Page 64 of A Kingpin's Weakness
“Fuck nigga requested a meeting,” King started. “Said he wanted to talk to Pops and me about cutting the middleman and about us supplying him directly.”
“Cutting the middleman…” I repeated slowly, jaw locking. That was bold. Disrespectful bold.
“He had a plan,” King said with a bitter smirk. “Probably been had one. Been making moves behind backs for a minute.”
“Where’s the meeting?” I asked, though I already had a feeling.
“Rico warehouse. On our side of town.” King’s jaw tightened like the conversation tasted foul in his mouth.
“Your Pops looking to sell to him?”
He noddedWe agreed to the meet ‘cause we knew something shady was happening. We just needed the final piece”
“Does Pops know?”
“Nah. Not yet.” He paused, then met my eyes. “I’ll text you the address and time. Let me know if you need backup.”
“Always appreciate it. Good looks.”
King stepped back, grabbed his jacket, and before walking out, he paused. He turned to Rich, reached for him, and pulledhim into a tight, one-armed hug like brothers who knew real pain.
“We gon’ make sure this nigga pays. For Lia. For everything.”His voice dropped, almost cracking, but he held it. Then he left.
The room fell into silence, heavy and hot like a storm was brewing inside four walls. I looked at Rich, then at Southside, who was finishing up counting clips.
“We ready to ride.” I said it like a vow. Like a funeral had already been planned.
I walked out with them, locking up the warehouse behind us. Four black Escalades waited like hearse trucks. Death was coming, and we were its delivery boys. My crew finished loading up… no hesitation, no nerves. Just that quiet readiness killers have when they know the job’s already written in blood.
Rich climbed in the front passenger seat beside me. Southside followed into the same truck. Our soldiers filled the rest. We pulled off in silence, rolling deep through the city that raised us lights off, windows down, hearts full of revenge. I leaned back in my seat, hand still in my pocket, fingers gripping the lace I took from Stormi. Her thong. A piece of her with me in war. And Ronnie? That coward was already dead in my head. He just ain’t laid down yet.
We hit both of Ronnie’s trap houses first. Pulled up back-to-back like we were delivering death on schedule. Black trucks lined the block like shadows with engines, and our crew posted outside like statues with their eyes on the doors, fingers on triggers. No words. Just purpose.
Me, Rich, and Southside stepped into the first trap. Stale weed smoke hit me in the face, and the smell of sweat and neglect clung to the air. Three of Ronnie’s boys were sunk into the couch, controllers in hand, like the streets hadn’t just declared war.
“Seth?” The one in the middle looked up, his voice shaky, like he already felt the Reaper creeping up his spine. They all snapped to attention, dropping the controllers, eyes darting like rats looking for holes in the floor.
“Where’s Ronnie?” My voice came out low, calm. But I wasn’t calm.
“He’s not here,” the one on the right said too quick. The dude on the far end side-eyed him, his body tensing like he wanted to snatch the words back.
“Said he was going on a business trip, be back in two days.” The middle one chimed in, and just like that, the third one elbowed him hard in the ribs. That told me everything.
“Pop.” One to the dome. He dropped without even a twitch. Blood sprayed the couch like a warning. The other two jumped like roaches, bodies twitching like they could outrun what was coming.
“So what’s his plan?”
“Seth, man. I don’t know!” The one on the left panicked. “He said after this trip we’d be eating more and not under anybody’s thumb.”
I looked at Rich. He already knew what time it was.
“Pop. Pop.”
Two more bodies slumped against the sofa, blood painting the drywall behind them. They weren’t loyal to Ronnie. Hell, they weren’t loyal to nobody. That made them dangerous. Floaters. Opportunists. Niggas like that couldn’t be trusted in a world built on loyalty.
Southside pulled the bottle from his duffle, lit the rag with a single flick, and tossed it on the stained carpet like he was handing hell its matchstick.
We didn’t run, we walked out as fire started to dance behind us. Slow. Like kings leaving a throne room made of flames.
