Venom In My Veinz

by rumontTK

Bonnie and Clyde times ten would describe Bromise and Chasidy in this explosive, true to life tale. They share a twisted love story that hinges on murder, mystery and calculated brilliance! And while in the midst of completing each phase of their ingenious plot with precision, they fight against their rivals, love for each other, and their demons within!

Prologue

Bromise slowly awoke from his unconscious state, a bloody mess. He felt like he had been hit by a truck and it was difficult to breathe. He reached for his rib cage and realized his wrists and ankles were all shackled, bonding him to the frigid concrete beneath him. Where am I? Bromise looked around to see what he could with impaired vision, but the pitch darkness made it impossible. "AHHH!" he yelled. "Let me the fuck out of here!" He became hysterical, pulling at the chains with all of his might. But there was no use. He stopped struggling and fell on his back, screeching in pain. Defeated, he pushed his back against the damp cold wall with the bottom of his soles, and reflected on how he got in this position. Bromise shut his swollen eyes and envisioned the person who betrayed him. His chest heaved. His breathing became erratic. "You muthafucka!" he bellowed and roared with pain. Then he opened his bloodshot eyes and stared into the darkness. He was already seduced by an irresistible thirst for blood—already fully manipulated by an anger that placed him under a hatred-induced spell that only the sacrificing of Fontane's life could break. As he sat there against his will, fury surged through him like a sudden burst of electric current, causing a single tear to escape from the corner of his eye. Bromise was starving to see panic animate Fontane's unsuspecting face when he greeted him with his .50 Caliber. He was determined to give life to his fear of death, but above all, he looked forward to seeing the life in Fontane's eyes slowly fade away as he blinked one last time. "Fontane!"

Chapter 1

The Point of No Return

Present Day . . . February 17

Two days ago, Bromise and Chasidy hit a lick on Future, taking three bricks of cocaine, thirty thousand in cash, and his big body white-on-white BMW 760Li. They also forced him to remove every stitch of clothing and piece of jewelry that he had on, including his trademark chain and medallion.

Although the loss was only pocket change to Future, his reputation was in jeopardy, and he couldn't overlook that. To do so would be equivalent to him inviting every fuck-boy to his glass front door. Plus, the wounds on his pride were fresh, and only fragments of the culprit's head would do the patchwork. When news of the lick made it back to the hood, Future knew he had to silence the messenger and cease any thoughts of him being an easy mark.

Future was an ultimate hustler. Many men only leased such status like rappers leased vehicles, but very few owned it. However, he was a street professor in the class of finance. And though he lacked the killer instinct himself, he had a team of goons that had goons, and all of them were on the call of duty. Similar to how the government drafted men from the land, the city was well aware of the certified killers that Future drafted to his roster. For one to question the heart of these men was almost never. Bromise could vouch because he was one of Future's goons.

He was abruptly taken away from deep thought by the tunes of "My Niggas" by YG. He quickly reached for his iPhone #2 and placed it to his ear.

"Wudup, joe?" The caller's name wasn't Joe. Joe was a term used throughout Chicago streets to keep from saying actual street or government names in any given situation. It was Future, and he sounded rattled. "There's some hardcore fugazi shit going on." Future breathed heavily. "I don't know who the fuck is guilty, so I'ma need to see you and the rest of the Convolution on the east at two o'clock sharp."

"Say no more," Bromise said and ended the call. Although that very summons was previously written in Bromise's phase book, he didn't expect for it to come in the form of a direct call. Not on that particular iPhone. That's not the way they did things. Bromise bolted upright from his king-sized bed. His train of thought quickly jumped over to the express rail.

If the two o'clock meeting was a set up, then he'd be walking into a trap. But maybe the lick wasn't the only issue that had Future shook up.

At nineteen, Bromise was young in age. But it isn't age, it's experience and what a man learns from his experience that defines what he is. His young life was spent in the presence of professional drug traffickers, shiesty fuck-boys, and double-crossing murderers. People that spent years perfecting their poker faces, and had lifelong guilty consciences that they took in stride. Bromise was trained not to have a conscience. His experience taught him that a paranoid man didn't think logically. Future would point the finger at anyone that made him feel nervous or uncomfortable after a vile act had been committed against him. Something as small as missing one meeting a week ago, would not go unanswered this week. So he had to be smart about this.

Why did he call directly on iPhone #2, though? Is there a chance he knows something?

Bromise ran his fingers through his fro and silently began to weigh his options. If he bailed on his entire plan and didn't go, he'd come off as liable. And the roster of certified killers would be covering ground in his direction faster than a shark swam to bloody raw meat. Not even an option. Future had contacts at both the O'Hare and Midway airports. One of his kids' mamas and her ratchet blabbermouth crew worked at the train station, and the bus stations were definitely off limits. They sat smack-dab in the Gangster Disciples' territory, an opposing street organization that stayed gunning for his head, and the bus stations were overrun by them. A totally unrelated shootout with the oppositions or opps wasn't exactly a smart alternative.

He was sure that his known spots were currently under Future's surveillance, as well as his house in Lincoln Square. But he was prepared for that. In advance, Chasidy used her real estate license to close on a foreclosed, four-bedroom two-bath brick home that sat tucked away in Blue Island. Bromise paid cash, enabling her to close on the home fast. She fudged the title information, making sure that no parts of the home deed could be traced back to Bromise. He was safe there.

Going to the two o'clock meeting would undoubtedly open him up to be pressured by Future and the rest of the Convolution. But again, he was prepared for that.

"Shake it off," he said to himself, knowing the unscripted call contributed to the paranoia, and not a botch that he may have overlooked. Deep down he knew that if he was a suspect he'd be dead by now, and so would Chasidy.

"If he wants me there at two o'clock sharp, then I'll be there, front and center," he thought aloud and leaned his head back against the headboard, preparing his mind for what lay ahead.

With one click from his bedside remote control, the intro to "Dreams and Nightmares" by Meek Mill started to play. He stared into the man's eyes on a photograph that hung perfectly from the wall. The solid gold frame complimented its prestige. It was a photograph of Brisco Balducci, his deceased grandpa. "Forever immortalized, Grandpa," he said with a smile. He missed him with a passion. Since the day Bromise's dead-beat dad had left while his mother was in her second trimester with him, her beloved father, Brisco, vowed to be the father Bromise would never have.

In his heart, he knew that his grandpa would be proud of the way he executed the beginning parts of his two-day-old plan. All he had to do from here on out was keep his head leveled, remain intimately in tune with the chain of events, and maintain steady advancements until the conquering of his scheme was fully realized.

Still staring at the photograph, he fixated on Brisco's Giorgio Armani necktie. It was his favorite and currently hung alone in Bromise's walk-in closet. He imagined what Grandpa would say if he were there right now. Although Brisco was gray with age, he was a gangsta's gangsta. Amongst close family and friends, Bromise still would boast about how he died, threatening the US Marshal that shot him:

"You faint-hearted sonavabitch you!" Grandpa yelled, lying on the pavement in a puddle of his own blood. Three bullet wounds to his chest. A mob of Federal agents appeared as a moving backdrop to the scene. They were rushing in to relieve the overzealous marshal that stood over Grandpa, his banger still aimed and smoking. "If I make it outta the hospital I'm gon' kill you wheresoever I see you, pig!" Brisco fumed. "At your church praying for forgiveness, or at your daughter's music recital. I'm gon' kill you! And if I die, you sonavabitch, you can expect an ass whuppin' from the time you enter the firebox of hell, 'til the time Satan feels so bad for your ass that he sends you upstairs with your kind. You pussified sonavabitch you!" Grandpa yelled.

Even when nearing death, Brisco was still gangsta. And Bromise loved it! It wasn't clear what amazed him more. The fact that his grandpa meant every word he spoke from his bloody mouth, or the fact that he immortalized his legacy as a feared tyrant with a fuck the world smile burning on the minds of those that watched him die.

Bromise's memory had stored everything that his grandpa said to him over the years, and he'd replay those words when he needed to hear him most. A smile touched his lips as he could hear the sternness of Brisco's voice now: "You can't be afraid, Bromise, by the possibility of a near death situation when you're blazing a trail for your cause. Can't cross your legs now, baby boy. I molded you much better than that. Look at it this way: you're living to die any fuckin' way. Whether it's a bullet today, or a natural cause tomorrow, you still gon' die! So you might as well die taking what's yours, grandson. Remember, only in paradise is death bad for claiming the weak. Be man enough to live and die by your own terms. That way, God can at least respect you when he sends your black ass to hell! Just ask him about me. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Meek Mill's lyrics took a backseat to Brisco's solemn words. His hearty laughter echoed within Bromise's head. He was confident that Grandpa was watching over him, and was determined to win. "Help me fight this war, Grandpa." He was at the point of no return.

Chapter 2

Brisco Balducci

Decades before Chicago took on its street moniker "Chiraq" for its parallel comparisons to the casualty-stricken war in Iraq, Brisco Balducci came to America from Italy sometime in the early 1950s. During a time when the FBI, headed by J. Edgar Hoover, turned their undivided attention to national security concerns, as Europe moved closer to war and World War II eventually unfolded, leaving Chicago and other major cities wide open. Several occupational drug traffickers and seasoned mafia figures had discovered the city's weaknesses and exploited them.

Chicago was deemed a goldmine. It made for an ideal location to store and traffic large amounts of narcotics through the state's highway channel. They even set up businesses to launder their messy money. Brisco monopolized the former prominent Taylor Street corridor in Little Italy. Little Italy was a community of Italian-Americans on the city's west side.

The city of Chicago was considered wide open to any person ballsy enough to put their occupation into motion. From the mafia boys to big city investors and entrepreneurs alike, they all jumped on the bandwagon.

The smart businessmen that migrated to the city, found ways to profit from opening up discount stores and Blues clubs. While hundreds of laborers got jobs in construction as they destroyed several blocks along State Street for the development of the public housing projects. Fine dining also thrived in Chicago. One restaurant in particular became by far the most popular. Its name was Fridas.

Brisco was among the savvy businessmen that contributed a great deal to the city's pace. His views on how to take control of a city under siege were tested and successfully executed in both Detroit and Miami.

Jamaican Bill held similar views that were shaped in Kingston, Jamaica and New York. Jamaican Bill had come to America soon after Brisco had. The two crossed paths at a local chess tournament in Chicago, where Brisco took home the gold while his soon to be business partner and closest friend earned a respectable third place ribbon. For the next two years they would meet at Murray Park once a week and play chess. It was at that metal, two-man table that their plan was formulated.

Together, they swiftly took control of 50% of Chicago's streets by the mid-1980s. But Brisco would not be satisfied until he gained complete control of the joystick that regulated the city's entire dope trade.

Half of said joystick was in the possession of Carlos and Hector. As far as the mentalities of the four mob bosses were concerned, Hector and Jamaican Bill were both hotheaded with an inordinate desire to be the head man in charge. They were 80% action and 20% thought. To them, the answer to any problem was always a body count. If they could have it their way, a street war would commence, and the last mob standing would take full ownership of the city's joystick. Grandpa and Carlos, on the other hand, were thorough thinkers. In their weighty opinions, a war would be detrimental to their businesses. They thought it to be rational to maintain their cordial relationship and hold back on any bloodshed. Hence, keeping the city peaceful at a 50/50 split. This arrangement lasted another twenty years, and the first decade of Bromise's life was exposed to the ground floor of it all.

By the time Bromise had met with his twelfth birthday, he learned just how shrewd his grandpa was. On a quiet fall night at 1:00 a.m., Brisco stopped by his daughter's, Abagail, home to visit his grandson. It was exactly 56 hours and 32 minutes before he took full ownership of the city's joystick.

"Get up, baby boy," Brisco said, waking Bromise up out of his sleep. "You have business to handle."

Bromise turned over to face him. When his eyes adjusted to the lone nightlight in his bedroom, he saw a chrome .45 automatic lying on the pillow next to him. Brisco sat on the edge of the bed, also next to him. He sat upright. His posture was perfect.

"Men are the dumbest sonavabitches walking this planet, Bromise," he said in an undertone as not to wake Bromise's mother, who was sleeping in the next room. "If you can't convince men to believe what you tell them, you can always convince them to believe what you show them. So fuck what people tell you, and fuck what they show you. Always follow your own instincts. Do you understand me, grandson?" he asked.

Brisco was consistent with asking rhetorical questions that didn't call for an answer. The only problem was Bromise didn't know if this was one of those questions. So instead of responding verbally, he simply looked into his eyes with a partial smile and nodded in agreement.

"At nine o'clock this morning, Carlos and Hector will be driving a midnight blue Porsche 911. They'll be heading to Frida's restaurant on South Michigan Street. Do you know where the place is located?" he asked.

Again, Bromise nodded in agreement.

"The two of them won't be armed nor escorted by security. Furthermore, I know the police in this city well. Well enough to know that if a kid your age is riding his bike to school and just happened to leave them both asleep, they won't work overtime at solving the cases. And everything that Carlos and Hector owns, just may fall into the lap of an old man who deserves every fine bit of it," he said as he firmly grabbed hold of Bromise's knee and gently shook it.

He understood exactly what his grandpa was asking of him, and he winked his eyelid to make him aware that he knew.

"I left you a present in the backyard, Bromise. Make sure you get to my house right after school and no later," he said. And without as much as another word, Grandpa was gone, leaving Bromise alone with his chrome .45 and a million thoughts.

With his chest stuck out, he was proud that his grandpa trusted him to accomplish such a feat. In the past, Bromise demonstrated his gratitude by refusing to let him down, ever. Instead of going back to bed only to rush to get the job done once he awoke, he raised up right then and began to prepare for the job.

After he ate a bowl of Frosted Flakes, he brushed his teeth and then got dressed. For jobs like this, Brisco taught him to dress a lot younger than his actual twelve years. His mother thought the age-inappropriate clothing Brisco would often buy for him was just bad taste on his behalf. She even thought it was cute.

He looked inside his closet and found an over-sized T-shirt that Brisco had got him a few weeks prior. The shirt was all white, with a large purple dinosaur blowing bubbles on either side. He also found some plain blue jeans, a pair of off-brand sneakers and his old backpack. He topped it all off with an over-sized Chicago Bulls cap. After he stuffed his backpack with a change of clothes, he considered himself ready for work.

From his mother's house to Frida's restaurant was a thirty-minute bike ride, so he had some crazy pedaling to do. To kill time, he sat around watching cartoons until 8:00 a.m. Before he left the house, he grabbed the chrome .45 and pulled his baseball cap down as far as it would go over his head. Not only to shield parts of his face, but also to make sure that his ears stuck out to help project the innocent child-like image that he was aiming for.

After his moms Abagail kissed him and sent him off for school, Bromise walked out to the backyard and saw a beat up Diamondback bicycle leaning against the side wooden panel of the garage. He instantly turned up his nose. Bromise wanted to ride his own bike, but he knew Grandpa chose this bike for a good reason. Even if he didn't tell him what that good reason was. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to ride that raggedy old bike. He grabbed a hold of the rusted handlebars, aimed the bike toward the alleyway, and pedaled off to Frida's.

Chapter 3

Molded by the Mob

Adolescent years . . .

The second Bromise sat on the bike's thin seat he knew he was on the clock. He increased his speed when he made it to the end of the alleyway and pedaled at a fast and steady pace. Bromise had nothing on his mind except finding the midnight blue Porsche 911.

Although the bike ride was long and tiring, he was calm along the way. Anxiety didn't set in until he made it close to Michigan Street, and realized that he underestimated his travel time. His wristwatch read 9:05 a.m. In spite of pedaling his ass off, he was still over a block away from his destination. "Grandpa is going to kill me!" he yelled and stood up on the pedals. Bromise could pedal faster standing up, and at that moment he definitely needed to push!

Now he was riding along the right side of a street. As he passed an intersection, he decided to turn into an alleyway that was coming up a few feet ahead. It was a short cut that would save him a few needed minutes. He pedaled the bike with as much force as the strength in his legs would allow. Suddenly, he smelled the aroma of well-seasoned Mexican food. He knew then he was getting closer.

He forged ahead at top speed. The surrounding garages and houses were nothing more than a blur. His focus was on the building that he could only catch a fleeting glimpse of between the slits of each house that he sped past. Frida's! He was only a half block over from the place. Instead of riding to the end of the alleyway and back around, he decided to look for another short cut. "Ah yes!" Bromise discovered a deserted gangway coming up on his right. The exit would place him directly across the street from Frida's. He took the vacant yard and pedaled through the gangway of an occupied house, quietly, as he heard voices coming from within.

Now he could see Frida's clearly just ahead. Bromise slowed the bike's pace and rolled down a short flight of concrete stairs before his front tire awkwardly hit the sidewalk and jumped the curb, placing him in the epicenter of Michigan Street!

Tires screeched, but before he could react, a car crashed into the bike, knocking him to the pavement. Ouch! I fucked up! was all he could think. The thought of failing outweighed any physical pain he was feeling. He massaged the ache in his left leg when he heard two doors slam shut.

"You dented my fender, you little faggot!" the driver fumed before he and his passenger started speaking to each other in their native tongue.

Upon focusing in their direction, Bromise saw two Dominican men staring at the dented front end of a midnight blue Porsche 911.

This can't be Carlos and Hector, could it? he thought and heard a man yell from the sidewalk.

"Give the little punk fifty dollars and c'mon, will ya? Brisco and Jamaican Bill have been inside waiting for you two for over an hour now!" He was a burly man also of Dominican decent. He stood in front of Frida's entrance.

"I wouldn't give this bum kid fifty cents. He just wrecked my beautiful car. Look at her!" Hector ranted and pointed to the damaged Porsche. "And the nigger-lover, plus the nigger inside aren't going anywhere. Let 'em wait!" Hector yapped and turned to Bromise with a cold, intimidating stare.

Bromise knew then that he would be his first victim. If the fact that he hit him with his beautiful car wasn't a good enough reason to be angry, his obnoxious and disrespectful mouth was more of a reason to be.

"Get up, you little nigger faggot!" Hector said and snatched Bromise up by his collar.

"Release him, Hector!" Carlos demanded as he stood aside the Porsche.

"This fuckin'—" were the last words to exit Hector's foul mouth. Bromise leveled the chrome .45 and squeezed the trigger. The slug that waited attentively in its chamber knocked down the fronts of Hector's disrespectful teeth, and all of the irreverent thoughts that he had in mind. Brain matter expelled from the back of Hector's head, splattering across the Porsche's windshield. His lifeless body plummeted to the ground. Bromise blazed his eyes at Carlos as he cowered on all fours at the rear of the vehicle. He glanced over at the burly Dominican man that remained in front of Frida's, and inadvertently spotted Jamaican Bill, who looked in awe from inside of the restaurant. Bromise's heart raced with adrenaline as he watched the Dominican man panic with fear, after realizing the banger in his hand had jammed. He faced him, and with both elbows locked, Bromise squeezed off three rounds. Two of which hit the man square in the chest.

Michigan Street converted into pandemonium as a mass of people screamed and ran for their lives. The scurrying rush awakened the running rabbit in Bromise, but he couldn't bring himself to abandon the scene. Not before he had completed his mission. He calmly walked over to Carlos, who was still at the rear of the Porsche, attempting to hide his trembling bones from his worst nightmare come true. He shook uncontrollably and pissed his pants. His hands were joined in a praying manner as he babbled in his native tongue. At this point he hadn't a snowman's chance in hell of surviving this. So maybe he was asking for repentance.

Bromise didn't care. He looked him in the eyes and met Carlos' forehead with the tip of the shiny banger. Without hesitation, he banana'd his split with one squeeze of the trigger. Then he let loose a barrage of slugs that ricocheted off the Porsche's bumper after exiting the side of Carlos' head.

With his mission accomplished, he ran five blocks down and crept inside a gas station bathroom. He got undressed and put the bloody outfit in the backpack with Grandpa's banger. Then he slipped on a change of clothes that he brought along. He took a deep breath and vacated the space. He casually walked to the bus stop and blended with a crowd of people who waited patiently to start their morning commute. He had to take a total of three public buses to make it from Michigan Street to school. His bus rides went smoothly, and it was just another day in class.

By the time Bromise made it to Brisco's Kenilworth estate later that day, he was already looking outside his front window, awaiting his grandson's arrival. Never before had he witnessed his grandpa smile as brightly as he did as he approached his front door. It was rare that he smiled at all, so to see him touch his ears with the sides of his mouth was an incredible sight to see. Bromise knew he did well.

"Never send a man to do a boy's job," Brisco said as he welcomed his grandson into his home.

"Who's at the door, Brisco?" Bromise's grandma yelled from the back of the house.

"Come on in and talk business with me, grandson," he said and locked the door behind him, totally ignoring his wife's inquiry. He hated when she yelled through the house. He and Bromise sat down in his plush living room. After they both got comfortable, Bromise passed him his backpack, and he blessed Bromise with another one of his valuable lessons. "What you did today made it possible for me to take full control of this great city, and isolate the drug market, baby boy," he said with a childish grin. "What I want you to understand is that there's five levels to the dope game that you should be aware of.

"The first level is where all of the problems of stupidity and trivial beefs stem from, Bromise. I refer to it as the nickel and dime level. It's crowded with nickel and dime hustlers that have million dollar dreams that they would kill to bring to life. They only handle small amounts, chump change, and the pressure of vast competition only makes them more reckless than what they were before.

"The second level is the small weight level. It consists of small-minded men that believe their money and balls are larger than what they really are. Delusional is what I call them. For

the most part, they handle a few ounces of product and employ the nickel and dime level to push their product.

"The third level is the featherweight level. Men on this level are holding a few pounds. Only the dumb ones sell weight by supplying the men on the small weight level with ounces they need or the occasional pound. The smart ones employ others to push only nickels and dimes to increase their profit margin, and to escape any unwanted attention. Very seldom do they sell weight. Those are the men like Future. Do you understand?

"Yes, Grandpa," Bromise responded solemnly.

"Well, okay then," he said and readjusted his sitting position. "The fourth level of the game is the middleweight level. Men on this level are really starting to get their foot in the door. Whether they're getting it cash on delivery or by consignment, their packages come by the kilos, and they sell packages by the pound. This is where silence and secrecy are extremely important and must be practiced in order to survive. This level of men keeps their business amongst their tight-knit circle of a chosen few. Paranoia of the Feds and fear of losing everything they've worked for causes them to be very discreet. The smart ones are not flamboyant like others on the lower levels. By appearance alone, you may never know who's holding what. Now pay attention!" he spat with sternness. Bromise shook from the abrupt change in his tone. "Because this level is also the 'you can't trust your friend, double cross/main indictment level.' These men have much to lose should they take a fall, so they're always on the watch to use someone else's ass to save their own. An exit strategy, if you will. Many of them are money hungry. They continuously seek ways to take out the men who are either on, or close to their level to secure their own position in the game. One day you're going to reach that level, Bromise, and when you do I want you to remember that your biggest threat is the person that is closest to you. Do you follow me so far?"

"Yes, Grandpa, I follow," Bromise said just as solemnly as before.

"Now the last level is the heavyweight level," he said, leaning forward and placing his hand on his grandson's shoulder. "That level and the men on it are the real plug on product that supplies entire cities. It may seem as if everyone in the city is selling product for themselves, or for the man on the level just above them, but truth is they're selling product for the men on the heavy weight level. Even if they never get a chance to meet the man, he is the true employer of the game. That level, my favorite grandson, usually could only be claimed by four men or less, at any given time. The product goes down from the heavyweight level to the nickel and dime level, and back up again in the form of currency, and those men get it by the barrels. To the nickel and dime men, the dope game is just a hustle. To those higher up the food chain, the drug trade is the most profitable business nationwide, truly the American way. Nickel and dime men use their limited money and influence to keep their blocks under control. Whereas, heavyweight traffickers use their power to keep entire cities under wraps. The only way to grow in this business, grandson, is to understand it. To know when and how to use the strengths of your affiliates and prevent their weaknesses from hurting your mob. Carlos, Hector, Jamaican Bill, and myself were the heavyweights of this great city. Jamaican Bill receives his directives exclusively from me. With Carlos and Hector gone, the city is mine, grandson, all mine," he said and rubbed the top of Bromise's head roughly. "As long as you understand this business and how it's played, one day this city will be yours. Right now I won't allow so much as a tenth of product into this city that doesn't have my stamp on it. Why is that?" he asked.

Caught off guard by his question, Bromise took a deep swallow and answered, "So that everybody has to buy from you personally?" He leaned forward in his seat, anxious to see if his answer was the correct one.

"Not necessarily so they can buy from me personally, no. Listen, I never touch anything myself, or do direct business with anyone except Jamaican Bill and my long distance friend. I made this move to isolate the market, so I and only I can supply what the city demands. What I'm going to do next is take down the prices on kilos and flood the city one good time. After the flood subsides I'm going to shut down sells momentarily. Now why is that?" he asked.

This time Bromise was better prepared and was confident he would get this question right. "If you take down the prices, a lot of hustlers will be able to buy more product than usual and that'll make flooding the city that much easier. But Grandpa, I'm not sure why you'd want to shut down sells," he said with riveting curiosity circling the rings of his pupils.

"Because if I shut down sells momentarily, that would ensure a drought. Let me explain. If I flood the city first, that gives everyone ample opportunity to inflate their prices on the product they had previously purchased before the drought, and sell out of everything that they may have put up. It not only gives them the chance to profit immensely, it also gives me the likelihood to see to it that everyone sells out of product. Even if they don't sell out completely, which they probably won't, they'll still be in dire need of product, and they'll have more than enough money for it because of their drought sells. And that, my boy, would open the door for me to return to business with a richer and hungrier market awaiting me," he said and stared into Bromise's eyes, sensing how amazed he was. "Besides, I need a vacation anyhow.

"From this point on I want you to pay close attention to the way that business is conducted, and I want you to keep a portion of each of my drug shipments in a safe place for me. I also want you to do any clean-up work that my men cannot take care of, just like you did today and have in the past. Do you understand all of what I am saying to you, Bromise?"

"Yes," he said, and only then did he display a smile. The both of them talked for quite some time thereafter, and during their conversation, Bromise realized how it was possible for him to hit Carlos and Hector so easily.

Brisco manipulated the tension between Jamaican Bill and Hector, and used it to his advantage. He suggested a sit down with Carlos to renegotiate their latest terms. After Carlos' acceptance, he agreed to meet with him but only under specific conditions. The conditions were as follows: Carlos and Hector and Brisco and Jamaican Bill had to come to the meeting alone and unarmed. Both mobs were permitted to have only one security member to stand guard. He also had to come alone. The two security members were allowed to come armed, however, both had to wait outside until the meeting was adjourned. Not under any circumstances were either to enter Frida's.

The old man, Mo, that owned the joint was an overweight Mexican who did business with both Brisco's mob and Carlos' mob, so both sides trusted him well. They used his restaurant as the meeting place and agreed that only Mo's security guard would sit in, armed, as an unbiased party to guard the safety of all four of the mob heads. Understandably, Mo was afraid to secure the meeting because he was weak in both finances and soldiers to go to war with either mob, should something go wrong during the meeting and he was to blame for it. To comfort him, both sides agreed that Mo would be held liable only if something were to go wrong inside the restaurant, and he failed to provide the necessary protection. If anything were to happen to one of the mob bosses outside of the restaurant, then it was of no concern to Mo or his security guard. Both mobs further agreed that if either mob sought to penalize Mo for a disturbance that occurred on the outside of the restaurant, the opposing mob would form an alliance with Mo and declare war against the mob that breached the agreement. The compact satisfied Mo enough to offer his assistance, and that's what made it possible for Brisco to hit Carlos and Hector, and to persuade them to agree to such conditions in the first place.

Brisco's personal security was missing from his outside post when Bromise arrived. He was sent to get cigarettes, although Brisco was a non-smoker. In the process, he was to call Abagail and ask if Bromise had left for school already. Unbeknownst to his security person, Brisco sent him away to avoid the possibility of someone assuming that he'd ordered the hit. This was his way of killing two birds with one stone. Ordering his security to call Bromise's mother was a ploy to avoid having to tell him what was to come, but also to check on Bromise's departure at the same time. Jamaican Bill wasn't even hip to the plot.

But Bromise never thought that his grandpa and Jamaican Bill would actually be inside of Frida's when he showed up on his bike blazing.

He felt that his grandpa's plan was ingenious, but even at such a young age he saw a flaw in it. In his opinion, Grandpa placed Jamaican Bill and himself in a position of sitting ducks. Not to mention, open season targets inside of the restaurant that resembled a fish bowl.

"Why did you leave Jamaican Bill and yourself open like that?" he asked.

Brisco leaned forward from his high-back chair, planted his hands on both of Bromise's shoulders, and gave him an answer that he'd never forget. For it explained what he meant that morning when he told him never to believe what people tell or show.

"Hector believed what he saw, Bromise," he said in a calm but confident tone. "He saw me being weak enough to fold, so his intention was to attend the meeting solely to apply pressure. He saw that I would break, and that illusion persuaded him that he could take what he wanted from me.

"Carlos, on the other hand, believed what he heard. He heard me say let's make a deal that works out for everyone. Therefore, he was coming to the meeting with the intentions of closing the deal, and hoping to persuade me into giving him a little something extra, with Hector's help of course.

"I only believe in my instincts," he said, "and my instincts said that those two racist sonavabitches had to go. I believed that with all of the tools that I've instilled in you, you'd be capable of taking care of them both before they knew what was coming. Bromise, it's vital that you understand that the wind carries secrets. If you keep your eyes open and refrain from having a million no-good men block the wind, you'll give those secrets the opportunity to blow into your ear. You see, I found out yesterday that Hector had planned to have Jamaican Bill hit at 10:00 a.m., right after the meeting was over, to try and weaken me. That's why I instructed you to show up at nine and hit them both before the meeting even began. At 9:05 a.m. I got a little uptight because you were nowhere to be found, and I didn't have a contingency plan. You were my only ace in the hole, the one warrior that I had to depend on. So I'm elated, baby boy. That you managed to pull it off as I knew you could." He smiled and winked at Bromise one last time.

Before Bromise left Brisco's estate, he instructed him on which parts of the city to avoid for the next few days. He further informed him that he'd have his first shipment brought to him soon for safekeeping. On the night of Carlos and Hector's murders, the streets were shocked that someone had the guile to shoot them down, and in broad daylight at that. The gossip lines were in full swing, and the news was, "a killer-midget posing as a ten-year-old kid." The outfit worked like a charm! It went down as one of Chicago's highest profiled double-homicide cases to date, still unsolved.

On the following day, the South and Westside streets were both high in death toll. Twenty of Carlos and Hector's lieutenants were found dead in a short series of systematic hits, causing their subordinates to either flee the state, or work for Brisco through his subordinates.

Six weeks following the murders, the city befell to a calm. Jamaican Bill took control of the South and Westside, previously owned by the late Carlos and Hector, and Brisco controlled the other half of the city with an ironclad fist. He was now satisfied, for he owned the joystick to the city.

Brisco shared with Bromise many lessons, but seeing him thrown to the wolves, only to return leading the pack was what benefitted him most. He showed his grandson that a man could take control of the world if he formulated the proper plan of action and executed it to its fullest. When he said that the city was his, Bromise heard him as clear as a summer day. But witnessing him in raw action convinced the young boy of just how dangerous one man's mind can be. Although he was viewed as a loving man by his family, his heart pumped pure venom through his veins, making him the most lethal man Bromise had ever known. His only wish was to be as cunning, calculating, and powerful as his grandpa when his time came.

Bromise stayed under his wing. Through him, he learned as much as he could and emulated his image. To be certain that his molding process was strictly done by the G-code, Brisco made sure that Bromise was a boy doing grown man things on the regular. He was the heir to Brisco's throne.

Chapter 4

My Ticket In

Two years later . . .

After Brisco was killed, went into full swing. The streets turned into a big chat line. The rumor was that Jamaican Bill set him up for the US Marshal that killed him.

Bromise's mother, on the other hand, believed that it was his uncle, Cigar (Bromise's dad's younger brother) who knew something about something. Yet, there was no way of being sure of either allegation. Mainly because Cigar conveniently disappeared just before Brisco was killed, and hadn't been heard from since. Both stories carried some weight, but it was hard for Bromise to believe either. Cigar was his favorite and only uncle, and the only other family member that Brisco did business with.

Jamaican Bill was a probable suspect, but he was also extremely close to Brisco. He trusted Jamaican Bill enough to work hand-to-hand with him. Considering Brisco's philosophy of the game, it was mad difficult for Bromise to fathom that his grandpa would be so foolish as to put himself in a position where he would be slumped by his right hand.

Due to people's outward façade, it was nearly impossible to differentiate their respect from fear, and either of the two from envy. In one form or another, everyone appeared to have love for Brisco. They even paid their last respects at his funeral and expressed heartfelt condolences to both Bromise and Abagail, Brisco's only daughter. Needless to say, that made it more difficult for Bromise to figure shit out. And if matters weren't already at its worst, Bromise's mother had lost her battle with cancer one week after her father's funeral. After that, Bromise went to live with Chasidy and her older sister, Porsha.

The biggest part of Bromise was missing now. Without true family, he felt like the only other person he had in this world was his girlfriend, Chasidy. The pair were inseparable, and without his grandpa around to lean on, she became his other half. Brisco molded them equally, and in many ways she was a female version of Bromise, just three years his senior.

Post Brisco's death, Jamaican Bill took full control of the city's joystick, thus, Brisco's operation. He refused to go into business with anyone in the Convolution except Future. And as expected, Jamaican Bill's younger brother, Rudeboy, was promoted to his lieutenant. After he strategically lined his ducks in a row, Jamaican Bill made his presence felt right out of the gate. He raised the price tag on dirt-cheap kilos that Brisco made available during his reign. He also did away with most of the middleweight hustlers that hesitated to comply with his new order. Subsequently, he was honored as King and his position was secure.

His next course of action was to release a heavy flow of heroin throughout the city, and scout out the best of the middleweight hustlers that he left alive for the purpose of working for him.

Future was the pick of the litter. Brisco had allowed him to keep his six blocks on the Eastside after Carlos and Hector's murders. The way that Brisco organized the drug trade enabled Future and a few other hustlers to claim their positions. That opportunity contributed a great deal to Future being Jamaican Bill's number one draft pick. During this time, Future was young and greedy and would do anything for self-gain. From afar, Bromise watched as he pulled one shiesty move after another. Future befriended the leading competitors around the way, and before long, they were all pinched by the Feds while he managed to slip through the cracks when the indictments were handed down. The shocking part was the streets turned the other cheek to his methods. Since his name could never be found as a 'confidential informant' in black and white, or court documents, it was just assumed that he had either more luck or more connections than the average Joe, and maybe he's not a snitch. Then he assembled a team of young guns that he'd either known for a while, or saw potential in. He put all their asses to work and sat at the top left of Jamaican Bill, while Rudeboy sat secure on the right.

Brisco once told Bromise that what blinds men the most is lust, money, and getting so wrapped up in what's going on around them that they can't see what's really going down in front of them.

The men that weren't blinded by those things were blinded by the ride that Future was taking them on. They didn't pay attention to how he got into position. They didn't suspect his treacherous ways, but Bromise suspected the fuckery all along. With Jamaican Bill backing him, in just two short years, Future went from having six blocks, to supplying 30% of the city with highly addictive narcotics, while other middleweight hustlers suffered loss after mysterious loss.

It wasn't a coincidence, but it was what his grandpa had warned him about years ago. Precisely at the time when he explained to him the different levels of the game, and the type of men that thrived on those levels. Even though Bromise saw the street politics and knew firsthand how dirty the game was, he still wanted in. But Future stood in his way. In his defense, in honor of the late Brisco Balducci, he made sure that Bromise didn't want for anything. But he still wouldn't risk letting him make any major moves, or get his own paper. Fuck that! Bromise didn't want any handouts from him, or anyone else. Yet, over and over again, Future would dwell on Bromise's age, and how he needed to study the game before he entered it.

Future didn't realize that Bromise spent the better part of his life studying under one of the best teachers that the game had to offer. There was no secret as to who his grandpa was, only the integral part he played in his big scheme of things. Brisco never told a soul of the work Bromise put in, and neither did he.

Although Bromise was capable of doing a lot more than what was expected, everyone still treated him like a snotty-nose little brother. The fact that he was fourteen and only five-feet-inches tall and weighed less than ninety pounds didn't help his cause much either. Moreover, he had a smooth baby face and big innocent brown eyes to compliment his dimples, along with a soft-spoken demeanor and dark chocolate complexion that he inherited from his father's Nigerian background. His mother's Italian blood caused his hair to look and feel different than his peers. As a result, the boys often teased him, while the girls seemed to like running their fingers through his naturally tight curls. Everyone that he socialized with was older, a feat that he worked hard to achieve. Yet, no matter how much he tried, there was no way of hiding his youth. Bromise looked foolishly young. That earned him the nickname, "Youngin." Oddly enough, his kiddie appearance made it so his nickname fit him like the Rag & Bone denim on Nicki Minaj.

Future had no idea what Bromise was capable of. At least not until he tagged along one day to check on one of Future's trap houses that had been repeatedly coming up short with cash.

Bromise must've been on a million of these trips with Future in the past. To collect money, drop off product, and watch while he threatened his workers for being delinquent with his currency. But unbeknownst to either of them, this routine trip would prove to be anything but routine.

It was a late Friday night. Bromise was riding with Future, carrying his Glock in his waistband while they made round after round to his various trap houses. He had one situated in what they called K-Town, which is arguably the most dangerous section on the west side. As they pulled up to a curb, he parked his S550 Mercedes Benz. Bromise was busy bobbing his head to "Money Trees" by Kendrick Lamar. He stared beyond the car window, watching the trap house carefully, when he noticed the lookout, John-John, was not on his security post and nowhere in sight.

Future exited his Benz like a ghetto Don, with Bromise following close behind. As they walked up the stairs, a strange sensation came over Bromise. This specific trap house was one of twenty handed down to Future by Jamaican Bill. Once they made it inside, Bromise copped a seat on the armrest of an old beat-up couch. He watched as Future rounded up Goldie, Fats, and John-John. He lined the three of them in the middle of the front room and circled them like a drill sergeant, scolding his cadets.

Goldie ran the trap house. Fats and John-John were his nickel and dime workers. Bromise never liked John-John, or that dude, Goldie. To him they were both in the game-in the way and should've been forced out a long time ago. Fats, however, stayed to himself, quiet and focused on the hustle. He was also the closest in age. For those reasons, Bromise liked him.

After Future finished with his first drill of threats, Goldie and John-John began to complain about an up and coming clique that were calling themselves the BB (Bogus Boys). These dudes were living nightmares. Although they dabbled in the drug trade, the bulk of their pay came from jacking their competitors.

During this time, a large number of inner city cliques started to populate Chiraq streets. The BB was the talk of them all. They were extremely ruthless and quite comparable to the Taliban. The BB had earned an intimidating reputation, and it was common knowledge that wherever they set up shop, they shut down the neighboring competition by force. In short, these dudes took blocks. They were at the very top of everyone's robbery and homicide suspect list, including the jakes; Chicago's Police Force. Those that they didn't rob or kill were the cowards that folded under their pressure and joined their clique. And now here they were, in K-Town, inside of their own trap house, directly across the street from Future's trap house. Shortly after they moved in, they began to take clientele from Goldie, which in turn took cash out of Future's pockets. And he wasn't having it.

Bromise sat on the armrest looking at Future. He could tell by the glare in his eyes he was pissed. He made the reason behind his anger clear as he yelled at the three men for the third time.

"So you tellin' me that I'm comin' up short on my ends because you nigga's pussy!" Future shouted angrily.

"Ain't no pussy here. Future, you already know we buck shots with the best of 'em," Goldie said. "It's just the way the game is right now. The only way to move dem fools around is to out hustle dem, and we need better product for that." Goldie tried to make his case. Because he ran the trap house, it was his ass that was in the sling.

"Better product my ass!" Future yelled. "Do I look like a fuckin' new jack to you, nigga? We got the purest shit in the city. What you need is some fuckin' heart, and what I need is some real niggas runnin' this fuckin' trap!" Future continued to circle their stiff, nervous bodies.

"I'll get this shit together in less than a week, word is bond," Goldie said with a stride of confidence that fell short mid-sentence. "Just lemme figure out a way to handle those BB niggas."

"If you couldn't stop this shit from gettin' outta control, how in the fuck am I supposed to believe you can get it under control?" Future asked rhetorically. "What you need to do is get my cash together now, and get the fuck outta my trap! I'll be better off lettin' this lil nigga, Youngin, run the show!"

Suddenly, all eyes in the room were on Bromise. He knew a prime opportunity when he saw one, and this was definitely it. He thought about what Brisco would do in this situation: "Shock those that don't believe." He heard his grandpa's voice, and that was his cue to chime in.

"Listen, joe, if you give me this trap house to run, I'll make it so the BB disappear. Plus, I'll have your money right in less than five days." Bromise was thirsty for a chance.

Future knew he was serious. All that shit about him being too young to run his own trap house was his opinion. If he was closing it down anyway, he had nothing to lose with trying the kid out. But instead of seeing it that way, a chorus of laughter filled the air. Every man in the room, with the exception of Fats, held their guts as they guffawed at Bromise's expense. He was livid!

Bromise bolted from the armrest in Goldie's direction, pulling the .40 Glock from his waistband. He stepped to him and touched the tip of his nose with the front of the barrel. Frozen in place, Goldie stared cross-eyed at the banger. The laughter was then consumed by bone-chilling silence.

"Put the banger down, Youngin," Future said nervously.

Bromise ignored his request and gradually pushed the .40 forward, smashing it against the bone that held Goldie's nose in place. He was beyond scared, and looked as if he wanted to cry like the bitch he was. "This is how easy it is to shut niggas up," Bromise said, looking square up into Goldie's fearful eyes. "And squeezing this trigger is all that it takes to move any fool that's standing in my way, out of my way. And right now, you're definitely in my way," he said, intending for all to hear. "I don't care how powerful a man is, or how many other men ride for him. A warrior doesn't need a storm to perform. Even alone, he can do what one hundred toy soldiers won't. Push one hot copper tip into the head of his adversary. Then another slug through the heart of his main man, and many more through the bodies of every man still standing, until he subtracts his whole clique from the city's population count, permanently. And then, toy soldier, your problem is solved." Goldie's eyes became misty. Bromise was sure he could smell the gunpowder. He squeezed the double trigger, sending Goldie's lifeless body crashing to the floor. Red specks of his DNA dotted Bromise's face and True Religion tee. He was pissed about his tee.

"What da fuck!" Future looked over at the other two men before training his eyes back on Bromise. "What da fuck did you just do, Youngin?"

"I did what needed to be done, joe," Bromise said, shoving the Glock back into his waistband.

Future stared at Bromise in total disbelief. Then suddenly, a slight smirk pinched his lips.

"Well, you heard the lil nigga," Future said in the two men's direction. "He runs this trap now. Give him the house keys, and let's count my muthafuckin' money so I can get up out dis muthafucka!" Future demanded.

"But, but, Future . . ." John-John stuttered.

"But Future my ass," Future interjected. "Didn't you just see what da fuck just happened?" he asked, gesturing toward the bloody mess on the floor. John-John nodded yes. "Do you want the same shit to happen to your ass?"

John-John, still silent, shook his head no.

"Well then, I suggest you get with the program. Ain't shit to talk about. Youngin is runnin' this trap now, so take your problems up with him," Future said. He walked out of the front room and toward the back of the house. Fats followed closely behind. John-John reluctantly tossed Bromise the house keys before stepping over Goldie's corpse and joining them in the back.

Bromise hated the name Youngin, but at the moment it didn't seem to bother him as much. He held tightly onto the house keys and walked over to the front room window. It was boarded up with a small carved-out section, allowing vision outside. He stared at the BB trap house. His thoughts were mixed. Half, wondering how in the hell was he going to get rid of the Bogus Boys in under twenty-four hours, while the other half mused in disbelief of earning his first trap house.

A few minutes later, Fats and John-John came out from the back and began to wrap Goldie's corpse in oversized blankets. They exited out the back door with it, just as Future joined Bromise in the front room. He sat in a chair holding a small grocery bag filled with cash.

"Listen, Youngin," he said, causing Bromise to face him. "I left you thirty-nine 25-gram bags of Al Capone (heroin) in the back room, and four bangers with a vest under the mattress. I'll send you a team when you call for them. Right now this is officially your problem. All you have to do is sell the product and re-up from me, and only me. How you sell it is your business, but as of now you owe me $31,200. Not thirty, not thirty-one and some change. You owe exactly $31,200. You my lil nigga, Youngin. Don't fuck that up. 'Cause although I might like you—I love my money. So I'm coming for it seven days from now. When I arrive, I wanna hear the sounds of that money machine counting my bread, or you gonna hear the sounds of burners poppin' at ya head. Are we clear?" Future asked, after putting forth his best stone-face.

Bromise didn't bother to answer him verbally. He just nodded in accordance, which Future was used to by now.

"What else do you need?" he asked sincerely as he rose from the chair.

"John-John dead, and Fats back here when I call for my team," Bromise said bluntly.

Future looked at him with a comical expression. "Anything else, Don Grown Ass?" he asked sarcastically.

"As a matter of fact, yeah," Bromise said with an arrogant tone. "When you hear about what happened to the BB niggas, don't ask me silly questions of how I got it done. And please, shut my door on your way out." Bromise wore a straight face.

Future shot him the whatever look and said, "Now don't get all cocky and shit. That was one vital mistake your grandfather, Brisco Balducci, made. You just make sure you do whatever you have to do to keep air inside your body long enough to pay me my bread. You wanted to play with the big boys, well, here you have it." He stood to his feet. "And oh yeah, there's some bleach and other multi-purpose cleaners in the kitchen." He looked over at the bloody mess on the floor. "You gon' have to clean that disgusting shit up yourself. One." He turned away, exited the house, and shut the door behind him.

Bromise didn't like what he said about his grandpa one bit. Hell, he wasn't a quarter of the man he was, and he knew it. Fuck Future, he thought, and reclaimed his position back at the boarded window. He wrapped his fist around the plastic grip of the .40 and freed it from his waist. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, Mr. Boogeyman," he whispered as he scoped out the dark and gloomy trap house across the street. It's time to get active!