His Streets, Not Mineā¦.. PREVIEW
The penthouse had never felt so cold.
Peaches stood in the middle of the living room, her phone trembling in her hand as the text stared back at her like a death sentence.
Grandma passed this morning.
That was it.
No warning.
No chance to prepare.
No time to say goodbye.
Her knees gave out beneath her so fast she barely caught herself before crashing hard onto the marble floor.
āNOOOO!ā she screamed, the sound ripping from somewhere deep in her chest.
Her phone slipped from her fingers and clattered across the floor, but Peaches didnāt even notice. Her hands slammed against the ground as tears poured down her face in thick streams, her body shaking so violently it looked like she couldnāt breathe.
āGrandmaā¦ā she sobbed, her voice cracking into pieces. āNoā¦ no, no, noā¦ā
She folded in on herself, crying so hard her stomach cramped.
The pain was unbearable.
Not because death was new in the streetsā¦
Not because she hadnāt seen people taken too soonā¦
But because this was her.
Her grandmother had been the only person who loved her before the moneyā¦ before the liesā¦ before the menā¦ before Blue Hillā¦ before all of it.
The only person who ever looked at Peaches like she was still somebody worth saving.
And now she was gone.
Just like that.
The front door unlocked.
Priest stepped inside, loosening his tie, his face tight from a long dayābut the second he heard those gut-wrenching cries, his whole body went stiff.
āPeaches?ā
He dropped his keys near the door and rushed toward the living room.
When he turned the corner and saw her on the floorācollapsed, broken, gasping for air between screamsāhis heart damn near stopped.
āBabyāā he said, hurrying to her side. āPeaches, what happened?ā
She couldnāt even answer.
She just pointed weakly toward the phone lying on the floor.
Priest snatched it up, his eyes scanning the screen.
The second he read the text, his jaw tightened.
His face changed.
That hard, controlled look he always carriedā¦ cracked.
He looked back at her, and for once, there were no slick words. No smooth talk. No street armor.
Just pain.
āDamnā¦ā he whispered.
Peaches let out another broken cry, clutching at her chest like the grief was physically tearing her apart.
āI was gonna go see herā¦ā she wailed, her voice echoing through the penthouse. āI was gonna go see her, Priest!ā
He dropped down to the floor with her immediately, pulling her into his arms so fast she almost collapsed against him.
āAyeā¦ aye, I got you,ā he murmured, wrapping her tightly against his chest.
But Peaches was inconsolable.
She beat weakly against his shoulder, sobbing so hard her words barely made sense.
āI shouldāve wentā¦ I shouldāve went when they told me she was sickā¦ I shouldāve wentā¦ā she cried. āI kept saying tomorrowā¦ I kept saying I had timeā¦ā
Priest held her even tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head as she cried into his shirt.
āNah,ā he said low, firm, even though his own throat was tight. āDonāt do that to yourself. Donāt do that.ā
āBut I do!ā she screamed. āI do, Priest! She died thinking I aināt come! She died thinking I forgot her!ā
Her body shook violently in his arms, and Priest closed his eyes for a second, trying to hold himself together for her.
He hated seeing her like this.
Hated how small she felt in his arms.
Hated that for all the money, all the power, all the fear his name carried in the cityā¦ he still couldnāt stop death from taking the one person she loved most.
āShe knew you loved her,ā he said quietly.
Peaches pulled back just enough to look at him, her face wet with tears, mascara smeared, lips trembling.
āYou donāt know thatā¦ā she whispered, voice cracking.
Priest swallowed hard.
āYes, I do.ā
He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
āWomen like your grandma? They know. She knew who you were before this world got its hands on you. She knew your heart.ā
That only made Peaches cry harder.
She buried her face in his chest again, gripping his shirt in both fists like she was trying not to drown.
āI wasnāt thereā¦ā she whispered, almost to herself. āI wasnāt thereā¦ā
Priest leaned his chin against the top of her head, holding her while she fell apart.
And for a long moment, the penthouse was filled with nothing but the sound of her grief.
No TV.
No music.
No city noise.
Just heartbreak.
After a while, Peaches finally lifted her head, eyes swollen and red.
āI canāt do this,ā she said weakly. āI canātā¦ I canāt see her like thatā¦ā
Priest looked down at her, serious.
āYes, you can.ā
She shook her head immediately.
āNoā¦ā
āYes,ā he said again, firmer this time. āAnd you not gonā do it alone.ā
Her lip quivered.
He wiped more tears from her face.
āIām taking you there tonight. We gonā go be with your family. We gonā handle whatever need handling. Funeral. Money. Clothes. Whatever. You hear me?ā
Peaches stared at him, stunned.
Because for all his darknessā¦ for all the blood that seemed to follow Priestā¦ in that moment, he wasnāt the feared man from Blue Hill.
He was just the man holding her together while her world shattered.
āYouād do that?ā she whispered.
Priest looked almost offended.
āThatās your grandmother,ā he said. āThat makes it mine too.ā
And that did it.
Peaches broke all over again.
She threw her arms around his neck and cried into him so hard it made his chest ache.
Priest held her in silence, rubbing her back while her tears soaked through his shirt.
But as he stared over her shoulder, his eyes hardened.
Because grief had a way of making old wounds openā¦
And Priest knew something Peaches didnāt.
Her grandmotherās deathā¦
might not have been as peaceful as that text made it seem.
His jaw clenched.
Because the timing was wrong.
Too wrong.
And in his worldā¦
nothing happened by coincidence.
Reading "His Streets, Not Mine" gave me a powerful glimpse into the complex emotions tied to sudden loss, especially when it involves key family relationships that shape who we are. Peachesā story, as she grapples with the shocking news of her grandmotherās passing, reminded me how grief often feels isolating and overwhelming ā even for those who seem strong on the outside. Itās that raw vulnerability that made this narrative so compelling and relatable. One of the thing that struck me most was how the story depicts not just the pain of death, but also the sense of unfinished business and guilt when weāre unable to be there for our loved ones. Peaches reflects on her missed chances and ātomorrowsā she postponed, something many people silently wrestle with during bereavement. This emotional realism can be a source of comfort for readers who recognize their own experiences, affirming that such feelings are universal and valid. Another highlight is the character of Priest, who contrasts his tough exterior with a deeply supportive and caring nature. Itās a reminder that strength can come in many forms and that true loyalty means standing by someone through their darkest moments. For anyone dealing with loss, having that one person who says, āYouāre not alone,ā can make an incredible difference. Additionally, the settingāthe penthouse, and the mention of Blue Hillāadds layers of social context and tension, hinting at a life influenced by power and danger but underscored by deeply human struggles. It challenges the notion that grief discriminates by status or background. From a personal perspective, stories like these force me to reflect on my own family connections and the importance of reaching out before itās too late. They also inspire discussions about grief that are often avoided, helping normalize the conversation around emotional pain and healing. Overall, this preview from "His Streets, Not Mine" offers both a poignant exploration of loss and a testament to the enduring power of love and community, even when the streets feel cold and unforgiving.
@Simply Shakyrah