Chapter 4
“Domino”
The only reasons I ever left Alejandro’s side were for my mama’s birthday, Mother’s Day, and either Thanksgiving or Christmas.
Three times a year… that was the rule.
Everything else in my life came second to the business, but those three days belonged to her. That year, it was Thanksgiving.
My hometown was Baltimore, and not the pretty parts shown on postcards either, but the real Baltimore—row houses, corner stores behind bulletproof glass, and neighborhoods where everybody knew everybody’s business, whether you liked it or not.
I drove down the familiar block slowly, letting my eyes travel over the place that raised me.
Same cracked sidewalks.
Same corner boys.
Same old lady peeking through the blinds across the street.
The only difference wasme.I wasn’t that skinny kid running errands for a dollar anymore; I was Domino.
My mama still lived on the same street, but the house looked nothing like it used to.
It now had fresh paint, new windows and cameras posted on every angle of the property.
I tried to get her real security once, but she shut that idea down quick.
Talkin’ ‘bout,“Boy, what I need guards for? I raised you on this street. These folks watched you grow up. Ain’t nobody about to run up on me unless they trying to get embarrassed.”
That was Mama.
Stubborn as hell… still hood… still fearless.
So instead of guards, I made sure everything else was straight.
She had three cars sitting in the driveway, even though she barely drove one of them. Money stayed in her account longer than she ever thought possible. And when she turned forty-five, I made her retire whether she wanted to or not.
No more night shifts.
No more double shifts.
No more aching feet.
No more coming home too tired to even eat.
Growing up, Mama worked jobs I didn’t even know the names of.
Shit, you name it, she probably worked it.
Sometimes I’d wake up, and she was gone. Other times, I’d go to sleep, and she still wasn’t home. But there was always food, always clean clothes, and always love. So ain’t no way I was letting the woman who raised me struggle, especially after everything she sacrificed just to keep me alive and out the streets… when if the streets found me anyway.
Top of Form
Bottom of Form
My father was murdered by a gang member when I was four years old. I don’t remember him much, but I do remember theway my mama used to cry when she thought I was asleep. That alone was enough to make me hate the streets.
Funny how life works, though—the streets ended up loving me.