The rain outside was coming down harder than ever.
Old Joe stood under the bar's awning, lighting up a smoke and taking a deep drag, letting the nicotine calm his jangled nerves.
Victor and Veronica?
On principle, that was impossible.
Could it be…?
Old Joe started second-guessing himself:
Was it during that roughest stretch, when I sent a ten-year-old Victor to "network" with those rich old ladies, that I totally wrecked his standards for women?
Should've never let him hustle like that…
But come on, those were white women!
What the hell!
Victor was only eighteen, grinding hard to make something of himself—how could he let some Black girl drag him down?
Unless…
Old Joe pulled out his pager and punched in a quick message.
---
Old Joe's place.
He sat at the kitchen table, two young guys—Michael and Jason, the ones he'd stuck with Victor to keep an eye on things—standing in front of him.
"So," Old Joe said, tapping the armrest lightly and sliding a twenty across the table. "Who's gonna tell me what's going on between Victor and Veronica?"
Michael and Jason swapped a look.
Nobody said a word.
Old Joe didn't speak—just pulled out a thirty and set it on top.
Jason actually piped up: "Pops, we gotta keep Victor's secrets."
"Guess you boys are too flush to care about fifty bucks."
Old Joe slapped down sixty-two more dollars. "That's every dime I got on me."
Still nothing. Their faces didn't budge.
"Fine—drink the good wine or take the beating."
Old Joe scooped the cash back up, yanked his belt from his waist, and the two bolted. "We can't rat out a friend!"
"Friend?!"
Old Joe cracked the belt across the table. "Get your asses back here!"
They stopped about five feet away.
Old Joe asked, "Did Victor say this needs to stay secret?"
Both shook their heads.
"Would I ever do anything to hurt Victor?"
Another shake—no.
"Can we just watch Victor crash and burn without stepping in?"
They thought about it, then shook their heads again. But Jason spoke up: "What's the big disaster here?"
"Bastard kid!"
Old Joe laid it out: "A love child is worse than cheating. That kid's existence screws Victor's future. An imperfect family means he can't go all-in on his grind! I'll talk sense into Victor, but that baby cannot exist!"
They mulled it over. Finally Jason said, "About two months back, Victor got drunk and hooked up with Fiona—"
"Skip that part. I know about it."
Old Joe knew Fiona well. "Fiona's too smart—and too chicken—to pull something this dumb."
"Veronica heard about it, then got in bed with Victor. And get this—he said yes. Then they just…"
"Keep going."
Old Joe's voice was scary calm.
"They… went on a few dates."
Michael picked it up. "Victor really likes her. Then she got pregnant and told him she's keeping it."
Old Joe closed his eyes.
This dumb kid—careless and weak.
Veronica wasn't just any girl. She was a Black woman who'd carved out a life in the South Side, ran her own hustle, and had Kevin locked down without even needing a ring.
You don't mess with a mind like that.
"Where's Victor now?"
"Old Jack's Real Man Gym," Jason said. "Ever since Fiona got the abortion yesterday, he's been there nonstop, beating the hell out of two heavy bags—like he's trying to kill them."
Old Joe stood, clapped both kids on the shoulder.
"You did good. Go home. I got this."
Jason warned him: "We shouldn't be making moves for Victor."
"We're not free-wheeling Americans—we're sons of the Motherland, no matter where we are or what we're doing. Bloodline's always been our glue. Being good to outsiders? Two ways: give cash and resources, or handle the problem yourself."
Old Joe grabbed his cap. "I got no money, no pull, and I almost let him get chained to a gang."
Michael yelped, "One hundred twelve bucks?!"
SMACK!
"Offer expired!"
Uncle Joe slapped Michael across the face. "And that's for dressing like a damn hippie! Put on clothes like a respectable nutritionist!"
---
When Old Joe pushed open the gym door, the first thing that hit him was the dull thud-thud-thud of fists on leather.
In the corner ring, Victor was going nuts on a bag that was already deformed from the abuse.
His T-shirt was soaked through with sweat, knuckles bleeding through the wraps, but he didn't feel a thing—just kept swinging, unloading everything.
Old Jack spotted Old Joe and nodded.
"Knuckles need tougher skin."
Old Joe watched quietly for a minute.
Victor looked just like his dad—same black hair, same broad shoulders, same fire to prove himself. Only his eyes were cleaner, none of that cold edge you get from years in the streets.
At least that's what Old Joe thought—until today.
Now he saw the kid was a walking mess.
"Old Jack, ride him hard. He needs a reality check."
Old Joe handed over a book. "Give this to Victor. He will finish it."
Old Jack didn't need to open it—he knew what it was. The cover screamed like a battle flag. "This ain't the kind of book you read in public."
---
11:13 p.m.
Veronica walked home, popping open her umbrella as the rain kept pouring.
She and Kevin lived two blocks from the Alibi—normally a comforting stretch of quiet houses and the occasional jogger.
Just the streetlights were out, as usual in the South Side.
Tonight felt different.
She kept feeling eyes on her, but every time she turned, the street was empty.
Maybe pregnancy was making her jumpy. Or Kevin's temper. Or Victor's promises.
She touched her still-flat belly, smiling as she pictured a baby in a few months—and all the leverage that came with it.
Half a block from her building, a black motorcycle with no lights roared out of an alley.
Veronica barely got out a scream before she was airborne, landing hard a few yards away.
Her umbrella spun in the air like a wounded bird.
The bike idled for a second—just long enough to see she was out cold, a dark pool spreading beneath her—then gunned it and vanished into the rain.
---
That same night, Victor showed up at the hospital with red, swollen eyes.
The doctor told him Veronica had miscarried but would live.
Kevin stood outside the room, face dark as a storm about to break.
"I don't know what kind of spell you put on my fiancée to make her have your kid," he snarled through clenched teeth. "But she's finally awake now. Cops'll find that driver. And I swear—whoever's behind this pays."
Victor wanted to argue, wanted to swing, but all he felt was a hollow ache.
He walked into the room, saw Veronica's pale face and empty stare, and knew they'd lost more than a baby—something way more valuable.
What Victor didn't know: Veronica had just lost her hold on him.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Old Joe ditched the motorcycle in the lake, clocked in for his shift, and acted like nothing happened.
---
Rain dripped off Victor's black trench coat, leaving dark spots on the precinct's shiny floor.
He pulled off his soaked baseball cap, shook water from his hair, eyes scanning frantically for a familiar face—Detective Tony Markovich.
"Victor? Long time no see."
A gravelly voice came from the right.
Tony leaned against the coffee machine, cradling a steaming mug of black coffee, badge glinting off his slightly paunchy waist.
"Let me guess—you're here about the punks chucking rocks at your door?"
Victor closed the distance in two strides, rain still sliding off his lashes.
"No—who did it, Tony? Who hit Veronica? She almost—"
His voice cracked, flashing back to her ghost-white face in the hospital, the doctor telling Kevin the baby didn't make it.
Tony set down his cup, sighed, and jerked his head toward his office.
The cramped room was buried in files and gadgets, walls plastered with crime-scene photos and wanted posters.
Tony shut the door and dropped his voice.
"Listen, kid—this ain't got nothing to do with you. Hell, not even Kevin."
Victor shook his head. "Tony, you pulled the file. You know whose kid that was."
Tony sighed again—he'd once had a thing for Fiona too. "I checked. Intersection where it happened? Total blind spot. No witnesses. Last night's downpour—"
He made a sweeping motion. "Washed every shred of evidence into the sewer. No skid marks, no paint chips—nothing."
Victor's fist slammed the desk, sending pens flying from Tony's cup.
"No way! That was a person, not roadkill! How's nobody seen anything?"
Tony shrugged, sympathy flickering before the cop mask slid back on.
"That's the South Side, Victor. People see and pretend they don't. Plus…"
He hesitated. "Veronica—everybody knows her rep on the street."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Victor's voice shot up.
"Nothing personal. I loved Fiona once too, but I learned what she was—tough, loyal, responsible. Great qualities. But wife material? Promiscuous, reckless—big red flags."
Tony raised his hands. "Just facts. A Black girl living in a drug-dealer block, dancing at underground clubs, knows every lowlife in town. Could be an enemy, could be an accident…"
He gave Victor a loaded look. "Could be you."
Victor felt the room spin.
Yeah, Veronica danced on premium channels for cash. She had tattoos, did drugs, smoked weed, ran scams, slept with Victor while engaged to Kevin… Okay, maybe she wasn't ideal.
"Infertile?"
Victor suddenly remembered. "She told me she couldn't have kids."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Either she lied or the doc was wrong. Hospital says she's perfectly fertile."
Victor's pager buzzed.
He glanced—Old Joe.
Short message: "Home. Important."
Tony noticed. "Something up?"
"No, just…"
Victor pocketed the pager, a weird dread crawling up his spine. "Gotta go. If you find anything—"
"Sure."
Tony nodded, eyes already drifting to the mountain of case files. "Won't be calling you first—you two aren't connected."
Victor choked on the words and slunk out.
The rain had eased, but the sky stayed heavy and suffocating.
Driving home, every possible scenario looped in Victor's head.
He pushed open the door—Old Joe sat in the living-room armchair, cradling a cup of tea.
Post-rain sunlight filtered through the clouds, catching the gray at Old Joe's temples and making a few white hairs glow.
At forty-five, Old Joe looked a decade younger—only the crow's-feet and world-weary eyes gave away the years.
"You're here."
Old Joe set the cup down, voice eerily calm.
Victor tossed his wet coat and cut to the chase. "What's so urgent it couldn't wait? I'm in the middle of—"
"I did it."
Old Joe cut him off, locking eyes. "I'm the one who hit Veronica last night."
Time froze.
Victor's blood roared in his ears, Old Joe's voice echoing: "…warned you to stay away from women like that… a bastard kid would ruin you… Black women like her live off one baby daddy after another…"
"What the fuck are you saying?"
Victor finally found his voice—raw, unrecognizable. "That was my kid! Veronica was carrying my child!"
He lunged, grabbed Old Joe's collar, and yanked him out of the chair.
The teacup tipped, brown liquid bleeding into the carpet.
"It was barely the size of a bean! Run a DNA test—it might've been deformed anyway!"
Old Joe didn't fight back—just stared into Victor's bloodshot eyes. "Either call the cops and have me locked up, or calm down and listen."
Victor's fist hovered, shaking.
Old Joe was his dad's brother—the man who'd raised him single-handedly after his parents died in a wreck.
Seven years. Only family he had.
The fist dropped.
Old Joe straightened his collar, sat back down like nothing happened.
"First," he said, voice flat as a judge's gavel, "Chicago don't marry outside the race—even a Japanese girl would be pushing it. Never a Black woman. The family tree don't recognize it. Ancestors don't bless it."
Victor's nails dug into his palms.
Old Joe had never used that word in front of him.
"Second—Veronica Green? A woman who strips for cash on pay-per-view. You think she'd go easy on you?"
Old Joe sneered. "Minute that kid's born, she'd bleed you dry like a leech. Your money, your house—everything."
"You don't know her!"
Victor's voice cracked. "She wouldn't—"
"I know plenty!"
Old Joe pulled an envelope from his jacket, slapped photos on the coffee table. "I know South Side women. You think you're her only 'sponsor'?"
Victor went quiet.
Old Joe kept going: "South Side's full of women with no skills, no diploma, doing whatever to survive. Some collect welfare with five kids, some pimp out their daughters, some sell blood till they drop! What's her hustle?
Her 'talent'? Her high-school dropout degree? What's in that thick skull of yours? Those 2,500 women didn't burn you out? Your belt just that loose?"
Victor had nothing.
"And finally—most important," Old Joe's voice softened, almost pitying. "This whole mess started with your recklessness and ego. You thought the world bends to your fairy tales? That love conquers all?"
He shook his head. "I cleaned up your mess this time. Next time, you might not be so lucky."
Old Joe stood, walked to the door. "If you're calling the cops, give me a heads-up so I can turn myself in—shorter sentence that way."
The door shut with a sharp click that echoed through the silent apartment.
Victor stood frozen, a strange numbness spreading from his feet up.
He walked mechanically to the coffee table, picked up the red booklet Old Jack had passed along.
Gold-embossed characters gleamed in the sunlight:
Selected Works
He opened to the first page and let the words burn away the hormone-fueled fantasy.
By morning, Victor had his answer:
"Love your mom's twisted hemp love!"