The apartment above the Chinese restaurant smelled like grease and regret. Dante Reyes sat on a folding chair in the corner, methodically cleaning his gun-a Glock 19, bought off a junkie for three hundred dollars two years ago. He'd never fired it at anything but cans in the industrial yards. Never pointed it at a human being.
That was about to change.
"Walk me through it again," Marcus said, pacing the narrow space between the kitchenette and the mattress on the floor where Dante slept. "Every step. I need to know you've got this."
"I've got it." Dante didn't look up from the gun. At twenty-five, he had the build of someone who'd grown up fighting-broad shoulders, scarred knuckles, a nose that had been broken twice. He worked as muscle for the Mitchell crew, collecting debts, discouraging competition. He'd beaten men unconscious, broken bones, sent people to the hospital. But he'd never killed anyone.
Marcus stopped pacing. "Say it anyway. For Kenny."
Their youngest brother sat on the mattress, looking smaller than his twenty-two years, still bruised from the beating four days ago. The swelling around his eye had gone down, but purple and yellow mottled his face like a warning about the life they were choosing.
Dante sighed, set down the gun. "Connor Mills leaves Club Meridian every Thursday night around 1 AM. Drives a black Mercedes S-Class, license plate CMILLS-1, because he's a cocky piece of shit. He usually has a girl with him, sometimes two. Takes Riverside Drive home instead of the highway because he likes the view, likes to drive fast on the curves."
"Where do you take him?" Marcus asked.
"The industrial access road, half mile past the old textile plant. No cameras, no streetlights, no late-night traffic. I wait in the stolen Honda-gray Accord, plates from a junkyard car, untraceable. When he passes, I follow, no lights. At the blind turn near the drainage canal, I pull alongside, force him off the road."
"Then what?"
Dante's jaw tightened. "Then I approach the vehicle, gun drawn. If he's alone, I shoot him twice in the chest, once in the head. If there's a passenger, I..." He paused. "What if there's a passenger, Marc?"
"There won't be." Marcus pulled out his phone, showed them photos he'd taken over the past three nights. Connor Mills leaving the club alone, too drunk or too high to charm anyone home with him. "He's in a spiral. His father cut off his allowance last month, trying to force him into rehab. Connor's been dealing to maintain his lifestyle. He's paranoid, erratic. Not bringing girls around anymore."
"But if there is someone-"
"Then you abort. We wait for another night." Marcus's voice was flat, certain. "We're not killing civilians. That's not who we are."
Kenny laughed bitterly from the mattress. "Yeah, we're the good guys. Just murdering a councilman's son for political advantage."
"Connor Mills sold fentanyl-laced cocaine to a sixteen-year-old girl," Marcus said coldly. "She died in her parents' bathroom. There were two other overdose deaths traced back to him last month. His father buried the investigations. The boy is a monster, and the system protects him because his last name opens doors."
"That doesn't make us judge and executioner," Kenny said quietly.
"No. It makes us the only people willing to do what's necessary." Marcus turned back to Dante. "After the shooting?"
"I stage it to look like a carjacking gone wrong. Take his wallet, his watch, his phone. Smash the window like I was trying to grab valuables. Leave the gun-it's untraceable, bought at a gun show in Virginia, serial number filed off. Then I drive the Honda to the chop shop on Porter Street, where it gets stripped and cubed before sunrise. I walk to the subway station, take the blue line to Southside, arrive home by 3 AM. Burn my clothes in the barrel behind the building. Shower. Sleep."
"You won't sleep," Marcus said. "But the rest is solid."
Dante picked up the gun again, felt its weight. "This is really happening."
"Victor Kane is expecting confirmation by Friday morning. If we don't deliver, he'll assume we're not serious. And then the Valdez Cartel will come for Kenny again. For all of us."
"Maybe we should let them." Kenny stood, moved to the window that overlooked the alley. "Maybe getting killed by the Valdez people is better than becoming them."
Marcus crossed to his youngest brother, gripped his shoulder. "Look at me." Kenny turned reluctantly. "You think I want this? You think I dreamed of being a criminal when I was seventeen, getting accepted to State with a full academic scholarship? I was going to study engineering. Build things. Make something of myself the right way."
"So what happened?"
"Mom had her stroke. The medical bills started coming. Dad's church couldn't help-they're barely surviving themselves. And I realized that all my plans, all my dreams, they were built on a foundation that didn't exist. We don't get to be the good guys, Kenny. We get to survive or die. That's the choice Southside offers people like us."
"Dad would say-"
"Dad lives in a fantasy world where prayer solves problems." Marcus's voice hardened. "I love him, but his God doesn't pay for Mom's medication. His faith doesn't keep a roof over our heads. And his righteousness won't protect you when the Valdez people come back."
The room fell silent except for the sound of traffic below and someone's television bleeding through the thin walls-a preacher's voice, ironically, talking about redemption.
Dante stood, tucked the gun into his waistband. "I need air. Going to walk the route one more time, make sure I know every turn."
After he left, Kenny sat back down on the mattress, head in his hands. "He's going to be different after this. You know that, right? You can't kill someone and stay the same person."
Marcus nodded slowly. "I know."
"And you're okay with that? With breaking our brother into something harder, colder?"
"I'm not okay with any of this. But I'm choosing between bad options and worse ones. And the worst option is doing nothing." Marcus sat beside Kenny. "You can still walk away. Say the word, and you're out. Dante and I will handle it. You can go back to selling watches, stay clean of this."
Kenny was quiet for a long moment. Then: "And when the Valdez people come for me again? When the bills pile up and Mom needs a medication we can't afford? When Dad's church literally falls apart around him? What do I do then, Marc? Pray harder?"
"I don't know."
"Exactly. You don't know because there is no good answer. There's only the answer that keeps us alive and the answer that kills us slowly." Kenny looked up, and Marcus saw his brother's innocence dying in real time, replaced by something Marcus recognized from his own mirror. "I'm in. Whatever comes next, I'm in."
Marcus wanted to argue, to protect his baby brother from this. But Kenny was right-there were no good answers left.
Thursday night arrived like an execution date.
Dante sat in the stolen Honda Accord, parked in the shadows near Club Meridian, and waited. It was 12:47 AM. His heart hammered against his ribs. The gun pressed cold and heavy against his spine. He'd thrown up twice before leaving his apartment, nerves and adrenaline turning his stomach inside out.
*You've hurt people before*, he told himself. *This is just the next step.*
But it wasn't. He knew it wasn't. There was a line between breaking someone's arm and putting a bullet in their brain. A line he'd stood on the edge of his whole life without crossing. After tonight, that line would be behind him forever.
His phone buzzed. Text from Marcus: *Target leaving now. Black Mercedes. Alone.*
Dante started the engine, killed the lights, and watched. Thirty seconds later, the Mercedes rolled past, Connor Mills visible through the window-young, handsome, oblivious. Rich boy playing gangster, never imagining real gangsters were watching.
Dante followed at a distance. The Mercedes took Riverside Drive as predicted, Connor driving too fast, probably drunk, definitely high. The route was burned into Dante's mind from three nights of surveillance. Every turn, every landmark, every place where streetlights died and cameras didn't reach.
They passed the closed factories, the abandoned lots, the industrial graveyard where Southside's manufacturing economy had died decades ago. The Mercedes's taillights glowed red in the darkness like dying embers.
At the drainage canal, Dante accelerated, pulling alongside. Connor noticed, turned his head, saw the Accord pacing him. For a moment, Dante saw confusion on his face. Then alarm.
Dante yanked the wheel right, forcing the Mercedes toward the shoulder. Connor overcorrected, tires screeching, and the car skidded off the road, slamming into the concrete barrier at forty miles per hour. The airbags deployed with a sound like gunfire.
Dante stopped the Honda, grabbed the gun, stepped out. His legs felt disconnected from his body. The night air was thick and humid, carrying the smell of burned rubber and leaking coolant.
He approached the Mercedes. Connor was slumped against the deployed airbag, dazed but conscious, blood running from his nose. He turned his head as Dante reached the window, and their eyes met.
"Help," Connor managed, his voice weak. "Please. I'll pay you. Whatever you want."
Dante raised the gun. His hand shook. Connor saw it, understood, and his eyes went wide.
"Wait-no, please, I have money, I have-"
Dante pulled the trigger.
The first shot went through Connor's chest. The second through his throat. The third missed entirely, shattering the window.
Connor slumped sideways, blood spreading across his white shirt in a bloom of red. His eyes stayed open, staring at nothing.
Dante stood frozen, unable to process what he'd done. In his imagination, it had been clean, mechanical. In reality, it was messy and terrible and irrevocable. The gun felt like a burning coal in his hand.
*Move*, he told himself. *Finish the staging. Move.*
He forced himself forward, reached through the broken window, took Connor's wallet and watch and phone. He pocketed them, then pulled out the knife he'd brought for this purpose. He cut his own palm deliberately, squeezed blood onto the door handle, making it look like he'd grabbed for Connor's jewelry and the door had cut him. The story was carjacking-desperate junkie, robbery gone wrong, tragic accident.
He dropped the gun on the passenger seat where it would be found. Untraceable, clean except for wiped-down surfaces.
Then he walked back to the Honda, got in, and drove away. In his rearview mirror, Connor Mills's corpse sat slumped in the Mercedes, illuminated by the car's interior light.
Dante made it two blocks before he had to pull over and vomit onto the pavement.
Kenny sat in Marcus's apartment, unable to stay still. He paced between the living room and the kitchen, checked his phone every thirty seconds, jumped at every sound from the hallway.
Marcus sat at the table, perfectly still, reading a book about supply chain logistics. He'd been on the same page for twenty minutes.
"How can you just sit there?" Kenny asked.
"Because panicking doesn't help."
"Our brother is murdering someone right now. Right now, Marcus. And we're just waiting like it's a regular Thursday night."
Marcus set down the book. "What would you prefer? That we pace and worry and make ourselves sick? Dante knows the plan. Either he executes it or he doesn't. Our anxiety changes nothing."
"You're a robot. You know that? A cold, calculating robot."
"I'm practical. There's a difference."
Kenny's phone buzzed. He grabbed it, read the text, looked up with wide eyes. "He did it. Dante says it's done."
Marcus nodded once. "Good. Now we wait for confirmation."
"Good? That's all you have to say? Good?"
"What do you want, Kenny? Tears? Prayers? A speech about moral complexity?" Marcus's voice remained flat, controlled. "We crossed the line. We knew what it would cost. Second-guessing now is useless."
"I'm not second-guessing. I'm just... I'm processing that we had someone killed. That Dante actually pulled the trigger. That this is real."
"It's been real since the moment you got beaten in that alley. Since the moment Mom had her stroke and the bills started coming. We've been at war with this city our whole lives. Tonight we just stopped fighting fair."
The apartment fell silent. Outside, sirens wailed in the distance-police or ambulance, racing toward some crisis. Maybe Connor Mills's body, already discovered. Maybe some other tragedy in a city full of them.
Kenny sat down heavily. "I can't go back to the apartment tonight. Can't face Dad and Mom and pretend everything is normal."
"You can and you will. Because that's part of this. Keeping them separate, keeping them innocent. They live in their world, we live in ours. Remember?"
"Their heaven, our hell," Kenny muttered.
Marcus's phone rang. Unknown number. He answered: "Yes?"
"It's done?" Victor Kane's smooth voice.
"It's done."
"Excellent. I'm watching the news now. Body discovered twenty minutes ago. Police are calling it a robbery. My rival is devastated, naturally. This will occupy his attention for months, maybe end his political career entirely. You've done well, Mr. Reyes."
"We had a deal. You said you'd protect us from the Valdez Cartel and provide product."
"And I will. Tomorrow night, same place, same time. Come alone. We'll discuss the details of your new enterprise." Kane paused. "You've proven yourself serious. Now we see if you're smart enough to turn this opportunity into something lasting."
The line went dead.
Kenny looked at Marcus. "We're really doing this."
"We're really doing this."
Dante arrived at his apartment at 2:43 AM. He'd followed the plan exactly-chop shop, subway, walk home through the empty streets. His clothes were already ash in a barrel behind his building. He'd showered at the gym, washing away gunpowder residue and blood spatter and the smell of death.
But he couldn't wash away the memory of Connor Mills's eyes in that final moment. The realization. The fear. The end.
He sat on the edge of his mattress and stared at his hands. Killer's hands now. Hands that had taken a life. The Mitchell crew guys talked about their first kill like it was a rite of passage, a story to be proud of. Dante felt only hollow.
His phone buzzed. Text from Maya, the social worker he'd been seeing: *Still on for lunch tomorrow? Want to show you something at the community center.*
Maya. Beautiful, principled Maya, who worked sixteen-hour days trying to save kids from the streets. Who believed in redemption and second chances. Who didn't know the man she was dating had just committed murder.
Dante typed: *Yeah. Looking forward to it.*
Another lie. He was building a wall of lies now, brick by brick, between who he'd been and who he'd become.
He tried to sleep but couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Connor Mills's face. Heard the sound of the gunshots. Felt the kick of the weapon in his hand.
By the time the sun rose, Dante had made a decision: this would be his only kill. He'd do what Marcus needed, help build the empire, be the muscle and the enforcer. But he'd never pull that trigger again. One murder he could live with. More than that, and he'd lose himself completely.
It was a line he drew in his mind, a rule he swore to keep.
He had no idea how quickly that promise would be broken.
Detective Sarah Chen arrived at the crime scene at 4:17 AM, pulling her unmarked sedan behind the cluster of police vehicles that lit up the industrial access road like a carnival.
At thirty-four, Chen had been with the LAPD for eleven years, making detective after seven. She was good at her job-methodical, tireless, driven by a personal rage that never quite cooled. Her younger brother had died five years ago, and the official report said accidental overdose. But Sarah knew better. Tommy had been clean for eighteen months before his death. Someone had forced him to use, or poisoned him deliberately. She'd never found proof, but the suspicion ate at her.
So she worked murders and drug cases, hunting the people who destroyed families like hers. It wasn't justice exactly-more like controlled vengeance.
"What do we have?" she asked the uniform guarding the perimeter.
"Connor Mills, twenty-six, son of Councilman Richard Mills. Shot three times in his vehicle. Wallet, phone, and watch missing. Looks like a carjacking."
Chen ducked under the tape, approached the Mercedes. The body was still in place, waiting for the coroner. She'd seen dozens of murder victims, but they never got easier. Each one was someone's son or daughter, brother or sister. Each one left a hole in the world.
She studied the scene. The vehicle's position, the broken window, the staging. Something felt off.
"Anyone see it happen?" she asked.
"Not a soul. This stretch is dead at night. Nearest security camera is half a mile away."
Chen circled the vehicle, noting details. The impact with the barrier suggested the Mercedes had been forced off the road. The window was broken from outside, but there was too much glass on the ground-someone had smashed it after the shooting, not during.
She leaned into the vehicle, careful not to contaminate evidence. The gun on the passenger seat was too clean, too obviously placed. The blood pattern suggested the victim had been shot through the window, not during a struggle for valuables.
This wasn't a carjacking. This was an execution staged to look like one.
Chen photographed everything, made notes. Then she walked the perimeter, searching for evidence the first responders might have missed in the darkness.
Twenty feet from the vehicle, near the drainage canal, she found it: a button, black and distinctive, lying in the gravel.
She pulled out an evidence bag, collected it carefully. The button was unusual-thick, expensive-looking, with an anchor engraved on its face. Not the kind of thing a desperate junkie would wear. Not the kind of thing Connor Mills would have on his clothes.
Chen held the button up to her flashlight. Someone had been here, someone who'd lost this in the struggle or the staging. Someone who'd made a mistake.
She smiled grimly. Murderers always made mistakes. Her job was finding them.
"Bag everything," she told the crime scene techs. "I want every fiber, every print, every piece of evidence processed. This wasn't random. Someone wanted this kid dead."
As the sun rose over the crime scene, Sarah Chen stood in the growing light and made a silent promise to Connor Mills's corpse: she would find whoever did this. She would trace every thread, follow every lead, match this button to its owner.
And when she did, they would learn that some crimes don't go unpunished.
The game had begun.
Marcus met Victor Kane at the municipal building as arranged, riding the elevator to the fifth floor after hours. The councilman's office was exactly what Marcus expected-leather furniture, expensive art, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The view from up here made Southside look almost beautiful, its poverty and decay softened by distance.
Kane sat behind his desk, immaculate in a tailored suit despite the late hour. He gestured to a chair. "Sit. We have much to discuss."
Marcus sat. "Our deal was protection and product."
"And you'll have both. The Valdez Cartel will receive word tomorrow that Southside has new management, operating under my protection. They'll be upset, naturally, but they won't move against you. I've negotiated this transition carefully."
"Negotiated how?"
"The Valdez organization pays me thirty thousand a month for political cover. I've agreed to split that fee with them-fifteen for me, fifteen for you-in exchange for territorial adjustment. They keep the docks and the university district. You get Southside and the industrial corridor."
Marcus did the math instantly. Fifteen thousand a month just for existing, plus whatever they made from actual distribution. It was more money than he'd seen in his entire life.
"The product?" he asked.
Kane opened a drawer, pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper. "Sample. Pure cocaine, tested and verified. Your first shipment arrives Friday-ten kilos. You'll pay wholesale, forty thousand. Street value is roughly triple that. Your profit margin is significant."
"We don't have forty thousand."
"I'm fronting you the first shipment. You'll pay me back from profits, plus ten percent interest. Consider it a business loan." Kane leaned back. "I'm investing in you, Mr. Reyes. I believe you and your brothers can build something more sustainable than the Valdez operation. More professional. Less violent."
Marcus almost laughed. "We just murdered someone for you."
"You eliminated a problem. There's a difference. Connor Mills was a chaos agent, drawing attention, creating liabilities. Under your management, Southside's drug trade will be quieter, cleaner, more controlled. That benefits everyone-me, you, even the community."
"How do you figure the community benefits?"
"The Valdez people are parasites. They extract wealth and give nothing back. But you're from Southside. You understand these streets. You can reinvest in the neighborhood, help people, build infrastructure. Think of it as... enlightened self-interest. A healthy community is a profitable community."
It was a seductive narrative, Marcus realized. A way to rationalize their crimes as somehow noble. He didn't believe it, but he understood its appeal. People needed stories that let them sleep at night.
"We'll need a secure location," Marcus said. "Somewhere to store product, manage distribution."
"I have something in mind. Abandoned warehouse on Porter Street, near the rail yards. Officially condemned, but structurally sound. No one watches it. Perfect for your purposes. Consider it part of our arrangement."
Marcus nodded. "We'll need people. Distributors, lookouts, runners."
"Recruit from the community. Offer better wages than the Valdez people, better treatment. Loyalty isn't bought with fear-it's bought with respect and money. Make people want to work for you."
They talked for another hour, discussing logistics and strategy and the mechanics of building a drug empire. By the time Marcus left the municipal building, he had a warehouse, a supplier, and a political protector.
He also had blood on his hands that would never wash clean.
Walking back to Southside through the empty streets, Marcus thought about his father's sermons on sin and redemption. Pastor Reyes believed God offered forgiveness to anyone who truly repented. But Marcus wondered: could you repent for crimes you planned to keep committing? Could you ask forgiveness for sins you knew you'd repeat?
He didn't think so. Redemption required you to stop. And Marcus was just getting started.
His phone buzzed. Text from Kenny: *Dante won't talk. Just sitting in his apartment, staring at walls. I'm worried about him.*
Marcus typed back: *Give him time. He'll adjust.*
But he wondered if that was true. Dante had always been the sensitive one, the brother who felt things too deeply. Violence came easy to him in the moment-rage and adrenaline could overcome almost any hesitation. But afterward, in the silence, Dante had always struggled.
Marcus would need to watch him carefully. A guilty conscience could be as dangerous as a police investigation.
He reached his apartment building, climbed the stairs, and found his father still awake, sitting in the dark living room.
"Marcus. Where have you been?"
"Work. Late shift."
His father studied him in the dimness. "You're lying to me. You've been lying to me for days. I can see it in your eyes."
Marcus felt his chest tighten. "I don't know what you mean."
"Your mother had another episode tonight. Thought Kenny was still a child, tried to make him dinner at midnight. Got confused when I stopped her, became agitated. The doctor says it's getting worse. We need to consider full-time care."
"We can't afford that."
"I know. That's why I've been praying for guidance. The Lord will provide-"
"Stop." Marcus's voice came out harder than intended. "Just stop. God isn't going to pay for Mom's care. God isn't going to fix her brain. God isn't going to save us."
His father recoiled as if struck. "You've lost your faith."
"I've lost my illusions. There's a difference." Marcus moved toward his bedroom. "But don't worry, Dad. Money for Mom's care is coming. A lot of money. You just don't ask where it came from."
"Marcus-"
"Their heaven, our hell. Remember that. You get to stay good. We'll handle the dirty work."
He closed his bedroom door, leaving his father sitting in the darkness.
That night, all three Reyes brothers lay awake in their separate apartments, carrying their separate guilt, knowing they'd crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
Dante saw Connor Mills's dying eyes.
Kenny saw his brother becoming a killer.
Marcus saw nothing but the path forward, cold and clear and necessary.
And somewhere across the city, Detective Sarah Chen lay awake too, studying the photo of a black button with an anchor engraved on its face, knowing it was the thread that would unravel everything.
The empire had been born.
The hunt had begun.