Page 186 of The Coldest: Stay Dangerous Part 2

“I would think Snow would soften yo ass up, but that’s wishful thinking,” he whispers into the night. I hand him another mask but he denies it, only taking the gloves, so I close my trunk and we cross the quiet street.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

There’s a path to the side of their house, covered in trees from their neighboring house. They don’t even have cameras up, for whatever reason, thinking they’re safe in the home Turk bought for him at Haze’s behest.

Completely in their own world. Thinking the things that go bump in the night can’t get to them in this hoity toity neighborhood. Far away from the hoodlums, the loan sharks coming to collect. Able to take the one grandchild they claim, though from my conversation with Deucey last week, even he’s over the bullshit they pull.

It’s a shame, really. Aaron Shaw has finally conquered his demons. No gambling, and even holding down a job as manager of a hardware store. He adores Rue, loves Patience, and posts about Snow on his Facebook. But none of that shit matters when you yield to your evil ass wife. So whenever they meet up in the afterlife, he’ll have her to thank.

It’s nothing to climb over the side gate, landing as quiet as possible on the other side. There Mr. Shaw is, enjoying a cigar, looking out toward their pool, probably thinking about whatever the fuck lame ass niggas do.

He can’t see us in the shadows. Just for fun, I pull out my piece and fire one into his shoulder.

His cry is louder than the bullet whizzing through the suppressor into the air. The cigar drops onto the table so his other hand can grip his arm. Red blooms on his white shirt.

He still hasn’t looked our way. Probably doesn’t believe he’s been shot, since there was no sound. How two of the most gangsta bitches I know came from his sack is beyond me. He don’t even have a weapon on him, but out in the open like this.

“Ultimate cuck,” I mumble, before stepping out of the shadows.

Aaron Shaw’s head only turns when I’m a few feet from him. He doesn’t recognize me, which is fine. Maybe this scar isn’t as prominent as I thought.

Raising my gun, I gesture for him to stand. “In the house.”

“Please… take whatever you want, but don’t hurt my wife–”

The barrel of my gun slams into his cheek, and he drops to the floor of the deck. I walk over to his head, and send one through his temple.

“Well, shit,” Turk chuckles, joining me finally.

The side of my lip curls, but I refrain from spitting on him. “Run through this muthafucka. I’m not dragging this out.”

We both go into the open sliding door, with Turk turning toward the kitchen while I go toward the bedrooms.

Turk’s loud as fuck, pulling out drawers and shit. I can hear him from the hallway, just like I can hear Amani Shaw's breath hitch from the bedroom.

“Aaron?” she calls, her voice shaking. I step down harder on the carpeted floor, so that the wood under creaks.

The curse under her breath has me biting a smile down, but I unleash it when I finally step into her bedroom.

She’s in the middle of the bed, her sheets drawn up to her neck to hide whatever she thinks an intruder would want from her ass.

Unlike her husband, Amani Shaw recognizes me immediately, and disgust and fear war in her eyes as she glares at me.

I really didn’t have a plan when I woke up today and decided to kill Snow’s parents. Kinda been winging it as I go along. I brought matches and the gas can in case I wanted them to perish in a housefire. A lil’ chloroform if I wanted to knock them out to torture them. My knives would have been too much. Snow may not care for them like Haze, but I don’t know if she’ll ever ask about how I did it, and I don’t want to lie.

But now, standing in the doorway, half listening to Amani Shaw’s rant about how she knew I was a hoodlum, what I actually want to do tonight snaps into place.

“You don’t deserve my daughter! I’m putting your Black ass in jail–”

The bullet reaches her big ass forehead before she can grab the phone on her nightstand. Her brain matter covers the headboard, her face frozen in shock as the light drains from her eyes.

“Good riddance,” I mumble, before snapping on my gloves and getting to work.

Yeah, these niggas green foreal. No real safe, only money under the mattress. The pockets of my pants are heavy from the jewelry in the closet, while ten thousand dollars sits in the pocket of my hoodie next to my piece.

Turk and I meet back up in the living room. “We torching it?” he asks, holding up the gas can.

“Nah. Come over tomorrow morning and call it in.”