Family Over Everything

by Paige Green

  As they walked toward one of Jewels’ major drug houses, he looked over at Menace and said, “Here we go, bro. You sure you ready?”

  “I was born ready. Let’s do this.”

  As they approached the back door of the house they were targeting, they saw a small group of hustlers dressed in all black, guarding it. Jewels’ watchmen stood on high alert and carried huge shotguns, on the lookout for anything suspicious.

  Hiding behind a bush, they squatted down and pulled out their guns. Taking a deep breath, Day’onne nodded to Menace before standing to his feet, raising his .9mm and pulling the trigger. When one of the workers fell to the ground, both of them stepped from behind the bushes and continued to fire their weapons.

  Caught off-guard by the sudden attack, the small group was too slow to retaliate. The bullets were coming at them fast and each person was dropping like flies.

  Day’onne and Menace continued to fire at them until each and every one of them were down. Moving closer to the door, they looked at the bodies they’d riddled with bullets. Neither felt any remorse as they pumped more bullets into them, making sure they were permanently silenced.

  Walking into the drug house, both of them stayed low on their feet with their guns raised.

  “Yo, Cash, is that you?” one of Jewels’ workers, Vince, asked before taking a long pull of his blunt.

  Vince, who’d been one of Jewels’ workers for a couple of years, sat at a table smoking and drinking. He was too drunk to notice the two young thugs in front of him. Day’onne aimed his gun at him and pulled the trigger.

  Brain matter and blood splattered everywhere on Day’onne and Menace, causing their stomachs to turn. Ignoring the blood, though, they then placed their guns into their hoodies, pulled the duffle bags from over their shoulders, and started to stuff anything they could possibly lay their hands on, into the bags. They packed everything from stacks of money, to cocaine bricks into the duffle bags until they were filled to capacity. Once they were done, they turned to leave until they heard someone running down the basement steps.

  “What the fuck is going on, man?” Vince’s best friend, Cash, yelled.

  Startled by the sudden outburst, Day’onne and Menace threw the duffle bags over their shoulders and ran out of the back door. As Day’onne ran out of the basement, he didn’t notice his .9mm fall out of his hoodie’s pocket.

  Before Cash could grasp the situation, Day’onne and Menace had already disappeared into the hot, summery night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My struggles,

  A young black man misunderstood and judged because of the color of my skin.

  My struggles,

  Build up pain and blinded by rage.

  My struggles,

  Blind insanity, imagining perfect pictures of my family and I,

  But it isn’t perfect at all.

  My struggles,

  The simple understanding of not knowing my struggles,

  So you couldn’t understand my hunger for success.

  My drive.

  Determination.

  My struggles,

  Northview Heights.

  The place where I was born and raised.

  The place where I endured my hurt.

  Pain.

  My struggles,

  The place where I saw too many things happen beyond my young age.

  My struggles,

  Northview Heights.

  The place where I had millions of memories that could make or break me.

  My struggles . . .

  Deion sat at his desk at school, writing in his journal. He reread the short poem he had just written, slightly dissatisfied. He had spent all afternoon trying hard to come up with the best scenario to start a novel, but it was to no avail.

  “Mr. Jenkins, what do you have there that is so important for you not to pay attention in class?” Deion’s tenth-grade literature teacher, Ms. Younger, asked, folding her arms across her chest and raising her eyebrows.

  Deion glanced around the classroom, noticing he was the only student left.

  He was so drawn in by his writing, he didn’t notice that the bell had rung.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Younger. I was . . .”

  “Let me take a look at that,” she said before grabbing the notebook off of his desk and interrupting him. Deion watched as she silently read the poem to herself. Ms. Younger was a Caucasian, short woman with piercing blue eyes. She had long brown hair that was cut into professional layers. As she delicately held his notebook in her hands, like it was an infant, he continued to gaze at her, loving the sight of her smooth, white skin.

  When she closed his notebook, he asked with concern, “What? You don’t like it?”

  Remaining silent, Ms. Younger bent down next to him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, giving him a hug. “Wow, Mr. Jenkins! You have a gift! Where did you learn how to write like that?”

  Side-eyeing her, he skeptically replied, “I don’t know. But you really liked it?”

  “Yes! You need a bit of work and practice, but you’re definitely on your way. I’m very impressed, Deion.”

  Her words caused him to flash a bright smile.

  “Thank you. I’m trying to write a book, but I can’t. It’s too hard.” He shrugged.

  Stepping in front of his desk and kneeling down, she grabbed Deion by his arm and glanced into his eyes. “Never say you can’t do something, young man. You can do it. I refuse to believe that the sky is the limit when there are footprints on the moon. Deion, God has blessed you with an amazing gift and in due time, you can let the world know. For you to be this young and writing like this, imagine how talented you’ll be years from now.”

  “You’re right but where do I begin, Ms. Younger? How can I write a book?”

  Tapping her freshly manicured nails against her slim chin, she snapped her fingers. “If you stay three days a week after school, I can help you.”

  Nodding, he stood up and thanked her.

  “You have to promise me a few things, Deion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’ll try your best and don’t let that brother of yours influence your decisions.”

  “I promise, Ms. Younger. I promise,” he said before walking out of the classroom.

  When Deion walked into the cafeteria, he pulled out his music player, plugged his headphones into his ears and got lost in the ballistic lyrics Tupac spat to him. He bobbed his head to the music as he opened his notebook and went to work. He wrote and wrote and wrote.

  The loud, obnoxious teenagers around him didn’t faze him at all. He blocked out his surroundings and got lost into the imaginary world of his writing, making love to the paper with his pen. He allowed all of the pain he had built up in his heart to pour out onto the paper. Just as he was finishing his poem, he felt someone tap him on his back.

  “What’s up, bro?” sixteen-year-old Jarell asked as he took a seat next to him.

  Taking the headphones out of his ears, he gave him a hand dap. Jarell, who was a light-skinned kid, was the only person Deion talked to in and out of school. Like Deion, Jarell had been born and raised in Northview and had his own life story behind it. In many ways, Deion and Jarell were alike but Jarell, on the other hand, sold drugs.

  “Nothing; what’s up with you, though? Still working those blocks?” Deion chuckled.

  “Yeah, you know. I got to get this money, my man. That’s what you need to be doing, too, instead of walking around here wearing them same basketball shorts and T-shirts.”

  Ever since they’d met two years prior, Jarell had been trying his best to get Deion to start hustling, but he’d refused.

  “Man, how long have you been trying to get me to hustle? You know I can’t do that.”

  “Shit, I don’t see why not, bro. Look at what I got on, and look at you,” Jarell said before pointing at Deion’s usual wardrobe.

  Jarell, who was dressed in a pair of crisp Levi’s jeans, all-black Chuck Taylor sneakers,
and an all-black Levi’s shirt, was dressed to impress. Though he made enough money to help his mother with the bills, he always made sure he set enough money to the side occasionally for him to put nice clothing on his own back.

  “Nope, I’m good,” Deion said nonchalantly.

  “I’m not gon’ give up on asking you, so be prepared.” He laughed before getting up to leave.

  As Deion watched Jarell walk away, he couldn’t help but think of the day they’d first met two years ago . . .

  It was a cold, winter night and thirteen-year-old Deion walked through the neighborhood, his head held low and tears seeping down his face. He was dressed in a thick leather jacket, a pair of blue jeans, and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. The only things that were missing were his shoes. He placed his hands over the fresh scratches that decorated his face as he continued to walk home. Nervous and feeling defeated, he noticed a light-skinned boy on the corner of Hazlet Street staring a hole through him. He continued to walk with his head held low, praying to God that the boy wouldn’t jump on him, either.

  “Yo, come here!” the young boy said, waving his hands at Deion.

  Deion, who didn’t want any trouble, followed his command, quickly walking over to him. He was on the brink of tears as snot fell freely from his nose.

  “What’s up with you? Where your shoes at, man?” the light-skinned dude asked, glancing at Deion in pure pity.

  “They took them,” Deion said, in a low, nervous voice.

  “Who took them? Why you let them take your shoes?”

  “They jumped me and took my shoes!” Deion said, pointing at a group of boys that were down the street.

  “Hold up, we gon’ get your shoes back.”

  Gripping his handgun in his pocket, the boy walked behind Deion as he led him to the group of kids that had stolen his shoes. When they approached them, the leader of the crew, Terrence, stepped up to Deion and the light-skinned boy.

  “Is there a fucking problem?” Terrence asked, flaring his nose and sticking out his chest.

  The light-skinned boy laughed hysterically. He could see right through Terrence’s little act.

  Pulling out his gun and pointing it directly at Terrence, he said, “Where my homie’s shoes at? Who the fuck got his shoes?”

  The once rowdy group of boys went completely silent. Terrence’s legs buckled as he tried not to urinate on himself.

  Quickly kicking the shoes off of his feet, he picked the shoes up off the ground and handed them to Deion. Without warning, the young, light-skinned boy slammed his fist into Terrence’s cheek, knocking him to the ground.

  “Pick on someone your own fucking size!” he said, spitting on him.

  Now grinning from ear to ear, young Deion quickly put his shoes on and said, “Good looking out.”

  “No worries, I got your back. Don’t let these little dudes punk you, man. What’s your name?”

  “Deion. And yours?”

  “They call me Rell, but you can call me Jarell.”

  When school was finally over, Deion hopped onto the school bus and sat at the front of the bus before plugging his headphones back into his ears. When he noticed a young girl, Shay, get on the bus, his heart almost fluttered. He looked into her gray eyes, hypnotized by her beauty. Shay stood at five-foot-three and was a redbone. She had jet-black, naturally curly hair that she usually wore in a slick ponytail. With her mesmerizing dark gray eyes, bodacious physique, and fierce personality, Shay had a lot of boys wrapped around her young fingers.

  She took a seat across from Deion and he tried his best to muster up the courage to talk to her, but he couldn’t. She only went for the hustlers, who were pushing luxury cars, reeked of money, and fancy homes—none of which Deion had.

  Removing his headphones from his ears, he discreetly eavesdropped on Shay and her best friend, Cherry’s, conversation.

  “Yeah, girl, you know somebody robbed Jewels’ stash spot yesterday?” Cherry said before running her hands through her red hair.

  “Jewels? That dude paid! Who robbed him, though?”

  Shrugging her shoulders, Cherry replied, “I don’t know. But word is Jewels got some change on their heads.”

  “Whoever did it is bold as hell!” Shay laughed. “Shit, speaking of Jewels, I meant to get his number a minute ago.”

  “You sick, girl. He’s old enough to be your dad!” Cherry said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Oh well! Got to get it how I live!”

  Deion plugged his headphones back in, soaking up all the information he’d heard.

  From the nervous feeling that arose in his stomach, he figured something wasn’t right. But little did he know, he’d soon find out.

  “Alright, we got over fifty grand in cash, and a hundred grand worth of cocaine-bricks,” Menace said before placing the money back into the duffle bags.

  The duo was posted up in Deion and Day’onne’s bedroom, counting the money they’d stolen from Jewels two nights prior. Ever since they’d murdered Jewels’ workers and robbed him, they had stayed low-key. The streets were already buzzing about the robbery and they’d heard about the hit Jewels had on the perpetrators’ heads.

  “Alright, so where do we begin with this shit? We cooking this up, bagging it, and selling it ourselves? Or are we getting us a little team we can trust?” Day’onne asked.

  “And where the fuck can we find us a team? We only got each other. We can’t trust anyone with this shit. We hot as hell! We robbed this dude blind; we can’t trust anyone!” Menace growled.

  Day’onne nodded his head.

  He knew they had to find a way to start up shop on the block, gain some drug addicts, and finally start making that real money by themselves.

  “Well, then—”

  “Where did y’all get all this money?” Deion asked, barging into the bedroom and interrupting their conversation.

  Day’onne and Menace looked up at Deion, scowling at him before placing the rest of the product into the duffle bags and pushing it under Day’onne’s bed.

  “Mind your fucking business,” Day’onne spat, standing up.

  “What do you mean, mind my business? Where the hell you get all that money from? I hope y’all didn’t go out there and rob anybody!” Deion barked.

  Menace laughed as he looked Deion up and down. He didn’t have any respect for Deion. He thought he was soft. Deion wasn’t cold-hearted like the two of them and he didn’t like it at all.

  “Man, don’t your soft ass got homework to do? Why you worried about us?” Menace asked.

  “At least I’m in school, with y’all dumb-asses. Now, answer my question, man. Where y’all get that money from?”

  “Nigga, don’t be coming up in here asking questions and shit. Mind your fucking business like we told you,” Day’onne said, fixing his nose up in disgust.

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Deion ran out of the room in frustration.

  “Why your brother such a bitch?”

  “Man, fuck him. But anyway, back to this money talk. When and where we gon’ set up shop?”

  “We’ll figure that out soon,” Menace said. “Let’s worry about laying low for a while, now. We hot, so we got to watch our every move, understand?”

  “Yeah, you right,” Day’onne said, nodding. He snapped his finger as if he had a sudden thought. “Aye, did you see my gun?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thirty-year-old Jewels Mitchell stared out the oversized window of the club he owned, Club 412, taking a long pull from his Cuban cigar. He was dressed in an all-black Armani double-breasted designer suit with gray cuff links. His face and head were neatly shaven to perfection, giving him a clean, professional look. With his round, stocky build and dark, black-blue skin, people always jokingly called him the Notorious B.I.G., even though his reputation was much bigger. Jewels had been in the drug game for over a decade now, and he’d seen and done more things than he could remember. Even though he came from a family of hustlers, he not only had more power than
the rest of them, but he was also smarter.

  When he was around the age of sixteen, he watched his own father get murdered right in front of his very young eyes.

  Jewels’ father, Mitch, was a drug kingpin back in the ’70s, when the drug game was really on the rise. Mitch had taught Jewels everything he knew about this industry at the tender age of ten, which made Jewels not only intelligent, but also quick on his feet. As he got older and wiser, he stayed in the shadows, watching everyone’s moves and mistakes, silently learning from them. He wanted to make sure when he stepped in the game, he was always two steps ahead of the next man. By the time he was twenty years old, he and his right hand, Respect, started to sell drugs. They had their own team, consisting of two other people, Loyal and Wise, and did their own thing. Jewels wanted to make sure he kept his team small; the more intimate his circle was the better.

  He’d seen too many people end up either dead or behind bars from having big circles and having that one disloyal member. With his small team, he was fine. As he got older and the game got deeper, he found himself not needing to work the blocks. By the time he was twenty-three, he had touched over a million dollars.

  He invested in a club that sat in the heart of Downtown Pittsburgh, naming it Club 412. When he turned twenty-five, he had his team work for him, allowing them to keep money in their pockets and food in not only their mouths, but also their families’. He tried his best to be seldom seen or heard, by any means necessary.

  “Did any of you find any info on who did this?” Jewels finally asked, turning to face his team.

  He had called a meeting with his small partners on the particular events that had taken place two nights earlier. Ever since he had gotten the call from Cash, about someone not only robbing him, but killing his watchmen, too, Jewels was appalled.

  Not once, since stepping into the game, had someone been this bold to rob and kill his workers. Granted, people tried to step to him before, but after making an example out of a couple of people back in the day, many people knew what time it was when it came down to Jewels. The events that had taken place a couple days ago were the most horrendous in all of his years of hustling.