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And she still wanted me.

The elevator dinged.

I stepped off.

Couple niggas greeted me while I made my way through.

“Lev.”

“What’s good?”

“Aye, Lawless.”

I dapped up Diontay Rowe, a platinum rapper who had been coming around since before I got locked up. Nigga had a fitted pulled low and at least forty bands sitting beside his chips like somebody in here gave a fuck who he was.

At the next table, Mathew James, wide receiver for Jersey, slapped his cards down.

“Bullshit!”

Everybody around the table laughed.

“That’s twenty-five,” the dealer told him.

I stopped long enough to look at Malik’s chips.

“You getting your ass cooked.”

He pointed at me. “Your establishment cheating.”

“My establishment don’t need your little NFL check.”

“Nigga, fuck you.”

I laughed and kept walking.

Kiana’s office was toward the back.

I opened the door without knocking.

She was behind her desk with a stack of money in front of her, glasses low on her nose while Tyler sat across from her smoking and scrolling through his phone.

Kiana looked up.

“What’s up, baby?”

She looked me over.

“Came for a quickie?”

Tyler laughed.

I chuckled. “Nah.”

Kiana frowned. “Then why the fuck you in here?”

“Xay paid yet?”

She laughed.