When Serenity Silver got released from jail, she only had one main priority to get what she lost and with how the game was going now, she needed help from the women who knew her the most, her sisters. As all four women show the life of hard working...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Damn, where the hell is Yabba? I've got places to be, man," I complained, standing behind the steering wheel of the stolen van we had acquired from a local dry cleaner in the hood, specifically for this occasion.
One of the guys jumped into the back of the van and hastily slid the door shut.
"Go! Go! Go!" he yelled, urging me to drive before the damn feds sealed off the entire block.
"Shit, man," one of the other guys muttered, and I shook my head in disappointment. I didn't even know why I agreed to take these damn liabilities with me. This whole situation could have been avoided, but someone felt these guys needed training. In my eyes, the streets weren't some upscale job where you received training. We didn't train; we threw you out on the field and you better hope you came out on top. It was a kill-or-be-killed world out here. This operation was too big for a mere "training exercise" in the first place, but whatever the man said was done. I had no control over it.
"Yeah, O, we got them. Yeah, that nigga's dead," my cousin Real spoke into the phone with excitement and happiness evident on his face, proud of his first kill. But all I felt was disappointment. I had taught my baby cousin more than that. Growing up on my own in this dog-eat-dog world, my mother arrived from Haiti with just five dollars to her name. Not a single person in the family let us in except for her sister, Rachel, who was also Real's mother. I felt obligated to take care of Real because he was just a kid. When the hood was hungry, it devoured anyone in its path. By the time I turned fourteen, my mother and aunt were victims of the drug epidemic. It felt like everyone knew who the fuck our mothers were. They were selling their bodies for a hit, and when overdose finally struck, I became the man of the house, taking care of a mere ten-year-old Real, shielding him from child services and protecting myself from deportation.
The streets beckoned me at fifteen, and ever since, the world appeared different to me. They said I was engulfed in Woo, which was voodoo in these Miami streets, but I considered it a stroke of lucky-ass Voodoo and claimed the name Bam Bam. After my mother and aunt were killed, I sought out every drug dealer on the block, eliminating them without remorse. Little did I know that one of those dealers was an undercover cop. From that point on, I embraced the fast-paced world of survival, killing to avoid being killed, and dealing the finest merchandise. I never wanted Real to be part of this life because he was still young, but he eventually turned against my back and went after the likes of Ocean once he turned eighteen.
"Yo, where's Yabba?" Real asked, and I spotted the police speeding by, causing me to grip the wheel tightly and lay low as the sirens made me slightly paranoid. I knew better than to smoke that loud before this shit went down.
"Cuz, didn't you hear me? Where the fuck is Yabba?"
I shook my head in disappointment. I had raised the issue earlier, but no one gave a damn. All they cared about was getting the fuck out and living to tell the story in the hood. Yabba was just a young kid trying to make a name for himself in the hood, but he got caught up too quickly.
