“Fa sho,” Tank smiled. “I’m gonna finish handling some stuff out here, and then I’ma hit you in a few. I’ll get you the paperwork to sign and all that shit.”

  “A’ight. Cool.”

  They dapped up once more before Leo left. Tank was ready. Getting this artist to sign with him was money in the bank. He was ready to go party and celebrate after getting Leo. But he had to handle something first.

  He looked around and noticed the streets were significantly quiet. He turned and walked up the path to the house in front of him. He was at one of his traps about to take care of a small problem.

  Walking inside, he watched as niggas sat around chopping it up. Then when they saw him come through, they stood and tried to act like they were busy.

  “Ay, Polo, where Fendi and that nigga D?” he asked, walking over to one of the workers.

  “Down in the basement,” Polo told him, nodding toward the door.

  “A’ight. Will and Brick, y’all stay up here,” Tank instructed. “The rest of y’all niggas come with me.”

  They followed Tank down the basement stairs where Fendi was leaning up against the wall on his phone. Fendi was his boy and the only nigga that he trusted when it came to his shit.

  “Yo,” Tank said, walking up on him.

  Fendi ended his call and turned to greet his boy. “What up, though?” he said.

  “Ain’t shit.”

  No one was paying them any mind. Everyone’s focus was on the nigga that was hanging by his hands in the middle of the room.

  Tank knew who he was. His name was Draco. He had been a problem for Tank for quite some time. He thought he was a boss and could make moves without permission, but he was nowhere near where Tank was. Unfortunately, Draco didn’t take Tank’s warning and had set up some of his boys, had a few of his traps hit, and had popped one of his young boys to challenge him.

  Tank saw that as more than a challenge. He would send a message to everyone who fucked with him and tried to step out of their lane. He was going to get rid of Draco altogether.

  He looked at the bleeding fat man in front of him.

  “Big Draco,” he laughed. “Now, how did you end up in this situation?”

  Of course, Draco couldn’t respond because he had a rag stuffed in his mouth. His clothes were bloody and torn, and his left eye was swollen shut.

  “I warned you. No, I told you,” Tank said stone-faced. “Didn’t I?”

  He suddenly turned to everybody else in the basement. “Didn’t I?” he barked.

  He heard an array of responses and went back to staring at Draco for a few moments.

  “You know, you remind me of a nigga that I didn’t like when I was growing up,” he said, thinking about how Kevin picked on him when he was younger. “That nigga was cocky just like you. He walked around acting like he was the shit, acting like he couldn’t be touched. But he underestimated me, just like you did.”

  A lot of folks, unfortunately, made that mistake. But Tank was no longer that young little boy anymore. Now, he was this man, Martaveous Young. He was a music producer. He was a manager. He was an entrepreneur. Tank now stood six foot three and was a lot heavier than he had been as a kid. He’d spent years fighting other kids and some adults, trying to fend for himself and keep himself alive. He lost a lot of fights, but he damn sure won a lot too. With every fight, he was stronger. With every fight, he was quicker.

  But today, he was Tank. And if you knew him as Tank, then yo’ ass was in trouble. Tank preferred to be on his legit shit as much as possible, but every now and then, somebody had to bring out that nigga, and today, it was, unfortunately, Draco.

  Tank had gone from being a scrawny, little, dark-skinned boy to the chocolate man that the same girls that used to pick on him and ignore him were now throwing themselves at him. And Miami definitely offered many choices. He would bust down any bitch he wanted. Everything was at his disposal.

  “I want y’all to pay attention to this,” he demanded, looking at the six or seven people in the room. He pulled the rag out of Draco’s mouth. “I told you I was coming for you, muthafucka. You talked big shit, but look at you now.”

  Draco smirked and started laughing, spitting everywhere.

  “You ain’t what you think you are, muthafucka,” he growled.

  Tank had to give him credit. He was going to ride this shit out to the end. But he knew that nigga was scared. The piss stains on the front of his pants proved that.

  “See, you right about that.” Tank nodded. “I’m not what I think I am. I’m what you think I am.” He stepped closer to Draco so he could hear every word Tank was about to speak. “And you think I’m that nigga that’s gonna go after your whole family. Your mama who live up in Wynnwood. Yeah. Go to her house and slit her throat in the middle of the night. Your sister, who’s off in Atlanta right now in school? Yeah, that’s gonna be really easy for me to get to her. I don’t know. I might have somebody murk her ass right there on campus. Then ya baby mama? The half-Asian bitch, Nomaki? Yeah, she a bad muthafucka too. Nice shape. Phat ass. And she got them pretty lips. Damn, bruh. How the hell you pull her?”

  Draco was shook as hell. He went from being hard and cold to shivering like a little bitch. Tank was enjoying it.

  “Yeah, I think I’m gonna save her for last,” he nodded. “I’ma go over there and give her some good ole comfort. See how the pussy work. Bust in her mouth, and then while she sucking me off, blow her damn brains out. Then go see that little mutt of yours. If you wasn’t about to fucking die, I’d tell you to find out who the real daddy is ’cause, nigga, that baby don’t look shit like you. Shit, he a cute kid. I don’t know, man. She clearly was with you for money,” he said, looking over Draco.

  He was a fat muthafucka. If the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man were dipped in caramel, it would be Draco.

  “Yeah, I am what you thought I would be,” he smiled, again enjoying the fear that was in Draco’s eyes. “See,” he turned to the men, “that’s how you do that shit. If you want a nigga to really fear you, then you go after the entire family.” He pulled out his cell phone and looked at the time. “Fendi, go ahead and handle that.”

  Fendi nodded a few seconds later and pulled a FaceTime call up on his iPhone. Then he walked in front of Draco, holding it for him to see.

  “Yo, what the fuck?” Draco yelled, trying to shake himself loose, which was pointless.

  Draco was looking at his mother lying in a pool of blood. He was squirming and trying to get free, but it was impossible.

  “Oh, there’s more,” Tank laughed.

  Fendi once again went through his phone and held it up for Draco to see pictures of his sister lying on the ground on her back with her eyes staring vacantly at the sky.

  “You muthafucka,” Draco cried.

  “Now, that’s how you do that shit,” Tank told everyone in the room watching. “You go for the jugular. You do that shit, and muthafuckas will never cross you again.”

  Everyone in the room stood quietly. They knew that it was crazy. Draco was dangling and babbling incoherently.

  “Come on, man,” he begged.

  “C’mon, what?” Tank leaned in.

  “Yo, I’ll just leave,” Draco offered. “But please leave my baby mama and my son alone. I can get you your money back. I’ll get you double. Triple,” he bargained. “C’mon, man . . . Just let me go. I need to be with my son.”

  “Calm down,” Tank eased. “It’s gonna be all right. He ain’t gon’ remember you much longer.” He leaned in and whispered in his ear. “But don’t worry. I’ll make sure your bitch is calling me daddy.”

  He stepped back, and Draco, defeated, dropped his head. He already knew that Tank was a man of his word. Anything that he said was going to happen—it did. Nobody made a move without his permission.

  “Tyson, come here,” Tank said.

  One of the boys in the room walked up, and Tank put his arm around his shoulder.

  “I want you to have a little bit of fun with this one,” he told him. “After all, this nigga killed your brother.”

  Draco had, in fact, ordered the hit on Tyson, and in the process, his little brother was killed. Tyson was 19 and reminded Tank a lot of himself. So he figured why not let him have some fun and dead that nigga.

  Tyson nodded, and everyone took a step back. The next thing everybody knew, Tyson pulled a gun and plugged his ass.

  “Damn,” Tank mumbled.

  He wasn’t expecting Tyson to do that, but he wasn’t mad at it either. Draco’s body was now dangling lifelessly, and everybody in the room was satisfied. Tank started to walk off, shouting out orders as he went.

  “I want this nigga’s territory completely covered. Today! Every fucking trap that he got, you run up on that shit.”

  Everybody agreed, and Tank headed up the stairs to leave.

  He was going to keep his promise and go see Nomaki. He went outside and hopped in his tanked-out Beamer, a smirk on his face as he whipped through the streets looking at his surroundings. The same streets that made it hard for him were now the streets that he took over. He’d come a long way from foster care.

  Chapter Four

  1995

  “Martaveous, get your narrow Tank ass down here and clean up this goddamn kitchen, boy. I told you that when you was finished eating that you needed to get in here and wash these dishes, sweep the floors, and mop. You got trash all over my muthafuckin’ floor.”

  “That wasn’t me,” Martaveous yelled from his room. “That was Zi.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn who it was. Get your ass down here now.”

  Martaveous sighed, sliding the Game Boy under his pillow and getting up to go downstairs. He knew some bullshit was about to go down. Mrs. Banks, his foster mother, blamed him for everything that happened in the house, whether he did it or not. Fuck the fact that she had two sons that were basically Tasmanian devils. If anything went wrong, he was to blame.

  “Hurry the fuck up,” she screamed.

  He jogged down the stairs to see the large and slightly funky light-skinned woman. She yoked him up as soon as he made it downstairs, snatching him at the back of his neck and squeezing tight.

  “Don’t you ever talk back to me again. You understand me?” she hissed.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He cringed, smelling her breath.

  She smacked him hard on the back of his head after letting him loose, and he headed toward the sink filled with dishes.

  “And you better make sure that you wash them dishes good,” she fussed. “Don’t be leaving food on them.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, turning on the water and starting to wash the dishes.

  Mrs. Banks stomped off into her bedroom to run her mouth on the phone as usual. She made him sick. She was big, loud, and burly. What made it worse was that she had this real thin mustache. If it weren’t for the fact that she had twin boys, Zi and Tyson, he would’ve been convinced that she was a man. But then again, they didn’t look much like her anyway. Truthfully, he didn’t see how she had kids, let alone a man, but she had a husband.

  He was gone all the time working as a contractor and would come home a week at a time every month. That was part of the reason why his ass was up cleaning the kitchen because her man would be home in a couple of days, and she wanted the house spotless.

  He didn’t like Mr. Banks either. He was the one who told her to take in some foster kids for extra money. And, of course, she did whatever he wanted. When he was around, she was a completely different person. She was friendly and happy. But the minute that he left, she was back to being a bitch.

  He could tell that she lit a cigarette because the smoke was seeping into the kitchen vents. He coughed and tried to hurry up to get back upstairs to the Game Boy that he was playing. His friend from school, Dom, let him borrow it to play. Martaveous loved video games, but he didn’t ever really have an opportunity to play like that because he was always in some other shit. So, when Dom offered, he gladly accepted. But he was nervous because he didn’t get a chance to hide it like he wanted to.

  He could hear the twins laughing at the TV in the living room, and he got frustrated. He wished that Mrs. Banks would get on them like she did him, but, of course, she wouldn’t do her own kids like shit. Just him. He was now 12 years old and had been there for almost two years. He was still being bounced around from place to place and constantly threatened with an orphanage if he couldn’t find a stable home. This was about as stable as it was going to get.

  The good thing was that he was in school. That was the best part of living there. He and Dom would sit next to each other in class and draw and talk about the latest video game or shoes or something. Dom was cool. He was really smart, but he just kind of played it off so he wouldn’t draw attention to himself. Martaveous was smart too. He would spend the day doing his work and enjoy the few hours of peace he had, but as soon as he came home, it was back to chaos.

  He shared a room with Zi and Tyson, so he never got a moment’s peace. But for the most part, he could handle himself. He had shot up a couple of inches and was tall and lanky. But, of course, Zi and Tyson were bigger than him. They were 13. Tyson really didn’t bother him as much, but Zi made it his sole purpose to irritate Martaveous.

  Martaveous had to sleep with one eye open. Literally. Every time he turned around, Zi was messing with him. He would draw on his face or wake him up, punching him. He would hide stuff from him—anything to get under his skin. Finally, he was tired of it. But he knew there was no point in telling Mrs. Banks.

  He thought about everything as he finished cleaning the kitchen. Then he looked around and made sure that everything was like she wanted it to be and got ready to head back upstairs. He wanted to get a few more minutes on the Game Boy before the twins came upstairs.

  “Ay, ugly, bring me a soda out of the fridge,” Zi called out as he started his way up.

  Martaveous was going to ignore them and keep going when their mother shuffled her big ass in the kitchen to inspect his work.

  “Boy, you heard him tell you to bring him something to drink,” she snapped, walking to the sink.

  “Why can’t you get it for his ass?” he mumbled.

  “What the fuck did you say?” she said, turning around.

  “Huh?” Martaveous jumped. “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, you better watch your damn mouth,” she snapped, “before I slap the taste out of it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He slowly walked toward the refrigerator keeping his eye on her. She tended to snatch you up quick, and he didn’t want to be in her grasp.

  He grabbed a soda and walked into the living room to give it to Zi. Mrs. Banks came barreling in, holding a pint of Rocky Road ice cream.

  “Who ate the last of my ice cream and stuck it back in the freezer?” she yelled, holding the carton up in the air.

  For once, Martaveous was happy. This time, it was going to be Zi that got in trouble. Martaveous had come downstairs a few nights before and saw Zi eating it like he didn’t have a care in the world. He knew that his mama didn’t want nobody touching her ice cream. So he was waiting on him to get in trouble for once.

  “I said, who the fuck ate all my goddamn ice cream and put the carton back in the freezer?” she repeated.

  “Martaveous did,” Zi answered, looking at him.

  Martaveous’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “Nuh-uh. I did not,” he argued.

  “Yes, you did,” Zi jumped up. “Mama, I came in here a couple of days ago, and he was standing in front of the freezer door shoving it down his mouth. I told him that if he got caught, he was gonna have to confess. And now he tryin’a sit up here and lie to you.”

  She turned around and walked over to Martaveous, who was shaking his head.

  “I didn’t do that. He’s lying. He’s the one that ate it.”

  She leaned forward, and he almost gagged at the smell of the cigarette smoke.

  “You ate my shit and then gon’ stand here and lie to my face?” she heaved. “I oughta knock you through the wall.”

  Tyson hadn’t even looked up from the TV. He was too involved in whatever was on to care. But Zi definitely was enjoying the show. He actually smiled at Martaveous behind his mother’s back.

  “Get the hell out of my face!” she yelled. “I’ll deal with yo’ ass later. I got to go pick up my check.”

  Martaveous didn’t waste any time getting upstairs. He couldn’t believe that Zi had just set him up like that. He should’ve known by how nonchalant he was. He closed the door and flopped down on his bed. Mrs. Banks was going to punish him, and he just didn’t know how. That was what was scaring him. She was going to catch him when he least expected it. She had done it so many times before. He was going to have to have his guard up.

  He got up and tiptoed to the door, cracking it to make sure nobody was outside. When he was satisfied he was alone, he rushed back to the bed and pulled the Game Boy from under the pillow. He thought about playing it but knew it would be a bad idea.

  Unzipping his backpack, he placed it inside in between a few folders. Suddenly, the door burst open, and Zi walked in. Nervous, Martaveous quickly shoved his backpack under the bed.

  “I heard Mama on the phone just now. She said you gonna clean the basement all by yourself,” he laughed.

  “Man, why you lying on me?” Martaveous whined. “I didn’t even do nothing to you.”

  “I didn’t even do nothing to you,” Zi mimicked. “Quit being a little bitch before I kick your ass. And what you hiding?” he said, walking over to him.

  “Nothing,” Martaveous lied, trying to play cool.

  Zi jumped at him, and Martaveous tried to block him, but he was too late. Zi snatched the backpack out of Martaveous’s grasp and unzipped it, finding the Game Boy.

  “Oh shit, I got a new Game Boy,” he laughed.

  “That’s not mine. That’s my friend’s, now give it back,” Martaveous pleaded, trying to grab it from him.

  Zi snatched it away and continued laughing. “Nigga, you ain’t got no friends,” he barked. “Don’t nobody like you.”