“What I tell you? Murder is something you do alone and only when…”

“Completely necessary,” Messiah interrupted, finishing his sentence.

“No offense, OG, but it’s necessary. You didn’t see her,” Messiah said, his tone flat and serious. “And Isa is my man. I trust him.”

“You don’t know who you can trust. You can’t trust anybody when it comes to murder. The same nigga that help you put a body in the grave will be the same nigga pointing the finger at you in a court of law. Go home and make sure Morgan’s good,” Ethic said.

Ethic knew Messiah had plenty of bodies on him. The tattooed tear on the outer corner of his eye was a misprint. Ethic was sure he had sent more than one to their maker. He knew the burden that death put on a man’s soul, however, and Ethic wouldn’t allow Messiah to dive deeper in a pool of sin. Not on his behalf.

“No offense, big homie, but this ain’t about you,” Messiah said. Messiah had never feared anyone, not even Ethic; but he would be remised if he didn’t admit that it took every ounce of courage in him to admit that he was acting on Morgan’s behalf. A man only went that far for a woman he had stake in.

The flicker of recognition shone in Ethic’s eyes. Now wasn’t the time to address Messiah’s vague admission.