Chasing Bliss (2 page)

Chapter 1

I
t had been ten years since the death of Herc Mercer. A lot had changed in that decade, but a lot
had stayed the same. Cyrus had done a short bid on a gun charge—and lucky for him, that’s
all it was for—leaving his two younger brothers to look after his interests while he was gone. There
was a lot of in-fighting between Cyrus, Khalid, and Rome.

Herc turning up dead did nothing to smooth feathers. Khalid had accused Chase, right to his
face, of killing Herc. He’d said he didn’t know of no other niggas walking around slitting throats
instead of popping them with a pistol, other than Chase. He also said he didn’t know of anyone else
who had big enough balls to kill Herc, except Chase. They had a meeting and decided to be decent,
since they went back so far. Khalid and Rome gave up a third of their ill-gotten gains to Chase and
Corey, for Cyrus, and they severed business ties.

Rome had gotten knocked by the Feds for transporting eight kilos of cocaine and four of heroin
across state lines, concealed in a Benz with secret compartments. When he got busted for that load,
fun time was over for him, and he’d likely be behind bars until he was a middle-aged man. So,
Khalid took over as “head nigga in charge” of his own drug empire, ever expanding and always
popular.

Cyrus had reclaimed the reins of his own narcotic kingdom, and he and Khalid had managed
to keep their uneasy truce until very recently. Cyrus found new suppliers, stepped his game up,
and started outshining Khalid. Slowly but surely, Cyrus began to erase the line they’d drawn in the
sand, creeping into Khalid’s territory and turning many of Khalid’s loyal customers into big fans
of his own product. While he didn’t speak of it often, though, Chase had the underlying sneaky
suspicion that everything was not how it really seemed—like things weren’t going as smoothly
under the surface as he thought.

Cyrus was a big fan of deception and window dressing. He had never been one to play things
straight down the middle and had always leaned to the left. Chase sometimes thought the only people
Cyrus was even halfway loyal to were Corey and him. Most times, even that was questionable, but
they were brothers, and everybody knows that shit’s thicker than water.

Chase and Corey had grown into manhood, taking their lumps and bruises and holding things
down until Cyrus got back. They were wet behind the ears when Cyrus got sent up, but he advised
them well from upstate, and they were hungry, apt pupils. By the time Cyrus finished his bid, he
was three times as successful as he had been going in.

Corey had channeled all his energy into being Cyrus’s right-hand man, a job Cyrus had originally
intended for Chase. While he’d been doing his bid, Cyrus had groomed Chase for that spot. He’d
taught him everything he knew, and Chase had natural business acumen. Unfortunately, Chase had
proven to be too volatile and unpredictable, and his temperament was way too uneven for Cyrus’s
liking. Though Corey was a hot-head himself, he was much more even than Chase and less prone
to argumentative opposition. Corey didn’t have all Chase’s business skills, but he made a much
better yes-man.

When Chase turned twenty-three, he’d gone to Cyrus and told him he wanted out of the family
business. Cyrus had flipped on him, cussing him out and calling him all kinds of traitors; and he
simply
refused
to let him go. At the time, Cyrus wanted to edge out a small-time guy in Bushwick
by the name of Dante Taylor. Dante was giving him problems and wouldn’t go without a fight.
He’d even sent some boys to shake down a few of Cyrus’s dealers. When Cyrus got Chase on the
phone and told him how he needed it all to go down, Chase only agreed because he was sure it
would be the last job he would pull for Cyrus.

Chase waited patiently, for three hours, for Dante to stop his Denali at the corner of Bushwick
and Gates. It was August, so Dante had his windows down and his music thumping. His girl was
in the seat next to him. Chase walked up to the truck, as calm as could be, and pushed an ice
pick—old-school gangster style—right through Dante’s left ear. He did it so fast; Chase was in his
car driving away before Dante’s girl even started screaming. Chase was done—or so he thought.

“Not so fast,” Cyrus said. After all, they were bound together by blood and money. “I ain’t
never gon’ let you just walk away,” he explained.

When Chase asked him what he meant by that, Cyrus just smiled slow and gave him a benevolent
look. Cyrus had taken care of his two brothers every since their mother was killed when Corey
was only ten. Chase thought maybe he said that shit because he thought Chase owed him. Cyrus
had a side to him that was as black as midnight. For all Chase knew, it could have been a threat to
kill his ass if he tried to walk away. Whatever he meant, it didn’t make a damn difference to Chase
anyway. He told his brother he wanted out, and he damn well meant it.

“On one condition . . .” Cyrus said. Chase was, hands down, the best man he had for handling
dirty jobs and wet work. He told Chase he’d finance anything he wanted to do and set him up
nice, but Chase had to take care of whoever he thought needed taking care of—certain people
he couldn’t trust to his regular boys. Chase was quiet, efficient, and never left a discernible trail.
He was like a ghost,
like smoke,
there one minute and gone the next. Except for the corpse, people
had to wonder if he’d even been there at all. Cyrus grinned at him and slapped him on the back.
“Shit, Chase…when I need small-time niggas checked, I’ll use small-time killers. When I need a
significant nigga gone, I gotta use you. You’re a goddamned assassin.”

Chase took the deal. He’d never had a real taste for the day-to-day of the drug business, but
there was no question he was good at it. He was good at killing people, too, but that didn’t mean he
was happy about it. Chase was a smart guy. He knew the deal. He realized that drug shit could only
lead to one of two places: jail or the cemetery. He’d seen enough people go to jail and put enough
in the cemetery himself, and he didn’t want to reserve a spot for himself in either one.

In the meantime, he took the money and played hit man for his brother Cyrus. Chase then went
on to become a successful entrepreneur. He owned a supper club in Harlem, a club in Chelsea, and
his most successful club, Cream, in the meatpacking district. Cream had become a major hotspot
with a large celebrity fan base. It was hugely popular and profitable. Cream’s success only made
his other two ventures, Delight and Shelter, bigger moneymakers.

Chase spent more time with Corey, but he always saw Cyrus at least twice a week. He usually showed up at
Cream an hour or two before closing, accusing Chase of avoiding him and trying to sidestep his family. Chase
typically shrugged off the accusations and changed the subject.
Fuck it,
he thought.
Let Cyrus think whatever
the hell he wants.

Chase had tried on more than one occasion to tell Cyrus he no longer wanted any part of his
drug-dealing empire, but every time he talked to him, it either landed on deaf ears, or Cyrus got
angry and reminded Chase how that drug dealing had financed Chase’s businesses. Cyrus let Chase
know, point blank, that he owed him.

Chase had gotten used to Cyrus and his bullshit though. After all, he’d taken shit off his big
brother since he’d come into the world. It stopped bothering him long ago that Cyrus thought
Chase was chained to him, his financier. Chase had paid Cyrus back his initial investment before
he opened Cream, so he knew he really didn’t owe him shit.

What Chase couldn’t stand about Cyrus was the way he always insinuated that Chase could
never completely sever ties with him and his criminal activities. Chase could fill a nice-sized corner
in any cemetery with the people he’d knocked off under his brother’s orders. Every conversation
they had about it always ended that way. Cyrus left it hanging over his head like a black cloud. At
least once a year, he came calling with another mad request, and Chase always complied.

He had his reasons. On one level, he felt he really
did
owe Cyrus. If he hadn’t taken them in
when their mother died, there was no telling what would have become of him and Corey. Corey,
incidentally, was another reason. Chase didn’t want Cyrus using Corey the same way he used him.
Corey always walked with his gun; he always had. But Corey was more of a shoot-a-man-in-the-
leg type. As far as Chase knew, Corey had never killed anybody, and if anybody had to go to hell
for Cyrus, Chase would rather be the one. Corey was who he was, but he wasn’t a straight-up
killer, and if it was left up to Chase, he never would be. Chase loved Corey more than anyone in
his world. After all, the boy was his little brother…and always would be.

The last reason Chase always toed the line for Cyrus was because, lately, Cyrus had been
making him feel an unspoken
“or else.”
He’d make his request, Chase would tell him he didn’t
want to do it, and Cyrus would sigh and spread his hands with a sad smile, and then chuckle and
say, “Well, you have to, Chase.”

Lately, Chase had been glaring at Cyrus like he was looking at him through one of those special
lights that showed you shit you couldn’t see with the naked eye. When he looked at his brother like
that, Chase would look at him and see
“or else”
written all over him.
What the hell does that mean?
Does he mean I better do it, or he’ll make sure the law comes down on me? Does he mean he’ll make sure
one of his rivals knows I did away with somebody they held in high regard? Would my own brother rat me
out like that?
Wait…maybe it’s much simpler than that. Maybe he means if I don’t do his damn dirty work,
he’ll kill me himself.
The idea didn’t seem so farfetched to Chase. They were brothers and they loved
each other, but neither of them had ever been the other one’s favorite. They were both a lot closer
to Corey than they would ever be to each other.

It was hard to say why they both loved Corey best. Maybe it was because Corey was the
youngest. Chase couldn’t speak for Cyrus, but brother or not, he didn’t much care for the man.
That had pretty much always been true, but since Cyrus’s return from prison, Chase found that
he’d lost just about all of his tolerance for his big brother. To him, it was like Cyrus had come home
without his clothes, and he saw him like he really was: a bossy, vengeful, tyrant, with no distinct
feelings of loyalty.

In spite of all that, Cyrus put up a good front. It was fairly easy to interpret that Cyrus’s occasional
generosity and benevolence was for the good of those close to him, but when it got down to brass
tacks, Cyrus cared about…well, Cyrus. Everything he did was ultimately for his own benefit, and
he was the most selfish person Chase had ever met in his life. Cyrus was a genius at manipulation,
and he had no problem using people like tools. He lived for the taste of control, and he pulled the
strings of the people around him like a damn puppet master.