Chapter 12: Smoke Beneath Marble
The fire had already eaten half the clinic by the time Crown Security arrived.
Soot streaked the windows of the newly opened Marcus Reyes Wellness Center, named after Eli's father. Nurses and patients poured into the street, hacking from the smoke. A Crown Medical van burned in the alley, flames licking at the Crown logo. Someone had poured accelerant through the back entrance—professional, fast, intentional.
In the crowd, someone wept. But Eli didn't. He stared into the smoke, jaw tight, eyes colder than the flames.
"Pull the tapes," he said. "Everyone who had access to the back lot."
Beside him, Vance didn't speak. Just nodded once, already pulling out a phone.
Inside Crown Tower, hours later, the video footage played on loop.
The arsonist moved with purpose—clean boots, gloves, wide gait, tall, confident. Crown ID clipped to his belt.
Eli leaned forward. "Stop. Zoom."
The face, partially turned. A twitch in the mouth. That scar under the left ear.
"Name's Deon Albright," Vance said. "Used to run with the Gun Hill Set. Clean record since we brought him into Logistics. Helped build three Crown sites. You even signed off on his daughter's surgery fund."
Eli's fingers drummed the table. "So he knows the system. Knows our routes. Our blind spots."
"And our mercy," Vance muttered.
Eli stood, suddenly taller than his years, his boyishness fully buried under the weight of something harder. "He lit a flame under my father's name. That's not a mistake. That's war."
---
The streets of Harlem still glowed.
New construction had reached the east side. Crown-funded art murals bloomed across crumbling buildings. The Rebirth Café now had sidewalk seating. PS 154's library had an after-school program with real computers. On the surface, it was a golden age.
But behind the curtain, the gears ground harder.
In a converted Crown storage facility, the former tugs trained like soldiers. There were no baggies or handoffs anymore—now it was logistics spreadsheets, shipping manifests, silent hand signs, and clean vans moving "medical supplies" that were sometimes just that… and sometimes not.
Jamal Rivera, now wearing a pressed charcoal Crown suit, stood over a table, instructing five new recruits.
"Rule number one," he said, voice firm. "We don't bleed on the block. No sloppiness. You got a problem, you escalate to protocol, not bullets."
One of the new kids scoffed. "We still gangsters, right?"
Jamal slammed a black folder onto the table. Inside were photos: a rival from the Bianchi crew, bound, eyes wide in terror. Another shot—bloody hands duct-taped to a radiator.
"We're not gangsters. We're Crown." He leaned in close. "That means we don't bark. We don't flash. We handle. Quiet. Clean. Final."
---
Later that night, a black car rolled slow through the back alleys of Mott Haven. Inside, Eli sat beside Vance, a steel briefcase at his feet.
They reached an abandoned laundromat, now a Crown "discretionary site." Inside, Deon Albright was chained to a chair.
He looked up, breathing hard. Blood crusted on his lip. "You ain't gotta do this, kid. You got your whole kingdom now."
Eli stepped forward, his face unreadable. "You burned a medical center. You endangered kids. You betrayed Crown... but worse—you tried to remind people that the machine can still fail."
Deon spat blood. "You think this place loves you? They love what you're selling. But sooner or later, the block forgets."
Eli opened the briefcase. Inside: a Crown-branded envelope, thick with cash. A black burner phone. And a single bullet.
"Your wife gets the money. Your daughter keeps her therapy appointments. But you… you don't get Harlem anymore."
Vance handed Eli a silenced pistol.
"Make it quiet," Vance said. "No headlines."
Eli's hands didn't shake. He stepped closer.
Deon looked into the boy's eyes and finally saw it—not anger. Not revenge.
Duty.
PFFT.
The sound was small. The silence afterward, immense.
---
Back in the Tower, Eli stood alone on the rooftop again, overlooking the city that now bent toward him.
He thought of Maya's drawings. Of Rosa's quiet smile at dinner. Of the kids laughing outside PS 154. Of Ms. Pearl serving gumbo to construction workers who used to carry Glocks.
He also thought of Deon. And the weight of the gun in his hand.
Progress had a body count.
Hope had a maintenance fee.
Silas joined him, dressed in black, sipping wine.
"Did you handle it?"
Eli didn't look at him. "Yes."
Silas nodded. "There will be more. The brighter the light, the darker the shadows around it."
Eli finally turned. "Then I'll keep building streetlights."