The drive was a long one, and Derrick found himself staring aimlessly at the homes he passed along the way — families living what looked like ordinary lives. Kids laughing and chasing each other down the road, a husband and wife holding hands while shouting to their children, “Don’t go too far!”

  Derrick missed those days. The days when everything was simpler, when life wasn’t—you know—lifeing. He couldn’t take his kids to school, not in the life he was in. He’d seem out of place, and God knows what could happen if he got caught slipping. So he’d spin lie after lie to Mavis — early meetings, problems at the office, anything that made sense in the moment. Whatever story kept her off his back, he told it.

  But the path he was on was lonely. Sure, he called the shots with his crew — under Afra or not, he was still the one giving the orders. People fell in line like disciplined soldiers. Workers jumped to his every word. And when he pulled up on the block, every corner boy gave him a nod of respect.

  But that’s the thing. That’s all Derrick ever got — a thank you here, a head nod there, appreciation for putting them on, helping them make money. But he knew they didn’t love him like his family did. They loved what he could do for them. His family loved him for the man, not the gangster. And if it all came crashing down, who’d still be standing by his side? His family. And he damn well knew it.

  As Derrick pulled up to his office, he let the engine run for a minute. The calm, soothing beat of the McLaren 720s was the only sound cutting through the crippling silence that held his mind in a twist. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. His eyes shut, and for a second, the world felt peaceful again — no phone calls, no problems, just the gentle feeling of the car breathing beneath him.

  But one could only forget about reality for so long before it came crashing back down to earth.

  “So this what my life’s come to,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Running from the same machine I built. Damn… life’s cold. You’re on top one day, then rock bottom the next. You couldn’t write this shit.”

  He leaned back, staring aimlessly at the roof of the car as he exhaled slow. The seat creaked beneath him as he sank deeper into it. For a moment, he just sat there, breathing, trying to pull himself together. His eyes slowly drifted toward the glass door at the front of the building. He stayed still, like he was trying to convince himself to move, before finally opening the door and stepping out.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  As Derrick shut the car door and turned around, two kids came flying down the street on their scooters, wheels rattling as they almost took him out. Luckily for Derrick, his reflexes were still sharp. He jumped back fast, his back hitting the door of his car just in time.

  “Watch where you’re going, old man!” one of the boys shouted, grinning as they sped off down the street, an echo of laughter trailing behind them as they peeled off.

  Derrick dusted himself off and pulled himself away from the car. He checked for damage, eyes scanning the windows and the door. Nothing — not even a scratch. He couldn’t help but laugh in the moment, the corners of his mouth cracking into a small smile. Because for the first time in what felt like forever, the metaphorical knife that pressed tightly against his throat released its pressure.

  If this was any other day, he thought, still smirking, you wouldn’t have gotten that close. But luckily for you two i haven't got the time for some jumped up teenagers today.

  He turned back toward the building and jogged up the steps. His footsteps were quick — he didn’t have time to wait around. He needed to grab the cash and go. But when he reached for the handle, his hand resting on top of it, the handle moved downward — the door was already open.

  “Sarah?” he called out, his tone sharp but steady. It was her day to cover the office, but there was no answer.

  Sarah was a young twenty-two-year-old intern Derrick had recently hired — short, slender, brown hair, green eyes, bubbly. The kind of energy that brightened up the dullest of days. But right now, none of that was there.

  He pushed the door open slowly, making sure not to make any noise. His other hand slid toward his pistol, gripping it tight as he stepped through the doorway. His eyes went straight to the front desk.

  Sarah stood there, shaking violently. Tears mixed into her mascara and ran down her cheeks in black streaks. Her face was pale. Her hands were trembling.

  “Sarah,” Derrick said, trying to keep his voice low. No response.

  “Sarah!” he called again, a louder whisper this time.

  “Talk to me, Sarah! What’s going on?”

  She couldn’t get the words out. Her mouth moved, but her voice was gone. She raised a shaky hand and pointed down the hall.

  Derrick gave a small nod. He drew his firearm and paused for a second, his expression darkening as he flipped the switch. The metal was cold and steady in his grip. Whoever was waiting wasn’t here for a friendly visit.

  He passed through reception, each step echoing ominously down the hall. His pace slowed when he noticed his office door slightly ajar.

  He braced himself, muscles tense. With one sharp movement, he pushed the door wide open, raising his gun.

  “Ah, Derrick... my American friend,” a deep, composed voice greeted him. “Put that weapon away. It will not help you here.”

  Derrick’s eyes focused on the figure inside Kingsley, Afra’s second-in-command. The man sat casually on one of Derrick’s office chairs, exuding confidence. A tall, silent associate stood nearby, his eyes cold, dark and watchful.