GREEDY AND GRIMEY
Loyalty Has a Body Count
By Henry Williams
Copyright Page
Greedy and Grimey
Copyright © 2025 by Henry Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by [Your Name or Designer]
First Edition – 2025
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
1.Chapter 1 – No Warrants, No Witnesses
2.Chapter 2 – Three Bodies, No Answers
3.Chapter 3 – Welcome to the Dirty Work
4.Chapter 4 – The Heist Ain't Over
5.Chapter 5 – Blood on Both Sides
6.Chapter 6 – Bruno's Request
7.Chapter 7 – Blue in the Wind
8.Chapter 8 – Dirty Bert, Dirtier Deals
9.Chapter 9 – Masks and Motives
10.Chapter 10 – Bubbles Bursts the Bubble
11.Chapter 11 – Brittany's Breakdown
12.Chapter 12 – The House Always Burns
13.Chapter 13 – One Witness, Too Loud
14.Chapter 14 – Undercover Ghosts
15.Chapter 15 – Setups and Snakes
16.Chapter 16 – Friends or Feds?
17.Chapter 17 – Porscha Pulls the Trigger
18.Chapter 18 – Loyalty's Last Breath
19.Chapter 19 – Blue Wakes Up
20.Chapter 20 – Loose Ends Burn the Loudest
⸻
CHAPTER 1 – No Warrants, No Witnesses
It was a cold night on Detroit's East Side.
Three dark figures moved in silence toward a drug house on Margaret Street. They crept up the porch stairs with surgical precision, each one clad in tactical black from head to toe. Ski masks on. Eyes locked. Focus razor sharp.
The tallest one carried an AR-15 secured with a shoulder strap. The other two cradled 12-gauge shotguns, fingers tense on the trigger. They paused at the door, looked at one another, and nodded.
Through the mesh of the screen door was a splintered wooden front door. One of them held up three fingers.
Three. Two. One.
CRACK!
The tall one kicked the door off its hinges and they stormed in.
"FBI! On the floor! Don't move!" they barked with violent authority.
Inside, chaos.
People screamed. Drugs hit the floor. Cash flew.
A female agent rushed in, quick with the cuffs—three suspects detained in less than a minute.
One of the suspects was a heavyset man cuffed to a chair in front of a flatscreen TV. The other two laid flat on their stomachs, wrists zip-tied behind their backs.
"Where the fuck the search warrant at, bitch?!" the man in the chair yelled.
The tallest agent calmly reached into his vest and pulled out a folded piece of white paper and a pistol. He tossed the paper onto the table and kept the 9mm in hand, aimed low but ready.
He glanced around the living room—money, dope, digital scales, bricks wrapped tight, heat still coming off the stove.
"You stupid ass motherfuckers know who you dealin' with?" the man in the chair spat.
He leaned forward as far as the cuffs would let him.
"They call me Shake and Bake, nigga. I shake and bake motherfuckers all the time! My money longer than 7 Mile! I bet my lawyer have me out in a couple hours!"
The two on the floor didn't say a word. They weren't big timers like Shake. To him, they were just spot workers. Collateral.
"Do I look like I give a fuck what your name is?" the agent asked coldly. He picked up a brick of cocaine off the floor and held it up.
"Your lawyer gon' have a hard time explaining this."
"Fuck you!" Shake snapped.
The female agent, still crouched near the front window, spoke into her radio. "Dispatch, requesting backup."
The tallest agent walked over and tapped one of the suspects on the back of the head with his boot.
"You really think Shake give a fuck about you, homeboy?"
The cuffed man didn't answer. His chest rose and fell fast, fear creeping into his eyes.
The agent knelt down beside him.
"Tell me what you know. Who he working for? Give me a name—and you walk."
"Man, don't be a goofy!" Shake yelled, trying to hold his ground.
But the pressure was too much.
"Doughboy." The man blurted.
The tall agent smirked. "Knew it."
He stood the man up, patted him on the back like a coach.
"Bitch-ass nigga!" Shake howled. "You rat! You fuckin' rat!"
"I had to make the right choice for me," the man said, almost relieved.
The third man on the floor turned his head, eyes full of disgust.
"My lawyer gon'—"
BOOM!
A bullet ripped through Shake's skull, spraying brain matter across the TV screen.
The female agent still had her Glock raised, smoking.
BOOM! The shotgun fired next—dropping the man who thought he was about to be set free.
The last suspect screamed.
BOOM! The AR-15 silenced him permanently.
A long pause.
Then the tall man glanced at the others and said:
"All right, y'all. Bag that shit up. And hurry up—before the real FBI show up."
Chapter 2 The Hero
It was Tuesday morning, and Carl Morris was getting ready for work. A seasoned homicide detective with the Detroit PD, Carl was pushing 20 years on the force—near retirement. He wanted to focus on his 7-year-old daughter Brittany, and his wife Shirley, a nurse at Mercy Hospital.
They lived in a 4-bedroom home near the old Tiger Stadium, surrounded by an 8-foot security fence.
"Wake up, Shirley," Carl said, kissing her forehead. "I need you to get Brittany ready for school."
"Mmmkay, baby," she murmured.
Carl ran his hand through her long, black hair. He'd loved her since high school—they'd been together ever since.
Carl walked into Brittany's room. "Time to get up, baby." He kissed her forehead as Shirley smiled beside him.
Brittany was in first grade at Edison Elementary—honor roll, well-behaved, and always saying she wanted to be a nurse like Mom. Shirley picked her up and took her to run her bath while Carl went downstairs to disarm the alarm and check the mail.
He turned on the news while making coffee.
⸻
BREAKING NEWS: EASTSIDE TRIPLE HOMICIDE!
Donna Crayson's voice came through the TV:
"We're standing on Margaret Street, where a triple homicide has occurred—one of twenty-sevensimilar unsolved cases involving drug dealers being executed by unknown suspects posing as federal agents. Police say this time they might have a break, thanks to an anonymous tip…"
Carl sipped his coffee and shook his head.
How the hell do they keep getting away with this?
He stared at the badge on his counter. He could heard Brittany and Shirley laughing upstairs.
He didn't want to bring the streets home, but deep inside, Carl knew he couldn't retire just yet.
"I gotta do something. I gotta try to make this city a little bit safer…"
⸻
Chapter 3 Greedy, Porscha, and Blue
The Marriott hotel suite was hazy with smoke and stacked with cash. Greedy sat on a king-size bed, rolling money with heavy hands.
"My hands tired, nigga. Let's smoke," he said in his deep voice.
Greedy was tall, arrogant, and dangerous. He had it all—but always wanted more. That's how he got his name. And if you didn't know him, you might find out the hard way—at the cost of your life.
Porscha danced while counting money in a blue Dolce & Gabbana outfit that hugged every curve. She was thick, beautiful, and deadly—a sunshine smile masking a kill-switch soul.
"Get the fuck out the way, Porscha! I been ran through that pussy plenty of times!" Blue lied.
Blue's fists were full of fresh hundreds. Quiet, ruthless, born in New York but raised in Detroit, he had one brown eye and one icy blue—making his stare haunting.
They all grew up together—Pelham Middle, King High. Split up early, reunited later in their 20s for a life of crime. Tight like pitbulls—dangerous, unpredictable, and deadly.
"You ain't ran through shit! This sunshine ain't never shined on that lil' ass dick," Porscha clapped back after Blue's slick joke.
The room filled with laughter, then silence as they turned to the news.
"$100,000 reward offered for info on suspects impersonating federal agents in deadly Eastside robberies."
Blue turned it off.
"Yeah fuck that. Let's roll up. These motherfuckers don't know shit," Porscha said.
"We smooth. If they was gon' catch us, they'd done it 20-somethin' robberies ago," Greedy grinned, lighting the blunt.
"I love you two motherfuckers," he said. "We been through everything—from jumpin' fools on the playground to jumpin' niggas in the club. If I ever die, I want y'all to know that."
Porscha and Blue smirked.
"Nigga, we know. We'd have knocked your noodles out by now if we didn't," Blue said. "We all we got. Fuck my mama, fuck my daddy. We family."
"Yeah, fuck all that sentimental shit," Porscha said, pulling out her Glock and putting it to her cheek. "When we hittin' that nigga Doughboy?" Greedy sat on the edge of the bed, took the blunt back from Blue.
"Monday. First thing. We hit that n***a like we hit everybody else. But this time we going full SWAT. That means full gear—vests, radios, helmets. Ain't no mistakes."
"Where we getting the gear?" Blue asked.
"Chubby." Greedy said. "Porsche—call that fat muthafucka. Tell him we need three full SWAT uniforms and a van. Unmarked. And tell him if that shit smell like food again, I'm smacking the grease off his titties."
Porscha laughed as she grabbed her pink phone and pulled up Chubby's number.
Blue flipped through channels on the hotel TV, but everything felt boring compared to what they had planned.
Greedy looked at Blue. "Order room service too. I'm hungrier than a slave."
Blue picked up the hotel phone.
"What you want?"
"Everything. Two steaks, shrimp, pancakes, extra bacon. If it's dead and cooked, bring it. I need calories for the devil's work."
The three of them sat there—high, rich, dangerous, and too deep in to turn back.
Monday was coming fast.
And Doughboy wouldn't see it coming.
Chapter 4 Downtown Detroit – The Interrogation Room
Two detectives sat in the downtown precinct's grimy interrogation room. Across from them was a 10-year-old little girl — eyes puffy, hands trembling. She was shook to her core. Something serious had went down.
Detective Frank Tuff sat forward. A real straight shooter — old-school type. His pops had been a legend on the force, killed eight years ago in a drug sting gone sideways. The shooter was never caught, and Frank been carrying that ghost ever since.
Across from him sat Tony Burt, better known on the streets as Dirty Bert. A badge didn't mean shit to him. He was a hustler first, cop second — if that. Dirty as used bathwater. All the real ones in the D knew: if you was pushin' weight, Bert was either taxing you or snitch-proofing you… for a fee. If you was lucky, he'd let you know when a raid was coming. If you wasn't, Wayne County was waiting.
Hell, just last month, his boy Kilo caught a gun charge. Bert strolled into the evidence room like he owned it and poof — no more gun. Case dismissed. But that trick cost Kilo ten large.
Detective Frank slid a Faygo pop and a bag of Better Made chips across the table toward the little girl. "It's gonna be okay," he said gently.
The girl couldn't even talk — she just broke down cryin'. Her mama wrapped an arm around her, whispering soft, tryin' to calm her down.
"Just give her a little time," the mother said, rubbing her back.
Frank nodded. "Please excuse us for a moment," he said, then motioned to Bert to step outside.
In the hallway, Frank shut the door behind them and turned to his partner. "Hey… don't you think we should wait on Carl to get here? He's good with kids. Don't he got a daughter around her age?"
"Absolutely not," Dirty Bert snapped, eyes cutting back to the girl through the window — eyes full of slick schemes.
Frank raised an eyebrow. "And why the hell not?"
Bert smirked like a snake. "Because the second Carl finds out that little girl in there goes to school with his daughter… this whole thing's gonna turn into a goddamn shit show."
Frank's face went pale. "You serious?"
"As a heart attack," Bert said, cool as ice.
Frank took a breath, already feeling the weight of the fallout.
"Oh," Bert added, "and the captain said we're keepin' this under wraps till we figure our next move. That means do not tell Carl about the witness. You hear me?"
Frank didn't answer. He just stared back into the room, where that little girl sat — broken, scared… and possibly holding the key to something way bigger than either of them realized.
The Marriott Hotel
Porscha, Blue and Greedy sat at the marble table in their five star hotel room.
They chowed down on the best lobster, fried fish, and barbecue the city had to offer.
stacks of money littered the white carpet, a pump action shotgun, a AR15, and two grenades sat in the middle of the marble dinner table.
"Porscha, did you make that call to Chubby like I asked you?" Greedy asked, greedy had grease all over his lips from the fried fish.
Porscha took a sip of her Sprite to clear the food in her throat:
"Ain't I the thickest bitch in the city?" Porscha snapped.
Blue pulled a Black & Mild from his pocket and chuckled,
"Hell yeah I made the call," Porscha said.
"What that nigga say?" Greedy asked curiously.
Porscha took another sip of her pop:
"That nigga talkin' some crazy ass shit… he talkin' about forty thousand."
Greedy almost choked on the fish he was eating.
"What!?" Greedy snapped.
"That nigga must be smokin' crack!"
Blue started laughing:
"I'd rather walk in that bitch butt ass naked with the shotgun than give that nigga forty stacks."
Porscha joined Blue in laughter:
"I'm serious fam!"
Porscha tried to ease the situation:
"How about this, why don't we get fly as fuck and go downtown to Club Blue,"
Porscha threw her hands up on her hips:
"You know y'all wanna get with some of them stank ass bitches and get them little dicks wet."
Greedy and Blue both thought about what Porsche said and it kind of made sense.
"We can worry about that other shit later. We got a few days before we hit that punk ass nigga doeboy anyways!
He won't even see it coming let's just live it up until then."
"What time is it Blue?" Porscha asked.
Blue looked at his watch.
"It's 1:32,"
"So what?"
"Leave at 8:00?"
Greedy and blue thought about what they were gonna wear while porscha cleared the table.
"Y'all niggas down?"
Porscha asked.
"Hell yeah we down," Blue said.
Greedy and blue both wanted to draw all the attention when they pulled up to the club. The three of them had a large variety of cars, but they kept the cars hidden in secret storage garages. most of the time they moved around in limos, unseen. but on a club night, they would usually go all out. y'all wanna pull up in the Hummer limo tonight greedy asked? Porsche threw her hands in the air. Hell yeah pull up stunting on them broke ass niggas !
Blue just nodded his head and smoked his cigar.greedy took the food cart and rolled it into the hallway and close the door. He then walk to the mini bar and grabbed a bottle of champagne and shook it up until it exploded all over the floor and ceiling he sprayed Porsche And blue with the champagne as he laughed. We getting money Nigga! He yelled.
Porscha tried to shield herself from the champagne with a fluffy white pillow. She then pulled out her phone to call her best friend Trina….
Chapter 5 Captain's Office – Downtown Detroit PD
Captain Miller didn't look up when Carl walked in—just tapped ash from his cigar and motioned him to sit.
Carl didn't.
"You seen the news?" Carl asked, voice firm.
Miller leaned back. "Triple on Margaret Street. Same M.O. as the others. Execution-style. No prints, no witnesses—at least, none talkin'."
Carl stepped forward. "Anonymous tip came in, right?"
Miller's face twitched slightly.
Carl nodded. "Yeah. I heard it too. So what's the plan?"
Miller exhaled a long stream of smoke, then said, "You're not on it, Carl. You're two months out from retirement. Go home to your wife. Kiss your daughter. We got it."
Carl's jaw tightened. "Like you had the other twenty-seven cases?"
Miller's eyes narrowed.
Carl pressed on. "This ain't random. They got gear, timing, routes—somebody's funding this shit. These ain't street kids. These are wolves, and they're wearing badges when they do it."
The captain stood now, meeting Carl's glare.
"You think I don't know that?" Miller snapped. "We got feds sniffin' around already. You poke the wrong corner, and you'll spook the whole hive."
"I'm not asking permission, Cap," Carl said. "I'm telling you—I'm going to start digging. With or without your blessing."
Miller walked to the window, looking out over the city like it owed him money. "There's things in motion, Carl. Things I can't even tell you."
"Then don't," Carl said, turning toward the door. "Just don't get in my way."
Miller didn't stop him.
Carl stepped out into the hallway, his heart pounding. The badge clipped on his belt felt heavier than ever. He knew something was being hidden—he just didn't know what.
Yet.
⸻
Interrogation Room – Downstairs
The one thing Carl didn't know?
Dorsey Fields, 10 years old, sat trembling in the other room. The only person who had seen what happened on Margaret Street. The only person alive who saw the killers' faces… even if they were masked.
Dirty Bert leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her cry like it was a game.
Frank Tuff looked sick.
"She said one of 'em had a Detroit Tigers tattoo on his hand," Frank whispered.
Bert lit a cigarette like he had all the time in the world.
"Great," Bert said. "Half the motherfuckers in this city got a Tigers tat."
"She also said the fake cops had radios, black SUVs, vests that said FBI… the works. This ain't some back alley stickup."
Bert shrugged. "Don't matter. We sit on this. Captain's orders."
Frank turned toward the glass. "We need to tell Carl. If he finds out we held this from him—"
Bert stepped forward, voice low and sharp.
"You tell Carl, and this whole thing goes nuclear. You know how he is about kids."
Frank clenched his jaw but didn't respond.
Inside the room, Dorsey reached for her mother's hand.
The storm was building.
And nobody—not even Carl—had any idea just how close it was.
⸻
Chapter 6 Club Blue – 9:03 PM
The bass shook the walls. Bottles popped. Models danced in cages above the crowd.
Greedy leaned back in the VIP booth, sunglasses still on, his wristwatch blinding under the strobe lights. Blue sat next to him, counting the strip club's air like it owed him money, cigar in mouth, one arm slung over the back of the red leather couch.
Porscha hit the floor like she owned it—long legs, red bottoms, tight mini-dress catching every jealous glance in the room. Her laugh sliced through the noise as Trina joined her, both of them turning heads.
"Detroit royalty in this bitch," Blue muttered, eyeing a few known faces across the club.
Greedy poured more champagne. "We make this shit look too easy."
They were loose. Rich. Armed. And dancing on the edge of war.
Because what none of them knew…
was that the girl in that station…
had already seen too much.
Chapter 7 Interrogation Room – Downtown Precinct
Dorsey wiped her tears, voice barely holding together.
"One of 'em… had two different eyes. One brown… one blue. Like a monster."
Frank Tuff's pen stopped mid-scratch.
"And… they said somethin'," she whispered.
Frank leaned in.
"They said… Monday. That they was gonna kill a man named… Doughboy."
Frank's face drained of color.
Outside the room, Dirty Bert stood listening through the glass, eyes narrowing. His mind raced.
"That's it," Dorsey said, eyes falling to the floor. "I'm scared…"
Frank turned to the mother. "She's gotta be protected. Round-the-clock. Put her somewhere safe."
Bert didn't like that. Not one bit.
Because now the witness knew too much.
Club Blue – 10:42 PM
The VIP section was drenched in money and menace. Greedy stood by the bar, watching the dancefloor through tinted shades. Porscha was grinding slow on Trina, playing it cute. Blue was nursing a bottle of D'USSÉ, his blue eye glowing in the club lights like a demon's wink.
Everything was chill—until a stocky man in a Gucci suit bumped into Greedy by the ice bucket.
"Ey! Watch where the fuck you—" the man barked, thick Russian accent dripping in vodka and disrespect.
Greedy turned, slow.
"What'd you say to me, Putin?"
The man squared up. "You in my way."
Blue turned his head.
Porscha froze mid-dance.
Greedy dropped the smile. "You know who the fuck I am?"
The Russian shoved him. "Don't care."
That was it.
Greedy grabbed the man's wrist, twisted it fast, then—
CRACK.
CRACK.
Both hands shattered, fingers bent like crushed crab legs.
The man screamed, dropped to the floor. Security rushed over but didn't dare touch Greedy.
Blue stood up calmly. "Let's bounce."
Greedy snatched the bottle off the table and walked out, glass crunching under his Timbs.
They thought it was over.
It wasn't.
Chapter 8 CLUB BLUE – 11:17 PM (Same Night After the Fight)
The music was still pounding inside, but Greedy, Blue, and Porscha were already back in the Hummer limo, riding through downtown Detroit like a storm just passed.
Greedy was heated—sitting forward, elbows on his knees, hands still twitching from breaking bones.
"That bitch-ass Russian ain't never gon' play piano again," he growled.
Porscha was in the corner seat, dabbing champagne off her dress with a napkin. "Nigga, he probably still screaming."
Blue kept his phone on his lap, quiet, scrolling. Something didn't sit right.
The driver up front rolled down the privacy glass.
"Uh… boss?" he said, looking nervous. "That guy you broke up in there? Somebody just called down from the club. Said a message was left for y'all."
Greedy looked up. "From who?"
The driver hesitated. "They didn't leave a name. Just said: 'You got five hours. Bruno wants to see you. 6 AM sharp. Bring no one. Come clean.'"
Blue immediately perked up. "Bruno Belrino?"
The car went dead silent.
Porscha's smile faded. "Wait—the Bruno?"
"Yeah," Blue said. "Old world, heavy hitter. That Russian must be one of his plugs."
Greedy leaned back, heart pounding under his chain. He knew the name. Everybody did. Bruno wasn't just mob. He was myth—old money, new power, and global pull.
Greedy muttered, "This just got deeper than club beef."
⸻
3:13 AM – THE SAFEHOUSE, NORTHWEST DETROIT
They didn't go home.
They went to a run-down, two-story duplex behind an abandoned school. Their off-grid safehouse.No phones. No cameras. Just weapons, burner phones, and old cash from robberies past.
Blue was at the window with binoculars, scoping the street.
"Nothing yet," he said.
Greedy paced in front of a whiteboard they used for planning hits. "You think he gon' kill us?"
"Could," Blue said. "But if he wanted us dead… we'd be dead already. He's old school. Face to face."
Porscha was oiling her Glock on the couch. "Still bringin' mine. Y'all crazy."
Blue nodded. "Keep it in your bag. Don't flash. This ain't the hood. This mob shit—there's rules."
Greedy looked at the clock. "We roll out at 5:00. That gives us two hours to gear up, shower, and get clean. Real clean. He said 'come clean,' that's a test."
He opened a hidden panel behind the fridge and pulled out three pre-packed duffle bags: black jeans, tailored dress shirts, watches that don't tick, and burner wallets—no ID.
"No chains. No gold. No bling. We move like shadows," Greedy said.
They prepped in silence, each of them feeling the tension in their bones. This wasn't just another lick.
This was survival.
⸻
Chapter 9 4:57 AM – DETROIT FREEWAY (I-96 EAST)
The black 2017 Cadillac CTS-V purred like a panther, pushing east at 80mph with tinted windows and a custom plate—untraceable.
Porscha drove. Blue rode shotgun, checking for tails. Greedy sat in the back, silent, staring at the city sliding by.
Nobody spoke much.
The radio was off.
Every headlight behind them looked suspicious.
They passed under flickering streetlamps, the only sound the hum of tires and the occasional zip of a passing semi-truck.
Blue finally broke the silence. "If this goes left, we kill our way out. No negotiations."
Greedy nodded. "If it goes left, we already dead."
⸻
5:41 AM – OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT – BRUNO'S COMPOUND
They exited the freeway and pulled onto a private gravel road, thick woods on both sides. A wrought-iron gate waited ahead, flanked by two black SUVs with armed guards in suits and earpieces.
Porscha slowed.
One of the guards walked up. "Names?"
"Greedy, Blue, Porscha," Blue said. "We were invited."
The man nodded, then checked a list on a clipboard.
"You're late," he said. "Follow the Range Rover. Keep your hands where we can see 'em."
An armored black Range Rover pulled out in front, leading them down a winding path that opened into a massive clearing.
There it was:
Bruno Belrino's estate.
A mix between an old Italian villa and a high-tech fortress. Stone walls. Cameras. Guards with ARs. Statues of Roman gods along the path. And in the center, a modern mansion with white marble lionsstanding watch by the front steps.
The Cadillac stopped.
Three men in charcoal suits opened their doors without a word.
"Phones, weapons, keys," one said.
They handed everything over, no questions asked.
Then they were escorted inside.
⸻
6:00 AM – BRUNO'S PRIVATE ROOM
They were led down a long hallway of polished tile, every step echoing like a warning.
Finally, double doors opened into a dark room lit only by a chandelier and sunrise bleeding through stained glass.
Bruno Belrino stood at the far end, back turned, reading a newspaper and sipping espresso.
He didn't turn around.
"Detroit… a city where even the rats wear gold teeth," he said. His voice was gravel soaked in bourbon.
Greedy stepped forward. "You asked for us?"
Bruno finally turned. Sharp suit. Clean shave. Cold, blue eyes.
"I asked because I'm owed," he said. "That Russian you crippled… that man was my pipeline to Ukraine. Guns, tech, favors. And now he eats with a straw."
Blue crossed his arms. "He disrespected. Put hands on one of us."
Bruno's face darkened. "And I could've put a bullet in all three of you… but I didn't."
He snapped his fingers.
A folder was placed on the table in front of them.
"One job. You do this right… and we forget everything. If not…" He held up three fingers. "Three closed caskets."
Inside the folder was the target: Gianni Costa. Rival boss. Protected. Paranoid. Worth millions.
Greedy's mouth went dry.
Bruno poured himself more espresso.
"Don't overthink it. You're thieves. Killers. This should be fun."
He turned his back again.
"You have until Friday."
Then the doors opened behind them.
They were being dismissed.
⸻
6:47 AM – BACK IN THE CADILLAC
No one said a word until they were halfway back into the city.
Then Greedy spoke, voice low.
"We ain't never had to kill for nobody but us…"
Porscha gritted her teeth. "We do this right… we alive and paid."
Blue nodded. "And if we don't…"
He stared out the window.
"…We ghosts."
Chapter 10
Detective Carl Morris sat in his unmarked cruiser outside the downtown precinct, engine humming low beneath the tension. He had the heat turned up despite the late summer night—sweat running down his temples, not from warmth but from something else. His jaw clenched, tight enough to crack a tooth, as he rewatched the same WXYZ newscast for the third time on his phone.
"Anonymous tip in the Eastside drug house murder. No suspects in custody. Witness remains unnamed but may have key information in the brutal slayings."
No name. No age. No details.
That's what bothered Carl.
Something about it was too clean. No one tips off the cops in that part of the Eastside. Not unless they're scared—and for someone to be scared enough to call the police out there? It meant they'd seen everything.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
Still nothing in the system. No statement. No signed report. The tip had been rerouted through dispatch and buried before it ever hit his desk. Somebody high up didn't want this coming to light. Somebody with more stripes than him.
And that made his gut twist.
⸻
Inside the precinct, Carl walked through the fluorescent halls of peeling paint and fake civility. His fellow officers nodded, but Carl didn't stop. He had tunnel vision now.
Back in his office, he pulled open a drawer and took out a folder he wasn't supposed to have. It was the case file from the Eastside triple murder—photos sealed in plastic, blurry security footage from a broken pole cam, time stamps, names redacted.
But the one thing that stood out?
A small note paperclipped to the front:
"Victim seen arguing with subject prior. Tipster did not identify themselves. Possibly female. Young."
That was it. No interview. No contact.
Just "possibly female. Young."
Carl exhaled slowly.
He didn't know it yet—but that anonymous tip came from Dorsey Fields, an eight-year-old girl who was hiding in the closet and saw one of the shooters had a blue eye. She also overheard something:
"Doe Boy is next."
But Carl was still in the dark.
He didn't know he was up against a clock.
Didn't know there was a war brewing that stretched past city limits and into the hands of an Italian mobster who wore Omertà around his neck like a threat.
And tonight, that war was about to take another twist…
CHAPTER 11: The Bloodline of Bruno Belrino
He was born into silence.
The kind of silence that wasn't peaceful—
but powerful.
Dangerous.
Loyal.
Bruno Belrino entered the world in the back room of a Sicilian restaurant on Mulberry Street, while his father was upstairs ordering the death of a federal witness. That same night, blood was spilled in Brooklyn. It wouldn't be the last time a decision made by Bruno's father, Leonardo Belrino, changed the course of entire neighborhoods.
Leonardo wasn't just a mob boss. He was the kingpin. He didn't operate under fear; he built empires with loyalty, respect, and precision. The Belrino name echoed through five boroughs and three continents. If there was money to be made, Leo had his hand in it—heroin in Harlem, casinos in Havana, and shipping docks in Sicily. When he walked into a room, people stood. When he left, people disappeared.
Bruno didn't inherit his father's empire—
he earned it.
From a young age, Bruno showed he wasn't just another son of a boss. He was sharper. Hungrier. Calculated. By 16, he was already negotiating real estate deals for laundering money through luxury condos in Miami. By 20, he orchestrated the silent takeover of three unions without a single bullet fired. No bloodshed. Just leverage.
But he never strayed from the code: Omertà — the sacred vow of silence.
And he wore that promise proudly, every single day.
Around his neck hung a heavy, glistening gold chain, shaped like no ordinary piece of jewelry. It bore one word, carved in Old Italian script:
OMERTÀ.
Each link forged by a Sicilian blacksmith loyal to the family since the 1940s. The chain wasn't just gold. It was tradition. Discipline. Blood.
Bruno never took it off.
Not to shower. Not to sleep. Not to make love or make war.
It was more than a chain — it was a collar of honor. A symbol that his word was unbreakable. That silence… was sacred.
He rarely raised his voice. He didn't need to. His eyes said everything. Cold. Calculated. Always watching. Always five moves ahead. He didn't threaten—he promised. And he never had to repeat himself. Ever.
When people heard "Bruno Belrino," they didn't just think mobster.
They thought power. They thought pressure.
They thought: Don't fuck around.
Unlike most in his position, Bruno didn't flaunt. His suits were dark. Tailored, not loud. His cars—matte black, bulletproof, low-key. His homes—secluded, yet equipped with every security measure known to man. He traveled with a driver and one shadow. A man named Mannie Giseli, who had been by his side since the Rome airport shootout in '98.
Bruno never trusted phones. Never texted. Never left a trace. All his orders were given face-to-face, usually over a glass of 60-year-old Scotch and a slice of veal—cooked rare, the way his father liked it.
To the untrained eye, he was a businessman. To the wise, he was a ghost in control of global strings.
And to those who crossed him?
He was judgment.
In the streets, whispers followed his name like wind:
"Bruno don't forget."
"Bruno plays chess, not checkers."
"Bruno ain't loud… but his silence gets loud when it's too late."
Bruno Belrino didn't fear death. He was groomed by it.
And now, as he moved silently through the underworld, from Detroit to Dubai, he had only one rule for those who wished to stay alive around him:
"Respect the code."
And remember the chain.
CHAPTER 12
Slow Burn
The night air was thick with tension. Detroit felt like it was holding its breath, and somewhere off 7 Mile, the crew sat low in a parked Yukon with the engine humming like a lazy growl.
Inside, Porscha, Greedy, and Blue were deep in conversation—sharp whispers, side-eyes, and heavy silence between sentences. The plan was supposed to go down next week. Robbing Doe Boy wasn't something you just did on impulse. He wasn't just some corner boy with a shoebox of ones under the bed. This was a heavyweight in Southwest—real dope, real money, and real killers ready to die for it.
But things were shifting.
"That nigga too hot right now," Greedy said, his fingers drumming against the Glock on his lap. "Movin' sloppy. Last three runs he ain't even change the route."
Porscha leaned forward from the back seat, her voice low but firm.
"We wait, we miss it. Word on the street is he movin' everything tonight—money, bricks, all of it. It's hittin' that stash house on Porter. We let this go, we playin' ourselves."
Blue sat silent at first, chewing on the stem of a toothpick. His right eye flicked up toward the mirror, locking briefly with Greedy's.
"We hit it tonight," he said flatly. "Get in. Get out. No witnesses."
They all went quiet for a beat—like even the Yukon had paused to make sure it heard that right.
That's when Chubby pulled up in a dusty Malibu, parked diagonal, and hopped out wearing his signature hooded coat and a crooked smirk.
"Damn, y'all look like y'all 'bout to knock over Fort Knox," he said, tossing a duffel into the Yukon. "FBI threads, fresh. You put these on, everybody freeze—even the real Feds. Just don't be dumb."
Porscha narrowed her eyes. "You good, Chub? You movin' like you wanna say somethin'."
Chubby hesitated—just a blink too long—then forced a laugh.
"Nah. Just don't get caught. These suits ain't got no return policy."
And just like that, he dipped. No hugs, no dap. Just left 'em with that uneasiness that creeps in when your gut knows something your brain can't yet prove.
Two hours later, the city was black and breathing slow.
A silent heart ready for cardiac arrest.
They pulled up in a stolen SUV with duct tape over the plates. The trap house was on a corner, brick walls tagged up, windows halfway boarded. One streetlight flickered above like it was tryin' to warn them. Inside, Doe Boy was alone… or so they thought.
Blue took the back. Porscha and Greedy hit the front. Masks down. Gloves tight. No names spoken.
The door cracked open like a whisper—
then the whisper turned into thunder.
BOOM!
Gunfire exploded from the hallway. It wasn't Doe Boy.
It was one of his cousins—
a quiet shooter fresh from Tijuana who'd just landed that morning.That ain't the real FBI! He yelled while firing off rounds.
Blue caught it in the side—clean through the ribs. He dropped, rolling, squeezing off two wild shots that made the walls bleed drywall.
Greedy lit the cousin up with six to the chest. He didn't even grunt. Just dropped like his soul got unplugged.
Porscha grabbed Blue by the hoodie, dragging him through the back as Doe Boy yelled from upstairs, firing off two more shots that shattered the ceiling light.
They got out, barely.
Blood all over the SUV.
Blue groaning, fading, wet coughs rattling in his chest…
Porscha ran two red lights and hit a fire hydrant pulling in.
They didn't go to the ER.
They went to a private entrance near St. Agnes Medical Center, paid a street nurse five grand cash to say nothing and fix him up quiet. But the wound was too deep.
Internal bleeding. Blue was slipping….
"No names," Greedy warned, as they pulled into an alley three blocks from the hospital. Blue was pale, bleeding through the towel wrapped around him.
"I ain't dyin'," Blue growled.
"Put this on," Porscha said, handing him a black eyepatch from the glove box. "Hide the blue."
He slid it on, covering the icy blue iris that always gave him away.
They dropped him off at Detroit mercy hospital , left him in the back loading dock—no name, no ID. Just a blue hoodie. And a fake name, Terrance King!
Inside, a trauma nurse got the call.
She'd been working a double.
Hair pulled back. Wedding ring loose on her finger.
She saw the gurney roll in—young male, Black, early 30s, bullet wound left rib cage, signs of collapsed lung. But what caught her eye wasn't the blood…
…it was his eye.
One of them was covered with an eye patch.
She helped stabilize him. No questions asked. But her instincts?
She took a mental snapshot.
That eye was something she wouldn't forget.
CHAPTER 13
Echoes in the Halls
Carl Morris was halfway through his third cup of black coffee when his phone buzzed.
Unknown number. No message.
He stared at it for a second before flipping it facedown on his desk. Lately, too many things in his life felt like loose ends wrapped in silence. Unmarked tips. Reassigned files. And now a pile of Eastside shootings with no bodies turning up—like ghosts were doing the killing.
He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him.
On the surface, everything in his life was "fine."
The job. The badge. The house.
Even his wife, Shirley, said the right things, did the right things. But lately, she'd been distant—coming home late from the hospital, quiet at dinner, lingering in the shower longer than usual.
Not cheating—no, Shirley wasn't that type.
But she was carrying something.
Something heavy.
And Carl, for all his instincts, hadn't figured out what yet.
⸻
St. Agnes Medical – Recovery Ward – 10:26 AM
Shirley stood in the break room, sipping mint tea like it might wash away what she'd seen last night.
Gunshot wounds weren't rare here.
But this one… this one had weight.
No name.
No ID.
And that eye.
She hadn't said a word about it yet—not even in the chart. Just coded it as "ocular injury concealed by temporary dressing."
But something was off. His vitals were stabilizing, but he had that look. That survival twitch. The kind of man who's not used to being vulnerable, not even in pain.
Shirley had watched him the whole time they treated him, her fingers working with calm precision, even as her mind spun faster than the EKG.
One brown eye.
One hidden under an eye patch.
I wonder if his eye is missing?
She knew better than to ask questions.
But it was already lodged in her mind, refusing to fade.
⸻
Meanwhile – Unknown Warehouse, River Rouge
Greedy paced in front of a dusty workbench, fists balled.
"He shoulda waited," he snapped. "Wasn't time yet!"
Porscha sat on a stack of crates, her Glock in her lap. "We made the call. You blaming Blue for takin' a bullet like he volunteered for that shit?"
Greedy shook his head. "We wasn't supposed to hit Doe Boy till next week. We was supposed to watchfirst. Watch and wait."
Porscha stood up, her tone like heat off concrete. "We got what we came for—cash and weight. Blue alive. Mission ain't fail."
Greedy stared at the floor.
The duffel bags were stacked near the door—easily over two hundred grand in rubber-banded bundles, and five bricks of uncut dope.
Enough to retire.
Enough to disappear.
But not if Bruno found out they'd gone off-script.
Because the real job wasn't Doe Boy.
It was Gianni Costa.
The man Bruno Belrino wanted dead.
The job that was supposed to be clean. Last.
But now?
Now everything was off the rails. Blue was in the hospital. And they were on a ticking clock.
⸻
Carl's Home – 8:12 PM
Shirley came through the door, dropping her bag by the side table like usual.
Carl watched her from the couch, remote in one hand, a half-empty beer in the other.
"Rough day?" he asked.
She nodded. "Gunshot trauma came in last night. Young guy. No ID. We patched him up, but… I don't know. Somethin' felt… off."
Carl's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Off how?"
Shirley paused. Almost said it.
Almost told him about the eye.
Instead, she shrugged. "Just instinct. Probably nothing."
Carl nodded, but the coil in his stomach tightened.
Shirley never said "probably nothing."
Not unless it was definitely something.
⸻
Meanwhile – Bruno's Estate – Grosse Pointe
Bruno Belrino sat in a high-backed leather chair, omertà chain gleaming under soft lamp light. His wine glass barely moved as he listened to the man across from him—a pale, twitchy informant with a bandaged arm and shaking voice.
"—they hit Doe Boy early.But they were sloppy,didn't get everything . One of 'em got hit."
Bruno swirled the wine.
"And?"
"They dropped him at St. Agnes. Came in through the back. No name. They think he's dead but he ain't."
Bruno said nothing.
Just smiled, small and sinister.
"They think they can play me," he murmured, more to himself than the informant. "They forget who wrote the game."
He lifted his glass.
"To loyalty…"
And drained it.
CHAPTER 14 – Ghosts in the Halls
The hallways of Mercy General smelled like bleach, old coffee, and secrets.
Blue laid low in a dim hospital room on the fourth floor, stitched and quiet. The ski mask was gone, the blood cleaned, and now an eyepatch covered the truth that could give him away — that icy blue eye. He stared out the window like it held answers, but all it reflected was the weight of their mistake: going early on Doe Boy.
That job wasn't supposed to jump off till next week. They were supposed to hit Doe, vanish for a few, then double back to handle Bruno's target — tie up his dirty little vendetta, then dip out the country clean. But impatience, that Detroit heat, and hunger for a win rushed the plan.
Now Blue was half-dead, stitched up, and they had half the take. Not even all of it.
Porscha and Greedy were holed up in a cheap motel off Grand River. Quiet. Real quiet. They hadn't talked much since the job. Blue going down had rattled them more than either would admit. It wasn't just the shot — it was what came after.
No sirens showed up. No cops kicked in doors. No Doe retaliation yet.
That was the part that scared Greedy.
"They too quiet," he muttered, pacing the carpet in socks, Glock tucked in his waistband.
Porscha, sitting cross-legged on the motel bed, cleaned her nails with a butterfly blade. "They regrouping," she said. "You know Doe don't play emotions. He finna come like a chessboard, not a war drum."
Greedy stopped pacing. "We gotta get Blue out that hospital. Can't leave no loose ends."
"He laid up. Mask gone. Ain't no cameras in that part of town. You forget who stitched him up?"
Greedy looked at her sideways. "Who?"
"Some nurse. Real sweet voice. Didn't catch her name. Blue said she didn't ask too many questions either."
That gave Greedy pause, but not comfort.
⸻
Back at the hospital, Shirley Morris rubbed her temples in the breakroom. She'd been going back through her patient notes, something bothering her. It wasn't the wound. It wasn't even the blood. It was something in the eyes — or eye. Cold. Calculated. Too alert for a man just shot and "found unconscious."
She hadn't mentioned it to Carl yet. No reason to. Not yet.
But it itched in the back of her head.
⸻
Somewhere deep in Greektown, under soft amber lighting and the smell of roasted lamb, Bruno Belriostirred a glass of brandy with his finger, wearing his Omertà chain like armor. He was calm, too calm, for a man who hadn't received word yet about whether Doe Boy was truly hit or just nicked.
He hadn't sent word. He hadn't called Greedy.
He waited.
When you're born into royalty, like Bruno was — son of Vicenzo Belrino, the East Coast kingpin who helped carve Detroit's mob legacy from blood and concrete — you learned early that revenge wasn't loud.
It was patient.
Bruno would wait until the mice ran out of holes. Then he'd shut every door.
⸻
Blue's phone buzzed once on the hospital table. Then stopped. No name. Just a number. Unanswered.
Across the city, Porscha looked at Greedy.
"We move tomorrow. Hit Bruno's mark. No delays. Then we disappear."
Greedy nodded slow. "Hope Blue makes it. But we ain't waitin'."
They didn't realize that while they were planning their escape, Bruno had already started planning theirs too.
And he wasn't planning for anyone to leave.
CHAPTER 15 – Blood & Badges
Gianni Costa always thought he was untouchable. Diamond chain dancing, two phones buzzing, and a penthouse view of a city he thought he ran. But tonight, Detroit reminded him what silence before the storm really feels like.
⸻
Eastside Penthouse – 1:12 AM
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
"FBI! OPEN UP!"
The fake-badge routine was tight. Greedy stood front and center, gun drawn, voice commanding. Porscha flanked him like she was born for it, cold and calculating.
Gianni opened the door halfway, confused, shirtless, high.
"Feds? What—"
Pop.
A single round ripped through his forehead, just above the left brow. The sound didn't even echo — it just existed, and Gianni didn't. He collapsed instantly. Blood spread across the marble floor like spilled wine.
Porscha checked him.
"No pulse."
"Let's ghost," Greedy said.
⸻
Detroit Mercy Hospital – ICU Wing – 2:07 AM
The ambulance came quiet. No sirens. No lights. Gianni Costa was supposed to be dead on arrival — but he wasn't.
"Gunshot wound to the skull," the paramedic shouted. "Patient still breathing."
Surgeons scrubbed in. It took three hours, one drilled skull, and a team of trauma specialists to bring him back to barely living.
Room 311. Locked down.
By dawn, the FBI was outside the door. Two agents in suits. One female agent walked with a cold stare and a holstered Glock.
"Until we know who did this, no one gets in," she told the nurse.
⸻
Room 308 – Blue's Room
Blue had been recovering slow. Tubes in his arm. Bullet still somewhere in his leg. Body healing, but not his mind.
He woke up groggy. Looked out the small glass window of his room… and saw a man in a black suit.
Another agent.
Another earpiece.
Then he saw the jacket: FBI.
His breath caught. Thoughts spiraled. Did they find out about the fake badge hit? Or Doe Boy? Or all of it?
"Shit…" he whispered, heart rate rising.
His mind still foggy, but instinct kicked in. He yanked the IV, stumbled to his feet, grabbed a hospital coat off the chair, and slipped it on to hide the blood on his gown.
He cracked the door.
Two nurses were down the hall. The agents were distracted, arguing with a doctor. This was his moment.
Blue slipped out, limping, breathing heavy, heart pounding.
He took the stairwell — barefoot, bleeding, one hand on the rail, the other pushing through pain.
⸻
Hospital Lobby – Moments Later
A janitor pushing a mop cart watched as a half-dead man in a hospital coat limped past the elevator and pushed through the back exit.
"Yo, you good?" the janitor called out.
Blue didn't answer. He just vanished into the early morning mist.
⸻
Outside Detroit Mercy – 5:46 AM
Blue sat behind a dumpster, rain drizzling. He clutched his side, sweat beading down his face.
"Feds in the building… they know. They gotta know."
His phone was gone. No way to call Greedy. No wheels. Just instincts.
He knew one thing: Detroit wasn't safe no more.
⸻
Back Inside – ICU Room 311
Gianni Costa laid unconscious. Tubes in his mouth. Monitors beeping steady.
The female agent stood watch, arms crossed. One of the detectives approached.
"Still no ID on the shooter. No prints. No casings. No witnesses."
She nodded. "This wasn't random. This was professional. And whoever did it… they're still in the city."
CHAPTER 16 – A Cold Trail Turns Hot
Detroit Mercy Hospital still smelled like bleach, metal, and desperation. Nurses whispered, security patrolled tighter, and the FBI turned a recovery floor into a crime scene.
But the agents didn't come for Blue.
At least… not yet.
⸻
Room 311 – Gianni Costa's ICU
Special Agent Nadia Trent didn't blink much. Born in Queens, raised by a single mother who ran numbers for the mob. She knew what real gangsters looked like. And Gianni Costa? He was a street prince with too many enemies and too few smarts.
She stood at the foot of his bed. Gianni lay in a coma, tubes down his throat, his skull wrapped in gauze.
A nurse walked in.
"I need to check his pressure."
"You can check it with me in the room," Nadia said.
She wasn't moving.
She hadn't left in 10 hours.
⸻
Outside Room 311 – Hallway
Nadia stepped out, finally, to take a call. That's when she noticed something off.
Room 308.
She turned and looked at the door Blue had stumbled out of hours ago. It was empty now. Fresh linens. Scrubbed floor. Too clean.
She flagged a nurse.
"Who was in 308?"
The nurse paused. "Uh… male patient. Gunshot wound. Was supposed to stay for two more nights. He disappeared this morning."
Nadia's eyes narrowed.
"Disappeared? No discharge papers?"
"No, ma'am. He just… left."
Nadia didn't move for a second. Then she reached into her blazer, pulled out a small notebook.
"What was his name?"
"Uh… Terrance king. Said he came in under emergency, no ID. Bullet wound in the thigh."
She scribbled fast.
Then she walked over to the room herself. Opened the door. Looked around. One thing stood out:
Blood.
Small smear near the doorframe. Like someone had grabbed the wall trying to keep from falling.
She crouched, ran her gloved finger along the dried stain.
"Son of a bitch," she muttered.
⸻
FBI Mobile Command Van – Parking Lot
Nadia stepped in, tossed her jacket off, and grabbed a coffee. Another agent looked up.
"Costa still out cold?"
"Yeah. But we might've had company in the next room."
"What kind of company?"
Nadia threw a photo on the table — a blurry security still of Blue, wrapped in a hospital coat, limping toward the stairwell.
"Gunshot victim. No ID. No record. Left before sun-up. Same wing as Costa. Left five hours after the hit."
"Think he's connected?"
She stared out the tinted van window.
"I think he saw something. Or did something."
She tapped her finger against the file.
"Run facial recognition. Street cams, hospital cams, traffic cams — I want to know where he went and who he is. He's bleeding, he's scared, and he's running. That kind don't run unless they dirty."
⸻
Meanwhile – Eastside Safehouse
Blue was curled on a couch, sweat-drenched, leg wrapped with a belt. Pain in his bones. Head in a fog.
Greedy stood in the kitchen, silent, staring at the wall.
"You sure you ain't see no badge?" he asked.
"Nah," Blue croaked. "But they was posted heavy across from my room. And they peeped my door. I felt it."
Greedy didn't like that.
If the FBI knew someone was in that room… it wouldn't be long before they figured out who.
Porscha stepped out the bathroom drying her hands.
"You think they know it was us?"
"Not yet," Greedy said.
"But they will."
⸻
Agent Nadia Trent now had a name.Terrance king!
And a trail of blood.
And she wasn't stopping.
CHAPTER 17 – A Cold Trail Turns Hot
Detroit Mercy Hospital buzzed with tight-lipped nurses and law enforcement shadows. The air smelled like bleach, gauze, and government secrets. Security tripled. The recovery floor turned federal. And not a soul was talking.
Because nobody was allowed to.
All nurses had been handed a single-page document:
"By signing below, you agree not to disclose any information regarding patients in Room 311, or this facility's current investigation, under penalty of federal obstruction charges."
Shirley Morris had stared at the paper for five long seconds. Her hand trembled as she signed. Her husband Carl, Detective First Class, kept asking questions.
She kept her mouth shut.
⸻
Room 311 – Gianni Costa's ICU
Special Agent Nadia Trent stood over Gianni Costa's motionless body. The stitches at his temple were tight, clean. The entry wound from the .38 slug had been nasty, but the doctors managed a miracle.
Still, he wasn't talking.
At least not yet.
A tube down his throat. Monitors blinking. His vitals, stable.
He was supposed to be dead. The streets thought he was.
And that was good.
Nadia didn't want the wolves getting second chances.
⸻
Nurse Station
Nadia approached the head nurse. "Anyone ask about him?"
The nurse hesitated.
"One visitor. Last night. A woman. Street clothes. Didn't ask to see Gianni, just… hovered around. left quick."
Nadia's jaw tightened.
"Name?"
"No ID. never signed in."
She made a note. "Description?"
"Woman had a pink wig. Hood-type vibe."
Nadia's pen froze mid-scribble.
Pink wig!
⸻
Meanwhile – Eastside Safehouse
Porscha stood frozen, holding her phone. Her pink wig lay on the counter, next to a pistol.
Greedy walked in from the back with a towel around his neck, sweat on his face.
"What's wrong?"
"They say Gianni alive."
Greedy stopped mid-step.
"The fuck you mean alive?"
"Coma. Shot in the head, yeah—but he breathing. Feds all over the hospital."
Greedy ran his hand down his face. "We hit him clean, P. I saw it."
"Apparently not clean enough."
Blue, lying on the couch with a grimace, looked up.That explains it all,"You said he dropped."
"He did," Greedy barked. "Slumped. Skull cracked. You don't walk that off."
Porscha whispered, "But he did."
Silence hung in the air.
Greedy finally spoke. "If Gianni talks, he don't just burn us. He burns Bruno too."
⸻
Outside Detroit Mercy – FBI Mobile Command Van
Nadia sipped cold coffee and stared at a grainy freeze-frame from the stairwell camera.
There he was.
The alias on record: Terrance King.
The real name: Unknown.
He left a trail of blood and paranoia.
She flipped to the next page in the file.
Notes from the nurse's observation chart:
•Gunshot wound, left thigh
•Entered hospital unconscious
•Woke up briefly during the night
•Disappeared before dawn
She underlined the note. "Woke up."
That meant he saw something.
Or someone.
⸻
Carl Morris' Living Room – Later That Evening
Carl was pacing. "You're telling me you can't tell me anything and I'm your husband!
Shirley sat quietly on the couch. She stirred her tea. Didn't say a word.
He stepped closer. "Shirley. You was on duty. You saw something. You heard something. What's going on in that damn room?"
She looked up.
"I can't tell you, Carl."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I signed something. I talk… I lose my job. Maybe worse."
Carl's jaw tightened. "So we playing defense now? Letting the feds run wild in our city?"
She didn't answer. Her hands were trembling.
⸻
Parking Lot, Same Time – Dirty Bert's Black Crown Vic
Tony "Dirty Bert" Bertoni sat with a cigarette between his lips, watching the hospital from across the street.
He wasn't stupid.
Feds didn't show up for any old gangster. And if Gianni Costa was still breathing… that meant heat.
Bert's burner buzzed.
A message from an anonymous number:
"Don't do nothing stupid. Let me handle this."
He scoffed and flicked the ash out the window.
"Too late for that" he muttered.
Because Bert had already made his move.
⸻
Back in the Van – Agent Nadia Trent
The facial recognition team was still running matches.
But Nadia had a gut feeling.
The man in Room 308 wasn't just a witness.
He was a player.
And when the blood dries, the smart ones always run.
But the guilty ones?
They come back.
CHAPTER 18 – Dead Men Walking
It was quiet in Montana. Too quiet for Dorsey Fields.
The safe house was tucked behind a ridge, surrounded by woods and snowdrifts, the kind of place no one would look for an 8-year-old from the Detroit streets. But Dorsey wasn't stupid — she knew this wasn't safety. It was silence. And silence meant secrets.
She sat at the window drawing a picture of her father — Shake and Bake — like she remembered him before the blood, before the sirens, before everything changed. Two federal agents stood near the front door, posted like statues. They didn't speak to her much. They didn't need to. Dorsey knew they were scared too.
Meanwhile, back in Detroit, the crew was scattered and bruised, licking their wounds and planning their escape. Greedy, Porscha, and Blue were holed up in an old safehouse near 8 Mile, trying to disappear off the grid. Gianni Costa was supposed to be dead. But instead, he was in a coma, surrounded by FBI agents at Detroit Mercy, and that changed everything.
Word came through fast — Bruno Belrino wanted to meet. No reason given. No location yet. Just a message: "We need to talk before you vanish."
The timing couldn't be worse. They were already making fake passports. Tickets were being printed. Porscha had a guy lined up in Tijuana to receive them. But if Bruno was calling now, something was off.
Then Chubby called.
Greedy answered. "Yo?"
"Y'all need to move. Now," Chubby's voice was low and urgent. "Feds sniffin'. Somebody talkin'. And guess what? That hospital? The nurses had to sign NDAs. Whole damn floor locked down."
Porscha looked up. "Wait, what?"
Greedy paced. "They tryin' to protect Gianni.
Chubby grunted. "And you know who's leadin' the federal team?"
"Who?"
"Agent Naudia Trent. Cold. Smart. Real calculating. She was asking around about a John Doe in Room 308… and Blue, you was in 308,right?"
Blue didn't answer. His hands were already shaking.
"They don't know your name," Chubby added. "But they know somebody was there… and left in a hurry."
Outside, a police chopper buzzed the skyline.
Inside, trust was cracking.
And Bruno's message still hung in the air like smoke.
CHAPTER 18 (continued)
Witness Protection, Montana
The wind moved slow in the Montana hills—tall grass swaying like secrets in hiding. A small white cabin sat off a dirt road, surrounded by fences, snow-capped trees, and not much else. No neighbors. No cameras. Just silence and survival.
Inside the cabin, Dorsey Fields sat on the couch cross-legged, a children's sketchbook on her lap. She was drawing a man's face from memory—tall, with a blue eye and a cold stare that lived in her dreams. Her crayons broke from the pressure.
Across from her, a woman sipped coffee. Yoga pants. Zip-up hoodie. Blonde ponytail tucked through the back of a black trucker cap. She looked like she belonged in a farmers market, not federal protection detail. But beneath the hoodie was a holstered Glock, and in her back pocket—a badge with a Department of Justice seal.
She glanced at Dorsey's drawing and spoke softly, "That him again?"
Dorsey nodded. "He's always watchin'."
The woman gave a half-smile, the kind agents learned to give in training—warm, but forgettable. "Well, if he ever shows up here, he's got hell to pay."
Just then, tires cracked over gravel outside.
The agent stood. Smooth. No panic. She tucked her coffee mug under the sink, pulled her jacket tighter, and stepped toward the window like she was going to greet a friend. But her hand rested near her waist, fingers brushing the grip of the gun hidden under fleece.
A white sedan rolled up.
Naudia stepped out, sunglasses on, hair braided, long coat pulled shut tight. She looked like someone on a mission—and the agent saw it.
Naudia walked slow. Hands visible. Respectful.
The agent opened the door before Naudia could knock. "You're early."
Naudia pulled off her glasses. "Traffic was kind to me."
"Name?" the agent asked flatly.
"Naudia. From Detroit.
A tense pause.
Then the agent stepped back and let her in.
Dorsey looked up, wide-eyed. "You came from Michigan?"
Naudia nodded and crouched down, opening her phone. She showed the image of Blue lying in a hospital bed, tubes in his mouth, head bandaged—still breathing.
Dorsey stared. Her small hand covered her mouth.
"Is that him?" Naudia asked.
Dorsey didn't answer right away. She blinked hard, heart racing. Then finally… "Yeah. That's him.
The agent stepped closer, reading the image too. "Where was this taken?"
"Detroit Mercy," Naudia said. "Three nights ago."
The agent muttered under her breath. "That explains the chatter."
Naudia looked up. "What chatter?"
"Feds sniffin' around that hospital like bloodhounds," she said. "But I thought they were after someone else."
Naudia raised an eyebrow. "You think they know about her?"
The agent gave a small shake of the head. "Not yet. But if they connect her to what happened… it's over."
She turned to Dorsey. "We might have to move again."
Naudia stood. "Before you do, she needs to tell us everything she remembers—every detail.
The agent looked to Dorsey. "Can you do that, sweetheart?"
Dorsey swallowed. Then nodded slowly.
CHAPTER 19 — Into the Lion's Mouth
The rain slapped against the windshield like it had a personal grudge. Greedy sat behind the wheel of a stolen black Durango, parked three blocks from the hospital. Wipers moved slow. Almost like the city didn't care if you saw what was coming.
Porscha was in the passenger seat, dressed in a navy-blue trench with the FBI badge clipped to her belt. The plan was airtight — fake FBI credentials, burner radios, and two sets of body armor hidden in the trunk.
"You sure this Gianni motherfucker still breathing?" she asked, loading a fresh mag into her Glock 26.
Greedy nodded, staring out at the traffic light ahead. "They got federal vans outside the hospital. Security went up, not down. That means he talking soon."
"Then we clip him tonight."
Greedy's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. But it's not just him we gotta worry about anymore."
⸻
Inside the Hospital – 7th Floor ICU
FBI Agent Denise Holloway stood at the nurses' station, watching the hallway through mirrored sunglasses even though it was night. She knew the hit team was still out there. The way Gianni flinched in his coma when they adjusted the lights — he wasn't brain-dead. He was scared. And that meant somebody was coming.
She leaned into her radio.
"Any movement on stairwell C?"
A crackled voice responded, "Negative. All clear."
Denise didn't believe in coincidences.
Two Detroit cops offed in one week. A witness kid vanished. Blue Reyes — prime suspect in multiple homicides — disappears from his hospital bed with no discharge papers.
She sipped cold coffee.
Something was boiling under the surface. And the streets were too quiet.
⸻
Montana – Federal Safe House
Dorsey Fields sat on a floral couch, staring out at the snow through the blinds. Her small hands gripped a red crayon like it was a knife.
Naudia, dressed in jeans and a faux fur coat, sat across from her, legs crossed, watching.
"I saw you draw a picture of a man with tattoos on his face," Naudia said, voice calm. "Was that him?"
Dorsey didn't answer.
Naudia slid a photo onto the coffee table — Greedy's mugshot, printed from a federal database.
"What about him?"
The girl's eyes flicked toward it — just for a second.
Naudia smiled, then reached for her phone.
"He's not supposed to be here," she whispered.
Outside the cabin, a black Jeep idled in the snow. A second agent stepped out, but before he could knock—
a sniper shot cracked the silence.
The agent dropped.
Inside, Naudia tackled Dorsey to the floor as the window exploded inward.
Back in Detroit
Chubby's burner rang once. Then twice.
He picked up, voice low. "Talk."
"You gotta pull 'em back," said a voice — someone from inside Bruno's circle. "The FBI just sent four more agents to guard Gianni. Something spooked them."
Chubby rubbed his forehead. "That ain't good."
"No. And one more thing — Dirty Bert ain't answering. You think he flipped?"
Chubby's jaw locked up.
"If he flipped, he ain't the only one catching bullets tonight."
⸻
8th Floor Rooftop – Detroit Mercy Hospital
Porscha clipped the fake FBI badge to her belt, adjusted her earpiece, and moved across the rooftop like a ghost. Greedy followed, dressed in all black, carrying a duffel bag loaded with two suppressed MAC-11s and a custom smoke grenade rigged with tear gas.
They moved fast.
Two security guards at the north stairwell were already down, tasered and zip-tied.
Greedy pulled a small handheld radio from his pocket.
"Chubby, we're inside."
Chubby's voice came through low:
"Make it clean. In and out. FBI's watching everything."
Greedy replied, "They always watching. They just don't know who's watching back."
CHAPTER 20 – Loose Ends Burn the Loudest
The heart monitor beeped steady. Gianni Costa—blinked slowly, his world a haze of fluorescent lights and morphine.
Naudia sat beside the bed in her FBI windbreaker, notepad in hand. "Do you remember what happened ?"
Gianni's lips moved, cracked and dry. "They… they shot me…"
Outside the hospital room, two armed agents stood by the door, radios clicking with static. Something felt off. Tension hung in the air like gunpowder before a spark.
Then the elevator dinged.
Greedy stepped out, dressed like hospital staff, pushing a linen cart. Behind him, Porscha rolled a mop bucket. Blue limped in with a neck brace and a visitor's pass taped to his chest.
They moved with deadly precision.
Greedy nodded at blue. "This is it."
Blue pulled a suppressed Glock from the mop bucket. Porscha peeled back the linen pile to reveal an SMG. In seconds, all hell broke loose.
BANG-BANG!
TAT-TAT-TAT!
The agents outside the door were hit before they could draw. Naudia jumped up, drawing her sidearm, diving for cover.
Inside the room, Gianni panicked. "No—no—wait!"
Greedy kicked open the door.
"You were supposed to die fool," he said coldly.
But Porscha hesitated.
Naudia fired two rounds through the wall, grazing Greedy's arm.
"GO!" he shouted.
They returned fire—glass shattered, alarms blared, patients screamed down the halls.
Security poured in, followed by FBI backup. They were outnumbered.
Blue laid down suppressive fire. Greedy grabbed a rolling gurney and used it to bulldoze through the hallway. Porscha covered their exit with wild, accurate bursts.
By the time the tactical team reached the Room , they were gone.
But blood was everywhere.
One hour later.
Naudia stood in the wrecked hospital room, her face pale.
"You said they wouldn't come here," her superior barked over comms.
"They're desperate," she muttered. "They're cornered." But don't worry we have everything we need to bring them down…
A nurse handed her a tablet.
On it: airport surveillance footage. Greedy, Porscha, and blue spotted at Toronto Pearson International, boarding a flight to Cuba.
Fake passports. Paid-off customs. One step ahead.
⸻
Final Scene.
The plane soared over the Gulf.
Greedy leaned back, arm bandaged.
"You think we'll make it?" Porscha asked.
"For now," he said. "But there ain't no such thing as peace in this life. Only delays."
Blue laughed. "Well I'm delayin' with a mojito in my hand and my toes in the sand."
They all went quiet.
Then Greedy added, "Next time we touch U.S. soil… we finish it. All of it."
TO BE CONTINUED…
EXTRA SCENE – BRUNO KNOWS
Location: Bruno Belrio's private cigar lounge – Detroit, MI – 3:14 A.M.
The room was dim, soaked in deep maroon and cigar smoke, with a silent jazz record turning on the old vinyl in the corner. Bruno Belrio sat alone in a leather chair imported from Naples. His hands were laced together, eyes locked on a glowing screen across from him—a custom surveillance setup patched directly into airport records, toll booth footage, and underground informants.
The digital trail had already confirmed it.
They ran.
Greedy, Porscha, blue, and whoever else was left in that sinking ship. Bruno leaned forward, picked up a crystal tumbler filled with aged grappa, and sipped it slowly. The ice clinked like a ticking clock.
A soft knock came to the door.
"Enter."
Mannie Giseli stepped in, slick suit wrinkled, face twitching with anxiety. "They made it out, Bruno. They're headed north—private airstrip off of Route 9. Montana, maybe even Vancouver if they push through."
Bruno didn't blink. He simply nodded.
"I know," he said, voice flat as concrete.
Mannie hesitated. "You… you knew they'd run?"
"I counted on it." Bruno stood, fixing the cuffs of his shirt. "Greedy thinks with his adrenaline. Porscha thinks with revenge,and blue thinks with his heart,That's what makes them dangerous—but also predictable."
He moved toward a bookshelf and pressed a button behind one of the spines. A small compartment opened, revealing a satellite tracker—blinking red.
"You see," Bruno continued, "Blue wasn't the only one I had eyes on in that hospital. I had a tracker stitched into his leg. Custom job. Military-grade frequency. I know what city they're flying to before the plane takes off."
Mannie whistled low. "So what's next?"
Bruno poured himself another drink. "Next? We let 'em breathe. Let 'em think they're safe. Let the walls get cold. Then we take everything they touch."
He looked up at a wall of monitors. One of them zoomed in on a Montana rest stop. A blurry figure—A special agent with Dorsey .
Bruno smiled without warmth.
"They ran from Detroit," he said. "But they're still living in my world."