Also by Shaun Sinclair
Blood Ties
The Crescent Crew Series
Street Rap
King Reece
Dirty Music
DIRTY MUSIC
SHAUN SINCLAIR
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Shaun Sinclair
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2865-4
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2867-8 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2867-X (ebook)
First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2020
Prologue
September 11, 2010
The Crown Coliseum was packed with mourners as the whole city turned out to pay their respects to the man who had ruled the Southeast with an iron fist. In life, he was both feared and respected as he was both ruthless and fair. In death, his status had been elevated to near sainthood in the same manner of Jesús Malverde—a patron saint to the trap lords of the street.
He had dug his way out of the trenches and clawed his way to the top of the underworld. Then, like a ghetto Robin Hood, he had blessed the city with his riches, providing shelter for single mothers, employing wayward fathers in his various enterprises, and turning young, broke men into rich streetpreneurs. The man had grown from a peasant to a king the hard way, then escaped into the world of legit enterprise like all true bosses do. Like many other gangsters seeking refuge in the business world, he had chosen the lucrative music business to reinvent himself.
In the music business, his reign had been short but impactful, shifting the course of the culture forever. He had brought the tactics learned in the streets into the boardroom, and his whole team had excelled. Then, at the height of his legitimate power, just when it seemed as if he had turned the corner, his life and legacy had been snatched away violently.
King Reece had been a man of diverse taste and relationships, and his mourning party reflected that. In attendance to pay their respects to their fallen comrade and business associates were a mixture of legendary street figures from all over the U.S. and entertainment moguls from the music and television industries. Of course, when a man of this stature was laid to rest, the requisite authorities were present as well. Among the mourners, everyone had their own agenda for attending the farewell service to the late King Reece.
For some of the street figures, they were there to pay their respects because they had done good business with the Crescent Crew, and their hearts were genuinely weeping for the organization. Other street figures were there to gauge the temperature of the room to see who their competition would be to take over and seize power in the vacuum created by King Reece’s demise. The early word was that a foreign entity had killed King Reece, so there presumably wouldn’t be a retaliatory domestic drug war. This meant that as soon as the ceremony was over it would be business as usual, and every up-and-coming crew would be scrambling for position.
For some of the mourners attending from the entertainment industry, they were there to be seen by the cameras; of course, as all press was good press. However, they were also there to confirm his demise. He had been in the industry for a short time, but he was already instilling terror in the hard-bottom shoes of the squares with his aggressive street tactics. It was alleged that he had given the order to strong-arm an artist from her contract and bring her over to his label. The move had shaken the industry up and planted fear in the hearts of executives. Although some of them admired his moxie, no one wanted that moxie aimed at them. For these executives, they were paying their respects to their fear.
Other executives and artists came out of respect to the fallen man’s comrade and brother, Qwess. When news broke of King Reece’s demise, it was reported that the brother of the multi-platinum, Grammy-winning rapper and mogul, Qwess, had been brutally murdered by a Mexican drug cartel. The news shook the industry and sent people scurrying. So close on the heels of Qwess being shot himself, the incident reignited suspicion that the Crescent Crew—the notoriously violent crime cartel that Qwess had co-founded with King Reece—was embroiled in a war for control of the East Coast’s narcotics trade.
The last Crescent Crew war had been ignited when some rivals murdered Qwess’s pregnant fiancée, Shauntay, on the night of Qwess’s album release party. Rumor held that it was King Reece who had exacted retribution on the perpetrators and allowed Qwess to escape into the music industry and become a legend. Years later, King Reece had plead guilty to a five-year federal bid to save Qwess from harm once again. From behind the wall, King Reece exerted his considerable influence to keep the wolves of the music industry at bay.
At every juncture, King Reece had put his life on the line to make sure Qwess would win. Now, King Reece had run out of lives to give. He had made the ultimate sacrifice and paid the ultimate price, and Qwess was left to pick up the pieces. He was devastated. Broken. The last batch of industry insiders was there to help pick him up.
Qwess sat in the front row of the mourners with his head slightly bowed as the god, Born, summed up his eulogy. He was attempting to appear stoic, but his pain was etched on his face like a buck-fifty scar.
“Baby, are you okay?” Lisa Ivory whispered. She nudged him gently and took his hand into hers. “I’m here for you. You don’t have to go through this alone. Matter of fact, if you want to leave right now, we can.”
Qwess offered a weak smile. “Nah, I have to do this. There is no one else to do it,” he reminded her.
It was true. Qwess was the only family that King Reece had besides his Crescent Crew family and associates, who occupied the whole right side of the coliseum. There were nearly 500 soldiers and associates in the building to see their leader away, and they wouldn’t accept anyone eulogizing their god except Qwess.
“I know, baby, but all these people here . . . they didn’t know Reece like that,” Lisa pointed out as she craned her slender neck to look around the room. “I mean, they’re vultures and opportunists.”
“For sure,” Qwess agreed. He shrugged. “That’s what they’re here for, but I have to do me regardless, so here goe
s.”
Qwess rose and adjusted his Cartier glasses. Slowly, methodically, he ascended to the podium and surveyed the room before him. There were easily more than 2,000 people in attendance, a mini concert. These days Qwess would get upward of $100,000 to entertain a crowd this size. But today he wasn’t here to entertain. He was here to celebrate a life.
To the back of Qwess was a huge screen stretching the length of the wall. On the screen was a montage of Reece’s life playing on repeat. Qwess turned and watched the screen as he gathered his thoughts. Each slide evoked a different memory of his brother. There were pictures of Reece in the early days of the Crew, posing in front of his very first slant-nose Porsche 911. Qwess chuckled to himself as he recalled chastising Reece about his flamboyant ways. Of course Reece hadn’t listened, and the rest of the slides proved this as each image grew more and more outlandish.
The final slide marinated on the screen for a few moments, and this was the slide that encapsulated King Reece’s life the most. It was a picture of King Reece posing poolside at his mansion draped in gold and diamonds. His arm was draped around the neck of his lion cub.
The king of the concrete with the king of the jungle.
Qwess stepped to the podium, opened his mouth, and eulogized his comrade with the things that had made him a very rich man.
His words.
As Qwess gave a speech reminiscent of a hip-hop Martin Luther King, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the twin caskets below him. In the glass-topped caskets lay King Reece and his woman, Katrina Destiny Hill.
Destiny, the woman who had been the Achilles heel in King Reece’s life, was being buried with him. The decision to share the funerals nearly birthed a civil war among the Crescent Crew because the other members weren’t as forgiving as King Reece. However, Qwess and Born had flexed their power and issued an edict for them to stand down. It was an O.G. call that only one man could’ve made. The call wasn’t liked, but it was respected.
Qwess kept it simple and paid homage to the good man that King Reece was. He spoke about the good things, like how he single-handedly stimulated the economy with his generous spending and his multiple businesses. He left out the part about how he simultaneously pumped his powerful poison through the streets with his monopolization of the drug trade. He highlighted how King Reece had taken on the task of uplifting single mothers. He left out the part about his torture chamber in the country where he disciplined his adversaries. For nearly an hour, Qwess waxed poetic about his comrade, repainting the narrative of a sociopath. When he was done, he had whipped the room up into a perfect mixture of sorrow and joy. He had achieved his goal.
What Qwess couldn’t possibly have known is that King Reece’s death was the impetus for an impending mutiny that would tear down everything he had built with the Crescent Crew.
Things were about to get dirty.
Chapter 1
May 26, 2012
I-40 West, Oklahoma
Qwess downshifted to third gear and the V12 behind him roared like a lion attacking its prey. He floored the accelerator, and the Pagani Zonda R rocketed forward in the left lane of I-40, as he whizzed by other cars doing over 120 miles an hour! He was on the second to last leg of the Gumball 3000, and he was having the time of his life.
The Gumball 3000 was an annual race (disguised as a rally) that globe-trotted to different countries every year. Each year the rally grew bigger and bigger, and the locations more distant. Qwess was a regular staple on the circuit, and he especially loved the routes in Europe as they allowed him to thrash out his stable of exotic cars. Back in the day, he would bring members of his Crew along and allow them to run his cars in the rally along with him. Imagine, wild youngsters barreling through exotic locations in funny-shaped cars. However, over the years, his circle had grown considerably smaller the more successful he became.
This year the rally was being run in the good ole U.S. of A., and Qwess was rolling dolo in the Zonda. Times like this were what Qwess craved the most. His superstar status had relegated him to becoming a prisoner to fame, so whipping his supercar out in the boonies was his definition of time away from it all. He had always been a car nut, so running the rally was his idea of heaven on earth. The Gumball had stopping points along the route. At each stopping point the participants would park their cars for the night and attend lavish parties thrown by the event organizers. The stopping point for this night was in Vegas.
Qwess spotted a Mercedes SLR McLaren in his rearview challenging him. The car was bright silver and resembled a shiny bullet barreling toward his rear. Qwess pushed the Zonda into fourth gear and floored it. The engine wailed like only a V-twizzy could and the car leaped from 130 to 160 in a millisecond. But the SLR was right there with him every step of the way.
Suddenly, the SLR pulled up beside him at 160 miles per hour, and the tinted window glided down. Qwess’s eyes darted from the road to the window easing down. He tried to make out the driver of the half-million-dollar machine, but all he could see was long blond hair whipping in the wind. Her jeweled hand waved at him, and that was all he could see before his superior machine pulled away, leaving the SLR in the dust.
In his rearview Qwess saw a bloodred Lamborghini Aventador catching up to him. The car was moving so fast it was nearly invisible as it drew up beside him. Qwess’s top was peeled back in the Zonda, so the occupants of the Lambo could see him clearly. However, the Lambo was tinted out as black as midnight. Qwess figured it was probably a sheikh from the Middle East or one of their heirs starstruck from seeing a bona fide mogul in the flesh. Qwess decided to put on for the spectator. He cranked the audio up to the max and allowed an unreleased track to bleed out into the air as he revved the engine on the Zonda. The Aventador revved its engine and matched Qwess bar for bar, and the two V12s made a beautiful melody out on the road.
Suddenly, the Aventador swerved into Qwess’s lane, nearly sideswiping him. He stomped on the brake and recovered just in time to read the license plate of the Aventador.
It read: Diamante!
Qwess fumed as he readjusted the Zonda along with his mood. However, this was his time and he wasn’t going to allow anything to dampen his mood. He retrieved a freshly rolled joint and slowed down to fire it up. The wind whipping through the luxury confines of the car was making his task difficult. (Because Qwess wasn’t really a smoker it took him a while to learn he had to cup the flame, but he eventually got it.) Once his mission was complete, he dropped the throttle and sped off into the desert.
Destination: Las Vegas.
* * *
The MGM Grand was Ground Zero for the most lavish party of the Gumball. Over 10,000 people from all over the world packed into one large building was turning into a movie. Texas oil tycoons mingled with Middle Eastern oil barons. Athletes partied with rock stars. Models partied with gold diggers—well, they were actually one and the same.
With entry into the Gumball costing nearly $100,000, it was more than just a rally. It was actually a worldwide networking event for the ultra-rich. The parties in each city every night after the conclusion of the day’s events were full of wheeling and dealing, lewd, lascivious acts, and overall fun. The Gumball was the next level of the game.
Qwess was escorted into the party with only his right-hand man and personal protector, Hulk, leading the way. Hulk was one of the few remaining members of the Crescent Crew. He had been Qwess’s bodyguard when Qwess ruled the streets at the helm of the Crescent Crew and he had clung to his side as Qwess forayed into the music industry. Hulk’s loyalty was unparalleled and without question. He lived for Qwess and would quickly die for him too. In fact, Hulk’s twin brother, Samson, was pulling time for Qwess at the moment.
“Damn, this party is all that,” Hulk yelled over the Pharrell track quaking the room, as he escorted Qwess to their perch high above everyone so they could have a bird’s eye view of everything.
Qwess was sauced up on his walk up. He was rich-casual and cool in ripped, distressed denim jeans,
Giuseppe Zanotti sneakers and a white satin button up with the top flayed open. He flicked the Richard Mille on his wrist as he nodded to his comrade.
“Absolutely, my brother. Absolutely. This is what it’s about, working hard and playing harder.”
“Damn right!” Hulk agreed.
Qwess took a spot at the tabletop and bobbed his head to the music. He was allowing himself to get lost in the vibe. Losing his best friend, King Reece, forced him to put things in perspective. He had the world and never paused enough to enjoy it. Since King Reece’s untimely death he made a vow to himself to do better.
Qwess scanned the room, and something caught his attention on one of the dance floors. A woman with a blond streak of hair was bobbing up and down, flinging wildly, having a grand time. Qwess’s eyes followed south past the mane of hair and drank in all of her curves, stuffed tastefully inside a peach bodysuit. Her light skin glowed beneath the kaleidoscope of lights streaming through the room. As if she felt him observing her, she spun around and locked eyes with Qwess. They smiled in unison, and she began teasing him, writhing her body seductively, rubbing her curves, arching her back like a cat in heat.
Qwess licked his lips and sipped his drink as he enjoyed the tease. He tapped Hulk to allow him to share in the show. After all, it wasn’t no fun if the homies can’t have none. Hulk shook his head and grimaced as if her beauty was so pure it hurt him to view it. Meanwhile, the beauty continued her show.
As Qwess and Hulk watched the woman put on her show, a huge commotion erupted by the entrance. They tore their eyes away from the woman and saw a mob of people pushing their way through the crowd. As the crowd parted, a sea of men wearing all red materialized. There were no less than twenty of them in all, following lockstep behind a behemoth of a man leading the way. The man cut an intimidating presence, all height, muscle, and jewelry, the highlight of his ensemble being an impressive twenty-carat charm in the shape of a diamond draped across his chest.
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