Page 21 of The Price of My Sins
My mother and I talked about everything. I never lied to her or held back anything that was going on with me. The only thing I did keep from her was my dealings with Deuce and Boston. Outside of being their driver and part-time bodyguard, I handled some illegal shit for them as well.
After earning my degree in business management, I took the leap and founded my own security company. At first, it was a modest operation, but I managed to land a few high-profile clients who required top-tier security for their events. Slowly but surely, the business grew, and I poured everything into building a reputation for reliability and excellence. Now, after years of hard work and persistence, Blackhawk Security Services stands as one of the premier security companies in New York, trusted by the city’s most influential figures.
I run a gun shop also, and both of them look clean on the surface. But I have my hands in some other shit too. Not everything I move goes through the books. If the money’s right, I make it happen.
“Okay. Whatever you say, son. Now, how’s your grandmother? Is she and your grandfather adjusting well in their new home?”
“Yeah, I dropped off some food for them yesterday. They’re good. Did your lawyer come by yesterday?” I asked, shifting the conversation.
A few years ago, I hired a lawyer to look into my mom’s case. Even though she pleaded guilty to killing my no-good father, it always felt like twenty-five years was too harsh. Her defense attorney at the time had mentioned the abuse and tried to argue it was self-defense. However, the judge wasn’t swayed because there was no paper trail to back up the claim. We didn’t understand how that was possible being that my mom had mademultiple reports willing, and sometimes, unwillingly because of the numerous calls from neighbors.
As I got older, I started to understand the real story. Back then, my father was a police sergeant with a flawless reputation, and multiple of his peers helped cover up the paperwork showing the physical abuse my mother endured.
“Yeah, he did. But I turned him away.”
“Why?”
“Look, son… what’s done is done. If I could go back, I wouldn’t change a thing besides choosing who I picked to be your father. I did what I had to do to save my son. You don’t deserve to be inside here. It was my job as a mother to protect you, and I didn’t, so by giving up my freedom to save yours, I did the right thing.” She shifted in her seat as the faint sound of the chatter in the background seemed to get louder. “I was sure then,” she admitted. “But now… now I know I should’ve fought harder, and I didn’t. I let him break me, and then I let him break you too. You don’t have to carry that anymore.”
The silence between us grew thick. Her words hung in the air while a mix of regret lay heavy on my heart. For years, I fought with the fact that my mother was paying for the price of my sins. How could I have let it get this far? How could I have let her carry this burden for so long? My mother may have thought she failed me, but that’s further from the truth. I had failed her.
A few days later
“So, how do you wanna play this out with ole boy?” Deuce asked, loading a mag without even looking down. “’Causeyou know that nigga not backing down from that ass whooping you put on him.”
We were out back behind my gun shop, the sun hanging low and hot over the open field I’d built out a year ago for this exact purpose—testing inventory, blowing off steam, and having the kind of conversations that couldn’t happen indoors.
I had just finished unboxing a fresh shipment of Zastava ZPAP M70 AKs. I was in awe; they were clean, powerful, and beautiful in a way that only serious hardware could be. The smell of oil, steel, and red clay hung thick in the air as we worked through the shipment.
“I don’t give a fuck about that nigga… but I ain’t stupid either. He definitely has a chip on his shoulder.”
Boston was adjusting his earmuffs, eyeing one of the rifles like it was a new toy he couldn’t wait to break in. “Whatever you on, you already know how we are coming if some shit pops off.”
“Thank you, but I’m sure I can handle this,” I muttered, checking the sight glass on mine. “Problem is… it’s not just about me. He’s going to fuck with my girl, and I can’t have that shit.”
Deuce looked up from the weapon in his lap, brow furrowed. “Your girl?” Deuce smirked.
“Hell yeah. Fuck that nigga! O been mine. The shit that happened at the club just confirmed everything I needed to know.”
“Facts,” Deuce added.
I lifted the rifle, took aim at a rusted metal target a hundred yards out, and squeezed.
Crack. Direct hit.
I lowered the gun, my heart still ticking like the shot hadn’t helped at all. “For one… I’m not about to let him keep her in a cage, scared of what he might do next. That’s not how this goes.”
Boston smirked. “So what you’re saying is… he’s got a deadline.”
Deuce chuckled, his drawl thick as ever. “Nah. What he’s saying is… she’s got a protector—and homeboy just ran outta time.”
I looked out across the field, the weight of everything sitting deep in my chest. Seeing that nigga choking Olivia in the middle of the club, trigger everything in my soul. Suddenly, I was a kid again. Standing in the hallway of my apartment, barefoot on cold tile, peeking into the living room as my father loomed over my mama while she was crying. He was yelling and spitting words I didn't understand back then, but I felt the hate behind them. It was the first time I witnessed my father putting his hands on my mother.
Then came the slap. The sound of skin meeting skin. The way her body jerked. The way she just took it, like she didn't have a choice. I stood there, frozen.
Powerless.
Useless.
