CARTER

1

The name Shamar Carter carried weight in Florida. He wasn't the richest, but he was respected. Handsome, charismatic, and sharper than most, Shamar Sr. built his name from nothing. A businessman by nature, gangsta by necessity. He wasn't out to be king, just the king of his own world.

Unlike most, Shamar did something rare. He made it out alive.

He played the streets like chess, not checkers. Moved quietly, stacked his money, and bowed out before the DEA or a bullet caught up with him. He bought his wife, Justine, a house, left her with six figures in the bank, and kissed the streets goodbye. It wasn't glamorous, but it was enough.

But enough wasn't enough for his sons.

Shamar Jr. and Shane Carter didn't grow up poor, but they didn't grow up soft either. Their father didn't raise them in mansions, but he raised them around men, real men. Dealers, politicians, shooters, and bosses. They learned from every conversation, every visit to Shamar Sr.'s "office," and every hard lesson life taught them. Their father was the blueprint, and they studied it front to back.

Where Shamar Sr. was satisfied with "enough," his sons wanted more.

Shamar Jr., the eldest, had a mind for numbers. Calculating, patient, and always thinking three steps ahead, he was the quiet storm. He could flip a dollar legal or illegal, it didn't matter to him. If it made money, it made sense.

Then there was Shane.

Shane was the wild card. Fire to his brother's ice. He was reckless, callous, and had the kind of charm that could get you in the front door. But his temper would blow the house down. If Shamar Jr. negotiated the deals, Shane enforced them. His name carried weight in rooms his face had never even been in. When people spoke about him, they didn't call him a businessman. They called him a problem.

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The smell of smoke hit Shamar Sr. as soon as he stepped inside Shane's apartment. The view was as flashy as his son. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Miami Beach, water sparkling like glass. Everything about it screamed "look at me."

He shook his head. Same mistakes, different generation.

Rounding the corner, he saw Shane leaned up against the kitchen counter, lips buried in the neck of some girl who giggled like he told her she was the only one. She wasn't. Shamar knew that much.

He cleared his throat. Loud.

Shane's eyes flicked toward him, his face immediately hardening. Unimpressed.

"What you doin' here?" he asked, his voice sharp. He didn't like people showing up unannounced. Not even his father.

"I need to talk to you," Shamar Sr. said, already walking toward the balcony like it was his house. He knew his son would follow.

"You couldn't call?" Shane muttered as he pushed off the counter, irritation in every step.

"Balcony," was all Shamar Sr. said. His tone was final.

Shane glanced back at the girl still flouncing around his kitchen, then followed. As they stepped outside, the breeze hit them both. Warm, humid, carrying the salt of the ocean. The skyline shimmered in the distance.

For a moment, father and son stood there quietly, watching the world below like kings looking over their kingdom. One king old, one king rising.

"You and Shamar know what y'all getting yourselves into?" Shamar Sr. asked, hands in his pockets, eyes forward.

Shane frowned. "What kinda question is that?"

"The kind you need to think about," his father replied, turning to face him. "There's a reason I stopped when I did. Once you cross a certain tax bracket, eyes start following you. People you don't want seein' you start seein' you. And after that, it only ends one of two ways . Dead, or in prison for the rest of the time you got left."

Shane tilted his head, already tired of the conversation. "Where you stopped ain't good enough for me," he said, honest and sharp like a blade.

Shamar Sr. raised his eyebrows, taken aback. "The fuck you mean?" His voice got hard, defensive. "When I retired, your mama's house was paid for. She had over a hundred grand in the bank, and I was punchin' my own clock. You call that not good enough?"

"No disrespect, Pop," Shane said, keeping his voice even but firm. "You did your thing, and I respect it. Me and Mar wouldn't be here without you. But I'm not tryna stop where you stopped." He leaned in a little, hands on the balcony rail. "My wife ain't gon' work. My kids ain't gon' see a public school. They gon' have trust funds. My grandkids gon' eat off what I built. No disrespect, but that's where I'm tryin' to stop."

Shamar Sr. stared at him, his jaw tight. Then he chuckled. It wasn't a happy laugh, more like disappointment wrapped in disbelief.

"Where you tryin' to stop? Your grave?"

Shane didn't answer right away. He just stood there, tapping his finger on the rail, staring out at the ocean like it had all the answers.

"You think I plan on dyin'?" he finally said, his voice low.

"Nobody plans on dyin'," his father shot back. "But everybody does."

A pause hung in the air like smoke after a gunshot.

Shamar Sr. sighed and shook his head. They weren't gonna listen. They were grown now. They weren't boys he could scold or control. So he did what most fathers do when they can't protect their sons from themselves. He gave them what he could.

"The shipment's comin' in tomorrow," he muttered, his voice full of defeat.

Shane nodded, his eyes still on the horizon. "We'll be there."

For a moment, Shamar Sr. looked at his son, really looked at him. Same walk. Same eyes. Same mistakes waiting to be made. He glanced at the girl through the glass, her body swaying as she flipped pancakes in his son's kitchen like she belonged there.

"Word of advice," Shamar Sr. said, tilting his head toward her. "Watch them girls. They fun to look at, fun to lay up with, but they can ruin you faster than a fed case. One threat, one year on the table, and she'll fold quicker than you can call a lawyer. They here for your money, not for you. Don't be stupid."

Shane smirked, his eyes following his father's to the girl inside. Beautiful nightmare. He knew it.

Shamar Sr. shook his head. Same mistakes, different generation.

He didn't say another word as he slid the balcony door open and left his son behind.