Family Over Everything (6 page)

“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?”

T
hirty-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.

There in the middle of his office sat Loyal, Wise, and Respect, the same people who'd come up in the game with Jewels.

“Nope,” Wise said, as he started to massage his goatee. “My workers trying their best to find the people that were involved,
but no one doesn't know anything, yet. I still can't believe somebody was brazen enough to do this. Now we got to bury all of these workers and send their mothers black dresses.”

“They still don't got word on who did it, but they did find a gun in the basement,” Respect said in his low, raspy voice.

Respect, who was a light-skinned, handsome older man who resembled Shemar Moore, sat in his seat, head held high, silently ready for some action. He had sandy brown hair that was cut into a low fade, full lips, and a broad nose.

“A gun? How's that going to help? What you want me to do, take fingerprints?” Jewels spat.

Removing a pair of latex hand gloves from his pockets, Loyal removed the handgun from a briefcase and slid it in front of Respect. Looking at the gold-plated .9mm with an “L” carved on the handle, Jewels shook his head in disbelief.

“No, boss. Who's the only person up the hood that sells guns? And look at that ‘L' that's carved into that shit!” Loyal said.

“Isn't it that cat, Looney?” Jewels asked. “Carving shit into a gun? How dumb could these young cats get?”

Wise spoke up. “The only way we'd find out is if we pay Looney a visit.”