but I will. I ain’t afraid to bleed. I ain’t afraid to pull the trigger my damn self. You understand?”
“Understood,” came the chorus.
“No doubt.”
“Yeah, boss.”
“Keep it low. Keep it smart. Stay humble. None of us untouchable. But the right moves keep you alive longer. Thinkabout who you live for. Think about what you’re willing to die for.”
I scanned the room again. These weren’t just bodies in a warehouse. I’d been to these men’s weddings, their kids’ birthday parties. I’d eaten at their mama’s houses.
“I don’t ever want to be the one knockin’ on your door,” I said quietly. “Don’t want to have to look your girl in the eye, or hold your son while I tell him his daddy ain’t comin’ home.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the duffle still at my feet.
“This ain’t about ego,” I finished. “It’s about survival. Run clean. Stay quiet. Move smart.” I gave them one last look, then turned toward the exit. “Let’s get this money and make it the fuck home.”
“Anybody wanna add something?” I asked, eyes sweeping the room.
“Yeah,” Southside said, stepping forward. “Ronnie, how the fuck you about to fix this fuck-up?”
Ronnie leaned back in his chair, unbothered. “I got this, young buck. No need to question me. Remember, I’m an OG.”
Southside smirked. “Well, OG, how the fuck you make a rookie-ass mistake then? That old people disease kicking in?” A few laughs broke out. Ronnie wasn’t one of them.
“Alzheimer’s,” D muttered from the back with a deadpan tone.
Ronnie snapped his head around. “Man, shut the fuck up. We know you in medical school.”
D started walking forward, hand resting near his waist, strapped. “Nigga, you need a diagnosis.”
Ronnie squared his shoulders. “You think you the only one who carry a gun?”
“Come on with the bullshit, y’all,” Rich cut in, waving a hand to calm things down.
Josh stepped forward next, standing beside D, making it clear where he stood. “Ronnie, you know who the fuck stole your drugs? Or is that what’s laced in that blunt?”
Ronnie scoffed. “I don’t get high off my own supply, lil nigga.”
“Smell like it,” Josh said, nose wrinkled.
“Enough,” I said, cutting through the noise. The room fell silent. “Ronnie, you need to plant your feet. Get your people out in the streets. Ears and eyes open. 'Cause right now? It's looking like you don’t give a damn. There something you need to tell me?”
Ronnie crossed his arms. “My people handling it.”
