The reception was winding down and Kennedy, TaTa, Yatta, Eisani, and Kisa were sitting at one of the round tables, just kicking it. “I’m glad that you at least made it to my wedding,” Kennedy said to her cousin TaTa.

“Don’t start that mess, Ken. I’m here.”

“That’s not the point.” Kennedy slurred from all the champagne she had consumed. “You were supposed to be a bridesmaid, man. Eisani, talk to your sister.”

“I know you don’t think I can reason with her?” Eisani questioned, her eyebrows raised, “Everybody knows she’s a weirdo.”

TaTa playfully threw a flower at Eisani. “You my sister, you supposed to be on my side.”

Out of all the cousins TaTa had always been the strange one, but lately she’d been acting even stranger than usual. Her svelte size-twelve frame had suddenly shrunk to a six, and her normally radiant cinnamon-colored skin was now pale and blotchy. Whenever she came around, she was silent and withdrawn. It was clear that something was stressing her.

Maybe it was because she’d been busted for selling two bricks of cocaine to a female undercover cop. There was no way she could ever get them to understand that she was cooperating with the police. TaTa recognized that she wasn’t built to do any jail time. The more people she set up, the more time got shaved off her potential sentence. Her aim was to shave it down to zero.

“TaTa, you know not being in the wedding with us was some foul shit,” Kisa said.

“How you calling me foul, Kane? Don’t nobody know what I’m going through right now.”

“Don’t nobody know ’cause you don’t tell nobody shit,” Kisa shot back, rolling her eyes.

“Okay, that’s enough, you two,” Kennedy said. “Look, Ta, we not your girls. We’re your family, and you can always come to us. You acting like you don’t know. Now, what’s up wit you?”

TaTa sighed. “Kennedy, this not the place to air out my issues. This ya wedding night, ma, let’s keep celebrating. I promise in due time each one of you will know what’s up with me.”

Over the next three months, the number of bloodstained sidewalks and white chalk lines multiplied weekly throughout the blocks of Harlem as a small-scale war erupted between Suef and Butta. Most—if not all—of the casualties were lower-level crew members. What Suef failed to realize was that he was the only one fighting for those blocks because he needed them. Butta’s money was long; the cash those blocks brought in was nothing compared to what he made distributing cocaine and heroin up and down the East Coast.

For Butta, it was all about respect. With every passing day he was becoming increasingly annoyed that no one could find Suef. The majority of Suef’s team had been murdered or severely injured at Butta’s orders. But that wasn’t good enough. He wanted Suef dealt with. As long as Suef was alive, Butta would continue to be tense, expecting him to strike at any moment.