The city did not erupt when Mateo died.
It contracted.
Sirens still echoed in the distance. Patrol lights still flashed against brick walls and storefront glass. News vans still idled near crime scenes that no longer mattered. But beneath all of it, the city pulled inward, like a muscle tightening before impact.
People stopped talking loud.
They stopped lingering.
They stopped pretending they didn't know what was happening.
Mateo had not died in the street where men expected him to die. He had not been finished in a car or a club or a parking lot soaked in bad decisions. He had died under fluorescent lights, surrounded by machines designed to keep people alive.
That mattered.
Because when men died where they were supposed to be safe, the streets did not ask questions. They chose sides.
And by sunrise, the city had already decided who it believed was responsible.
Andre Gatewood.
Candles appeared along the Eastside before the sun fully cleared the skyline. Some were placed carefully. Others were shoved into cracks in the sidewalk or melted into old beer bottles. Photos of Mateo moved through phones faster than facts ever could. Old pictures resurfaced. New captions were written. Stories were edited.
Mateo smiling beside cars that weren't his.
Mateo shaking hands with men who barely remembered his name.
Mateo standing in rooms where power had brushed him just long enough for him to think it belonged to him.
Death elevated him.
It always did.
Men who had never spoken to Mateo nodded solemnly when his name came up. Men who had envied him spoke like they had lost a brother. Grief turned into posture. Posture turned into allegiance.
Nobody talked about IVs.
Nobody talked about heart rates.
Nobody talked about complications.
The streets said Andre finished him.
That was enough.
Andre stood alone in the office above the shuttered club, jacket draped over a chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The lights were off except for one lamp near the window, casting shadows that made the room feel smaller than it was.
Below him, the Eastside moved differently now.
Cars rolled slower. Corners gathered tighter. Conversations happened in glances and nods instead of words. Men carried themselves like they were already bracing for retaliation.
Andre's phone buzzed on the desk.
He did not touch it.
Andre had learned early that the first messages after a death like this were useless. Panic spoke before clarity. Fear talked too much. He waited for the second wave. The one that mattered.
Behind him, Torian sat on the couch, drink untouched, knee bouncing like it had a mind of its own. He had been sweating since dawn.
"They already blaming us," Torian said again, like repetition might change the truth.
Andre didn't turn. "Of course they are."
"They saying cartel teams moving in," Torian continued. "Not locals. Out-of-state plates. Hotel rooms. Storage units."
Andre nodded slightly. "That's how La Sombra works."
Torian swallowed. "Boss… this hospital shit makes it look bad."
Andre finally turned his head just enough for Torian to see his face.
Calm. Flat. Dangerous.
"You think it would look better if he died screaming on the sidewalk?" Andre asked.
Torian shook his head quickly. "No, I just mean—"
"You mean you're nervous," Andre said. "And nervous men talk too much."
Torian shut up.
Andre walked to the desk and picked up his phone. He scrolled slowly, deliberately.
Another stash house quiet.
Another lieutenant not checking in.
Another burner going dead.
The same story told from different mouths.
Andre finished him.
Andre went too far.
Andre crossed the line.
Andre exhaled through his nose.
The story was already written.
"That's fine," he murmured.
Torian looked up. "What's fine?"
Andre locked the phone and set it face down. "If they want a villain, I'll give them one."
Across the city, the cartel did not mourn.
They moved.
Cars with plates from states nobody checked slid through highway exits and side streets, blending into traffic that had no reason to notice them. Hotels near interstates filled quietly. Storage units were rented with cash. Apartments were secured under names that meant nothing.
No colors.
No flags.
No noise.
Rafael stood on a narrow balcony overlooking a strip of low-lit streets. The air smelled like old cigarettes and money that had changed hands too many times. He watched movement instead of listening to reports.
Movement never lied.
"They're blaming Andre," one of his men said quietly behind him.
Rafael nodded. "Good."
"And Southside?" the man asked.
Rafael paused.
"They're quiet," he said. "That tells me everything."
The man hesitated. "You want them handled too?"
Rafael shook his head. "Not yet."
He leaned against the railing, eyes scanning the city like it was a board already half played.
"They didn't touch Mateo," Rafael continued. "They understood weight. Andre doesn't. Andre confuses force with control."
The man nodded. "And the girl."
Rafael's eyes flicked briefly, almost imperceptibly. "She's leverage. For someone."
The cleaners stayed dark.
No music.
No phones left uncovered.
No one standing outside longer than necessary.
Southside had learned the value of invisibility.
Big Head stood over the map on the desk, red markings bleeding into black ones where Andre's territory was collapsing inward. The Eastside looked less like a kingdom now and more like a body bruised from the inside out.
Murk leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Cartel crews hit two more spots overnight."
Jack nodded. "No warning. No sound. Just empty."
Psycho cracked his knuckles, restless. "Andre about to lose his mind."
"That's the danger," Big Head said without looking up. "Men who panic stop thinking."
Rob checked a burner and looked up. "Funeral confirmed."
Big Head's eyes didn't leave the map. "Public?"
"Church, procession, burial," Rob said. "Andre making it big."
Big Head nodded slowly.
"He wants eyes," he said. "Wants to see who shows."
Psycho smirked. "And who shoots."
"Not us," Big Head replied.
The room stilled.
"Not directly," he added. "Noise draws attention. Attention draws conclusions."
Jack frowned. "Then why are we watching it."
Big Head tapped the map again, this time near a cluster of bars along the river.
"Because while everyone watches grief," he said, "someone else forgets they're exposed."
Murk's eyes sharpened. "Torian."
Big Head nodded. "He's nervous. He's sloppy. And Andre's too busy holding the crown to notice the leash slipping."
Rob exhaled slowly. "You want him alive."
"I want options," Big Head said.
Lo felt the shift without anyone explaining it.
The way conversations stopped when she entered a room. The way cars slowed near crosswalks. The way silence followed her like something trying not to be seen.
She locked her apartment door and leaned against it, breathing evenly, refusing to let fear turn into panic. She had grown up around tension. She knew when the city was lying to itself.
Outside, Psycho crossed the street without looking at her. Rob's car idled half a block back, engine off, presence intentional.
Andre's men were still watching.
So was Southside.
The difference was motive.
By nightfall, the city had chosen its truth.
Mateo didn't die in a hospital.
Mateo was murdered.
Andre Gatewood finished him.
That version spread faster than any correction ever could.
Andre knew it.
Standing in his office, watching another patrol car roll by, he allowed himself a thin smile.
"They want war," he said quietly.
The lieutenant near the door shifted. "Funeral tomorrow."
Andre nodded. "Then tomorrow, we see who thinks they're brave."
The morning of the funeral arrived bright and heavy, the kind of day that made everything feel exposed.
Sunlight spilled over the Eastside like it was trying to reveal secrets people usually kept buried. Streets closed early. Cars parked crooked and tight. Men gathered in black that didn't quite fit right, hands folded, eyes never still.
Women moved quietly between them, grief worn like armor.
Grief was only the surface.
Underneath it lived fear. Pride. Anger. Calculation.
Andre Gatewood watched it all from the back seat of a black SUV idling two blocks away from the church. He did not rush. He did not arrive early.
Kings did not arrive early to their own ceremonies.
His brother's face stared back at him from posters taped to poles and storefronts. Younger. Smiling. Alive in ways Andre barely remembered.
Little Dre.
Too loud.
Too reckless.
Too proud to listen.
Dead.
Andre's jaw tightened, not from sorrow, but from responsibility. Everything that happened to Dre traced back to him.
The driver glanced at Andre through the mirror. "They ready."
Andre nodded once. "Let them wait."
Outside, unmarked cars blended with mourners. Some held flowers. Some held weapons. Some held both.
Cartel eyes were there too. Andre could feel them even without seeing them. Men who didn't belong, standing too still, watching everything except the casket.
They weren't there to cry.
They were there to confirm.
Andre adjusted his cufflinks and leaned back.
Let them watch.
Across the city, four men stood in silence inside a stripped apartment that smelled like dust and oil.
Keon checked his rifle again. Controlled. Calm.
Dre tightened his gloves.
Luis counted breaths.
Malik watched the street through a sliver in the blinds.
No one spoke.
They didn't need to.
Murk's voice came through the earpiece. "You got eyes?"
"Visual," Malik said. "Heavy presence."
Keon added, "Multiple layers. Andre visible. Others not."
"Cartel," Murk said.
"Yeah," Keon confirmed.
Then Big Head's voice came through, calm and distant.
"Remember," he said. "You move only when the crowd compresses. Controlled fire. Clean exit."
Dre swallowed. "Andre?"
"You don't touch him," Big Head said immediately.
That instruction sat heavy.
Malik exhaled. "Copy."
The line went quiet.
Outside, the city held its breath.
The gunfire at the funeral did not echo the way Andre expected.
It didn't roll like chaos.
It didn't tear the air apart in wild bursts.
It cracked sharp and controlled, snapping attention instead of drowning it.
That was the first thing Andre noticed.
The second was how fast it ended.
Bodies hit pavement. Glass shattered. People screamed and ran, trampling grief under panic. Flowers scattered. Candles fell. Phones dropped and cracked open like broken eyes.
And then it was over.
Too fast.
Andre stood frozen for a fraction of a second longer than anyone around him. Torian grabbed his arm hard.
"Boss, MOVE."
Andre shook him off and scanned the street.
Not at the dead.
Not at the wounded.
At the exits.
Nothing.
No one lingering.
No one chasing.
No one celebrating.
Just absence.
That absence landed heavier than the bullets.
"This wasn't random," Andre said quietly.
Torian's face was pale. "It was Southside. Had to be."
Andre shook his head slowly.
"No," he said again. "Southside doesn't move like that."
Sirens started screaming from every direction. Police flooded the street in waves, some panicked, some already slipping into posture. Andre's men tightened around him, forming a moving wall as they pulled him toward the SUV.
As he stepped over shattered glass and fallen flowers, Andre felt something unfamiliar crawl up his spine.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Someone else was shaping the chaos now.
Inside the SUV, Torian slammed the door shut and turned on Andre.
"You saw that. That was coordinated."
"Yes," Andre said flatly.
"They fired controlled. Masked. Clean exit."
"Yes."
"So who the hell was that?"
Andre leaned back and closed his eyes for one breath.
"New blood," he said.
Torian frowned. "What."
"Hungry," Andre continued. "Disciplined. Trying to be seen without being known."
Torian's voice shook. "They shot up your brother's funeral."
Andre opened his eyes, gaze sharp.
"No," he corrected. "They shot up my image."
That was worse.
The
Across the city, Big Head listened without speaking.
Gunfire reports.
Exit confirmation.
No names. No faces.
Jack exhaled slowly. "They got out."
Murk nodded. "No pursuit."
Psycho paced. "Andre still breathing."
Big Head leaned back in his chair. "Good."
Psycho stopped pacing. "That still sound crazy when you say it."
"Dead men don't make mistakes," Big Head replied. "Living ones do."
Rob's voice came through the mic. "Police scrambling. No clear suspects yet. Media already calling it a gang war escalation."
Big Head closed his eyes briefly.
Exactly as planned.
The police response was immediate and confused.
Detective Harris stood behind yellow tape staring at the street like it had betrayed him personally. Shell casings glinted in the sun. Blood smeared across concrete that had been swept clean just hours earlier.
"This is a message," Lopez said quietly beside him.
Harris nodded. "Yeah. But not the one everyone thinks."
"They're saying Southside," Lopez added.
"They always say Southside," Harris replied. "But this doesn't feel like them."
Lopez glanced at the shell casing near the curb. "Clean fire. Tight grouping. Masked."
Harris sighed. "Which means we're chasing ghosts again."
And ghosts never testified.
That night, the cartel moved.
Not loud.
Not public.
Not emotional.
One Andre stash house went dark without a sound. Another burned only after everyone inside had already been removed from the equation. Phones stopped ringing. Cars stopped moving.
Rafael read the reports without reaction.
"They hit the funeral," one of his men said.
Rafael nodded. "I know."
"Southside?"
"No," Rafael replied. "Recruits."
The man frowned. "That's dangerous."
Rafael's mouth curved faintly. "That's leverage."
Andre returned to his office well after midnight.
The city lights below flickered like warning signals he could not shut off. His phone buzzed again and again with updates that all sounded the same.
Another block gone.
Another man missing.
Another piece removed.
Andre stared at the map on his desk.
For the first time in years, it did not look permanent.
He erased one red marking.
Just one.
A concession.
A crack.
And cracks spread.
Lo felt the city break before she knew why.
The helicopters overhead.
The sirens that did not stop.
The way people avoided eye contact like it could be contagious.
She sat at her kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug that had gone cold, watching the light shift across the wall. Outside, Psycho leaned against a bus stop sign pretending to scroll his phone. Rob's car sat farther back, engine off.
Protection without acknowledgment.
She didn't know what happened at the funeral.
She only knew something had snapped.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She stared at it for a long moment before answering.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Then a breath.
Then the line went dead.
She set the phone down slowly.
Fear did not come all at once. It never did. It crept.
Back at the cleaners, Big Head stood alone.
The others had moved to their positions. Orders given. Rotations set. Silence enforced.
Big Head stared at the map one last time before folding it.
The funeral had done exactly what it was supposed to do.
Andre was exposed.
The cartel was unleashed.
The city was confused.
And Southside remained unseen.
That was power.
But power always demanded payment.
Big Head picked up his burner.
A single message waited.
Torian drinking again. Talking.
Big Head exhaled slowly.
The board was set.
The war had shifted.
And the next move would not be loud.
It would be precise.