Page 52 of A Kingpin's Weakness
CHAPTER 10
Seth
“King, my nigga. What’s up?”
“Shit, trying to figure out why I gotta hear about your retirement through another nigga.”
“Retirement?” I repeated, frowning. The hell was he talking about?
King was one of my tightest connects out in Haiti; solid, never reckless with his words. So him calling me about some retirement shit? Yeah, that had me on edge.
“I figured you wouldn’t know what I was talking about,” he said, tone laced with frustration. “I’m flying in a few hours. I’ll call when I land.”
“Bet.” I ended the call and let the silence sit for a second.
Rich was already watching me from the passenger seat.
“What was that about?”
“King thinks I’m retiring. Flying in tonight to talk.”
Rich frowned. “Where the fuck he hear that from?”
I shook my head slowly. “Don’t know. But I will find out.”
Rich didn’t say anything else.
I’d left Stormi at my place last night and still hadn’t made it back to check on her. That thought lingered, a tight knot inmy chest. Ronnie’s ass was MIA. We couldn’t find this nigga nowhere and that shit was gnawing at me like a damn rat. My phone buzzed about an hour ago; Southside said he needed to meet, said it was important. Ronnie was my main target now, but I decided to hear Southside out first, at least until I had eyes on Ronnie again.
We pulled up to the warehouse in Rich’s ride, the engine’s growl echoing off the cracked concrete. The air outside was thick summer heat trapped under a sickly yellow streetlight, mixed with the faint scent of gasoline and something burnt.
“Seth! Rich! What’s good, my boys?” Southside’s voice cracked the quiet as we stepped out. His grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. We dap’d up, the snap of our palms sharp in the thin air, then moved inside.
The warehouse swallowed us whole; it was dark, cavernous, smelling of rust and dust with a faint metallic tang that made my throat itch. Southside handed me and Rich joints as we stepped into my office.
“Damn, nigga,” I said, pulling my lighter from my pocket. The flame flickered, dancing across the smoke-streaked windowpane. “You think I need to smoke before this meeting?”
Southside’s eyes held a hard edge, cold and sharp like broken glass. “I don’t even think the joint’s gonna help you with this one.”
I saw it, then the quiet storm behind his stare. The kind of look that promised nothing good. The kind of look that said, this ain’t just a meeting.
Rich flicked his lighter, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he inhaled slow. I took a long drag, the smoke burning down my throat, the bitter taste clinging to my tongue. My heart was picking up pace, the silence stretching tight between us like a drawn wire.
Southside leaned against the wall, fingers tracing the cracked paint as he started talking. The weight in his voice settled over me like a shadow. Something was off. Something was wrong. And I knew, deep down, whatever it was, it was about Ronnie.
“Remember I told you I put one of my dancers on Ronnie’s ass?” Southside said, arms folded, posted up like he already knew what this would do to me.
“Yeah,” I answered flat. I was tired. Numb. Whatever. I didn’t expect much. Just figured he’d caught Ronnie lying or saying some dumb shit. But then he said, “Shorty gave me more than what the fuck I expected.”
That made me look up. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
Southside didn’t answer. He just pulled a phone from his pocket and placed it on my desk with the kind of care you’d use setting down a loaded gun.
He tapped the screen, pressed play, and everything shifted. The video lit up, shaky at first like it had been filmed on the low. But the image settled quick. A hotel suite. Velvet curtains. Soft lighting. Clean white sheets that probably cost more than most people rent.
Ronnie was sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed. Shirt off. Smiling like the world belonged to him. And behind him some thick redbone with long curls and honey-glazed lips, rubbed oil into his shoulders like she was worshipping him.
“Daddy, what got you so stressed tonight?” she asked, soft and slow, laying kisses on his neck like she cared. Like she didn’t know she was recording a damn confession.
