Thug Passion and Promises…. Part 1

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Jules slowed his walk the second he spotted her.

There she was.

Leaning against the hood of a cherry-red Honda, nails tapping slow against the metal like she had nowhere else to be. Shakira didn’t even look surprised to see him—like she’d been waiting.

The block felt… off.

Too quiet.

No music blasting. No dice game on the corner. Even the old heads weren’t outside. Just the flickering streetlight above them, buzzing like it knew something was about to go left.

“Funny how you pop up everywhere I’m at,” Jules muttered, eyes scanning past her, checking shadows, windows, rooftops.

Shakira smirked, pushing off the car. “Or maybe you just keep ending up where I want you.”

That didn’t sit right.

Jules took another step forward, slower this time. His jaw tightened. “Where Paris at?”

At the sound of her name, something shifted in Shakira’s face. Not jealousy… not anger.

Something colder.

“She not here right now,” she said, almost too casually.

Jules stopped completely now. His instincts started ringing loud.

“Don’t play with me.”

A car door slammed somewhere behind him.

Jules spun around quick—but there was nothing. Just an empty black sedan parked crooked, engine still ticking like it had just been turned off.

When he turned back—

Shakira was closer.

Way closer.

Too close.

“You ever wonder,” she said softly, tilting her head, “why nobody else ever tried you?”

Jules’ eyes narrowed. His hand instinctively hovered near his waistband.

“Say what you gotta say.”

Another sound.

Footsteps.

Not one person.

Multiple.

Closing in.

Jules’ body tensed as shadows started peeling off corners of the block—figures emerging like they’d been there the whole time. Hooded. Silent.

His heart started pounding, but his face stayed cold.

“Yeah…” he exhaled slowly, finally catching on. “This ain’t random.”

Shakira smiled wider now, stepping back just enough to give him space—

Space to see it all.

“You were never off-limits, Jules,” she said. “You were just… being watched.”

Jules’ eyes darkened. “Where is Paris?”

That’s when it happened.

A scream.

Sharp. Muffled. Familiar.

It came from inside one of the abandoned buildings halfway down the block.

Jules didn’t think.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t hesitate.

He took off running.

“Jules—!” Shakira called after him, but there was no urgency in her voice.

Only satisfaction.

As he reached the building, the door creaked open on its own like it had been waiting for him. The inside was pitch black—too black.

The kind that swallows sound.

Swallows people.

From somewhere deep inside—

“Jules…” Paris’ voice, weak, barely there.

His chest tightened.

“Paris! I’m here!”

He stepped inside.

And the door slammed shut behind him.

Hard.

Locks clicking.

One by one.

Outside, Shakira turned away from the building, pulling her phone out.

“Yeah,” she said calmly. “He’s inside.”

A pause.

Then a slow smile crept across her lips.

“Both of them are.”

Back inside—

The lights flickered on.

And Jules froze.

Because Paris wasn’t tied up.

She wasn’t hurt.

She was standing.

Right in the center of the room.

Looking at him.

With tears in her eyes…

and blood on her hands.

“Jules…” she whispered.

Behind him—

a gun clicked.

“Drop it.”

Jules didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because the voice behind him?

He knew it.

And it sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Turn around,” the voice said again.

Slowly…

Jules did.

And his whole world tilted.

“Dante…?”