|MR. PRESIDENT| - 3
Annie Moore x Elijah “Smoke” Moore
She never thought she’d see him again… He never forgot she was his. From heartbreak to heartbreak, Annie Moore has survived it all. Until the man she once loved returns—older, darker, untouchable. And now, he rules the country. He wants her safe. He wants her to be obedient. And she? She wants him to fight for her—without losing herself in his fire. Desire, danger, and power collide in a game neither of them can walk away from.
Content Warning: Dark romance, powerplay, brat Annie, dom/sub dynamics, violence, obsession.
Annie stared at Stack like she was still trying to make sense of him standing there.
Out here. Of all places.
Her body stayed tense, ready to bolt if she had to, but Stack didn’t move closer. He didn’t crowd her space. He stayed where he was, hands still in his pockets, posture easy like he wasn’t here to drag her back or lecture her.
“Relax,” he said quietly. “I ain’t here to grab you up.”
Annie let out a sharp breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Then what you doin’ here, Stack?”
He tilted his head, studying her for a moment. Not judgmental. Just… thoughtful. “Honestly? I wanted to make sure you was good.”
She scoffed, looking away toward the dark swings. “I’m sittin’ on a playground bench in the middle of the night after sneakin’ out the White House. You tell me.”
A corner of Stack’s mouth lifted, but it faded just as quick. He stepped closer this time, slow, and sat on the opposite end of the bench, leaving space between them. “You always been stubborn,” he said. “Still don’t know when to sit your ass still.”
Annie shot him a look. “And you always been nosy.”
He chuckled softly. “Fair.”
Silence stretched for a few seconds, thick but not uncomfortable. Then Stack sighed, elbows resting on his knees. “You probably think I’m about to hold this over your head. Use it to scare you back.”
Annie didn’t answer. Didn’t deny it either.
“I ain’t doin’ that,” he continued. “Your family. Always been.”
Her jaw tightened at that. “Family don’t lock you in gilded cages.”
Stack nodded slowly. “You right.”
That surprised her enough that she looked back at him. He met her eyes without flinching. “You got every right to be mad, Annie. Every right to feel like you ain’t got a choice right now. ‘Cause truth is… you don’t. Not yet.”
Her chest tightened. “That’s the part everybody keep skippin’ over.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
He leaned back against the bench, eyes lifting toward the sky. “But I need you to hear me on somethin’. Over the last eight years, I been with Smoke every day. I seen him when nobody else around. I seen him when he was breakin’. I seen him when he was tryin’ to be better.”
Annie laughed, sharp and humorless. “Better for who?”
“For you,” Stack said immediately. “Always been for you.”
She shook her head. “If that was true, he wouldn’t have left the way he did. Wouldn’t have came back like this. Wouldn’t be makin’ decisions for me instead of with me.”
Stack turned to her then, really looked at her. “You think he don’t know he fucked up?”
“That don’t fix nothin’,” Annie snapped.
“No,” Stack agreed. “But it explain why he ain’t bowin’ anymore.”
She frowned. “What that supposed to mean?”
Stack’s voice dropped. “The Smoke you remember? The one who would’ve licked the ground you walked on if you asked?” He shook his head. “That man died a long time ago.”
Annie’s throat went tight.
“This Smoke?” Stack continued. “He learned real quick that bein’ soft get shit taken from you. Before all this politics mess—before the suits and speeches—he was deep in underground work. Way deeper than you ever knew. He did things he can’t undo. Made choices that hardened him.”
He looked back at her. “And now you testin’ that man.”
Annie stiffened. “By wantin’ to breathe?”
“By sneakin’ out the White House,” Stack corrected gently. “By slappin’ him. By challengin’ him when he already feel like the world tryna take you from him.”
She swallowed. “So what, I’m just supposed to submit?”
“No,” Stack said firmly. “You supposed to choose.”
She laughed bitterly. “Sure don’t feel like one.”
He leaned closer, voice low but steady. “I ain’t snitchin’ on you. I won’t tell him you got out. This between me and you.”
That made her pause.
“But hear me,” Stack said. “This Smoke? He don’t chase the same way. He don’t beg. And he damn sure don’t let go.”
Annie stared at the ground, emotions twisting in her chest. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she admitted quietly. “Not like this.”
Stack nodded. “Then don’t decide tonight.”
He stood, brushing off his jacket. “Just know whatever you do next? Do it with your eyes open. ‘Cause this man ain’t the one you left behind.”
He looked down at her one last time. “Choose wisely, Annie.”
Then he turned and walked away, leaving her alone on that bench—free for the moment, but standing at the edge of something far more dangerous than she’d ever escaped from before.
Annie slipped back into the White House the same way she left it—quiet, careful, heart still thudding in her ears. The halls were empty, lights low, everything too still. She moved fast, memory guiding her feet, until she finally reached her door.
Once inside, she closed it softly and leaned against it, letting out a heavy sigh. Her shoulders sagged like the night finally caught up to her. For a second, she allowed herself to breathe.
Then she turned.
Her heart jumped straight into her throat.
Elijah sat in the armchair near the window.
Leaning back.
Comfortable.
His thick legs were spread wide, one ankle hooked slightly back like he’d been there a while. A cigar burned slow between his fingers, smoke curling lazily through the dim room. In his other hand was a glass of whiskey, amber catching the light. His eyes—hard, dark, unreadable—never left her face.
“Lock the door,” he said calmly.
Annie didn’t move.
“Elijah—”
“Lock. The door.”
Something in his tone stopped her cold. Not loud. Not angry. Just final. She swallowed and did as she was told, the soft click echoing louder than it should have.
When she turned back, he was still watching her. Studying her. Like he was deciding something.
“You enjoy your walk?” he asked.
Her jaw tightened. “I needed air.”
He took a slow drag of his cigar, exhaled through his nose. “Funny place to get it.”
She crossed her arms. “You followed me?”
“No,” he said evenly. “I waited.”
That sent a shiver through her.
He set the whiskey down on the side table but didn’t stand. Didn’t rush. His patience felt deliberate—dangerous. “You ever notice,” he said, “how you only run when you think you won’t get caught?”
Annie bristled. “I’m not a child.”
His eyes darkened at that. “Tonight,” he said quietly, “you acted like one.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
“You slapped me,” Elijah continued. “You disappeared from a secured building. You had people scrambling, guards panicking, Stack lying for you.” His jaw tightened. “And you think I wasn’t gonna address that?”
Her voice shook, but she held his gaze. “You don’t get to control me.”
Slowly—finally—he stood.
The room felt smaller instantly.
“I don’t control you,” he said, taking a step closer. “But don’t confuse that with me letting things slide.”
He stopped a few feet away, towering now, presence filling every corner of the room. “This ain’t about desire,” he said. “This about respect. And consequences.”
Annie’s breath came shallow. “You’ve never—”
“I know,” he cut in. “And that’s why you’re standing right there instead of already apologizing.”
He tilted his head, eyes burning into hers. “You testing me, Annie. And tonight, I’m drawing a line.”
He glanced toward the bed. Then back to her.
“Come here,” he said.
Not raised. Not rushed.
But unmistakable.
Her feet carried her forward, but her pulse hammered unevenly, a staccato rhythm against her ribs. The air between them felt charged, thick with the scent of his cigar and the warmth of whiskey lingering between them. Elijah didn’t move, didn’t blink—just watched her approach with that same unnerving stillness, like a predator waiting for prey to step into range.
When she stopped in front of him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, he exhaled slowly.
“You ever think,” he murmured, voice low enough to raise goosebumps along her arms, “about what happens when you push me too far?” His fingers brushed her hip, feather-light, yet it sent a shudder through her. Not fear. Anticipation.
Annie refused to look him in the eyes, staring instead at the hollow of his throat where his pulse beat steady—too steady for the storm she knew was coming. His hand slid up, calloused fingers rough against her skin as they curled around her jaw.
“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.” The command was velvet-wrapped steel. She lifted her chin, defiant even as his grip tightened just shy of pain.
She tried to twist away, shoulders tensing, but Elijah merely shifted his stance, his other arm hooking behind her waist and hauling her flush against him. The sudden press of his body—unyielding, warm, all hard muscle and restrained power—made her breath hitch.
“That attitude used to get you kissed,” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “Tonight, it gets corrected.”
Then, with a grip that brooked no argument, he turned her around, hands guiding her hips forward until the edge of the bed pressed into her thighs. She stiffened, fingers digging into the mattress as his palm settled firmly between her shoulder blades. “Bend,” he ordered, and when she hesitated, he applied just enough pressure to send her torso lowering—slow, deliberate, her breath coming faster with every inch she descended.
The air shifted behind her, fabric rustling before the sharp, unmistakable sound of his belt buckle being undone sent a shiver down her spine. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her pants, dragging them down in one smooth motion—revealing the red lace beneath, delicate against the flush of her skin. The sight made him exhale sharply, cigar smoke curling from his lips as he growled low in his throat.
“This what you wore when you snuck out?” His voice was rough, knuckles skimming the lace, pressing just hard enough for her to feel the heat of his touch through the thin material.
Then—his palm traced the curve of her ass, slow, deliberate, savoring the way her breath hitched at the contact. His fingers flexed, gripping the soft flesh almost possessively before pulling back. The smack landed sharp and sudden, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot. Annie’s voice hitched, a startled gasp punched from her lungs as heat bloomed across her skin.
“Smoke,” she breathed, surprised—the scent of his cigar suddenly thick in her nose, mingling with the sting radiating through her.
Then he did it again. This time on the other side. Harder. The impact jolted her forward, her palms sliding against the sheets as her knees dug into the mattress. The second strike burned brighter, deeper, the ache settling low in her belly, twisting something tight inside her. Elijah exhaled roughly behind her, his hand lingering—pressing into the warmth he’d left behind, fingers tracing the edges of the sting.
“Count,” he ordered, voice gravel-dark.
She clenched her jaw. “One.”
The next strike landed higher, just below the curve of her waistband, the sharp slap echoing off the walls. Heat flared instantly, radiating outward in waves that made her thighs tense. The scent of his cigar clung to her skin now, mingling with the sharp tang of her own sweat—punishment and arousal twisted together in the thick air. “Two,” she gritted out, voice wavering as his fingertips brushed the blooming redness, assessing, possessive.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak. Just let the silence stretch, heavy with the weight of her disobedience and his resolve. When his palm connected again—lower this time, right where thigh met ass—the sound was wetter, sharper. Annie gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets as the pain licked up her spine, molten and undeniable. Smoke curled past her shoulder as Elijah leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. “Three,” he prompted, low and rough, like the numbers themselves were a lesson.
The room was too small suddenly, the walls pressing in, the air thick with whiskey and sweat and the heady musk of his cologne. Annie’s chest tightened, lungs burning as she fought to steady her breathing. Every inhale carried the scent of him—tobacco, leather, something darker beneath—until it was all she could taste. His fingers flexed against her skin, possessive and punishing, and she realized with a jolt that she was arching into it, her body betraying her even as her pride bristled.
She told herself she was angry. That she was justified. But underneath it was something colder—realization. She had crossed a line without knowing where it was. And he had known exactly where it stood the whole time. Annie swallowed hard, realizing she wasn’t just upset about being confined, or lied to, or watched. She was shaken because he wasn’t bending. Not even a little.
Elijah’s next hit landed harder—too hard—the crack of his palm against her skin sharp enough to make her cry out. The sting radiated outward, turning her legs weak, but she held firm, fingers digging deeper into the sheets.
"Every move you made tonight," he growled, his voice rough with something that wasn’t just anger. "I already replayed it." His fingers traced the outline of his handprint, pressing just enough to draw a whimper from her throat.
"Every lie. Every smirk. Every goddamn step you took thinking you wouldn’t get caught."
His breath hitched—almost imperceptibly—when her body arched into his touch, her silence louder than any protest.
"You knew the rules," he murmured, fingers tightening against the heated skin. "You knew the risks." His thumb dragged down the curve of her ass, slow and deliberate, before his palm cracked down again.
"And you still did it." The sound of his belt sliding free filled the room, leather whispering against fabric before the cold metal of the buckle grazed her thigh.
"I expected better judgment from my wife."
She flinched at the title—his wife—spoken like a challenge, like a promise. The belt folded in his grip, his knuckles brushing the small of her back as he stepped away, just far enough to survey his work. The flush blooming across her skin mirrored the storm in his chest, the way she trembled—not from fear, but from the same current of tension that had his jaw clenched tight. He inhaled sharply, the scent of her arousal mingling with leather and smoke.
"I warned you," he reminded her, voice low and rough, "that disrespect has consequences."
The first strike landed with a crack that sent her lurching forward, the burn igniting instantly. Annie gasped, fingers scrabbling against the sheets, her body bolting upright—instinct screaming at her to run. Elijah's hand shot out, gripping the back of her neck with a growl. "Ah-ah," he murmured, pressing her down again with effortless strength, her spine arching under his palm. "Lay that ass back down." The command brooked no argument, his fingers flexing against her nape just shy of pain.
She tensed—not to escape, but to brace, her breath hitching when his belt whispered against her skin again. "You wanted to feel in control," he mused, voice dark with amusement as the leather traced the curve of her thigh, "now you gonna sit there and take it?" The question hung between them, loaded. The second strike landed lower, harder, the impact shuddering through her with a sharp cry torn from her lips. His fingers tightened in her hair, tilting her head back just enough to catch the flush creeping down her neck.
She wanted to snap back—wanted to twist away and spit defiance even as her skin burned where he'd marked her. But the urge coiled tighter in her gut, twisting into something hotter when his thumb brushed the dampness at her temple.
"That's it," he murmured, pressing the belt flat against the throbbing heat of her ass, savoring her flinch. "Let it out." The third strike cracked across both cheeks, the pain blooming so deep she sobbed into the sheets, fingers twisting tight enough to tear fabric.
Elijah's breath was ragged now, the scent of her arousal thick between them, undeniable. He dragged the belt slowly down the backs of her thighs, watching the way her muscles trembled, how her hips twitched—not away, but deeper into the sting. "Four," he prompted, voice wrecked. When she choked it out, he exhaled sharply, tossing the belt aside with a clatter that made her flinch. His palm replaced it instantly, kneading the abused flesh with a roughness that wrenched another gasp from her lips.
"God, look at you," he growled, fingers digging in just to feel her shudder.
Then he gave three back to back—hard, fast, ruthless. The first smack jerked her forward with a cry, the second made her knees buckle, the third had her arching off the bed with a sob. "Fuck—smoke," Annie whined out, the words broken, her face pressed into the sheets where his cigar had left its scent.
Her thighs clenched, slickness undeniable now, her body trembling not from pain but from the way his fingers traced each welt, possessive and hungry. Elijah groaned low in his throat, his own control fraying at the edges as he dragged his knuckles down the crease of her ass, slow and deliberate.
And with one final hit—sharp, measured, lingering—he released her. The tension shattered like glass. Annie collapsed forward, gasping, the sheets damp beneath her cheek where sweat and tears had pooled. Elijah exhaled sharply, tossing the belt aside with a clatter that echoed in the sudden quiet.
The room stayed still for a moment after. Not heavy—just quiet. His fingers flexed once, twice, as if shaking off the last remnants of restraint. Then, with a rough sound in his throat, he flipped her around, hauling her upright by the hips until she was eye-level with his belt buckle, her knees sinking into the mattress. Her breath hitched—expectant, defiant, her lashes damp with tears she refused to let fall.
Elijah cupped her chin, tilting her face up until she couldn’t look anywhere but at him. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, rough against her split lip where she’d bitten down too hard. “You alright?” The question wasn’t soft. Wasn’t gentle. Just raw—honest in a way that scraped against her skin like gravel. A pause. “I ain’t askin’ to hear what I wanna hear.” His grip tightened, just enough to make her gasp. “I’m askin’ for real.”
She swallowed. Nodded.
Elijah's fingers tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her who was holding who. "Words, Mama," he repeated, voice rough, dark eyes pinning her in place. His thumb pressed into the hinge of her jaw, forcing her mouth open just enough to feel the ghost of his cigar lingering between them. "Say it."
She sucked in a breath—sharp, ragged—before forcing the words past her lips. "I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter, sticking to her tongue like ash. She could feel it then—how carefully he was watching her now, studying the way her pulse fluttered against his fingertips, the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath the rumpled fabric of her shirt. His gaze traced every twitch, every flicker of defiance and exhaustion warring behind her eyes.
"Next time you wanna run," he said, voice low but calm, "you come to me first, even if you mad." The words weren't a plea—they were an order, wrapped in smoke and whiskey, rough enough to make her shiver. His thumb dragged across her lower lip, pressing just enough to feel the tremor she couldn't hide.
"Even if you hate me. Even if you think I ain't gonna listen." His grip shifted, fingers sliding into her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back further. "You come to me."
She swallowed hard, the taste of salt and iron still clinging to her tongue. His palm cradled the back of her head now, firm but not harsh—anchoring, like he knew her knees were shaking even if she refused to admit it. "I ain't lettin' you fall apart alone. Not ever." The promise hit harder than the belt had, knocking the breath from her lungs. Elijah never made promises lightly.
Annie woke up slow, the kind of slow where her body registered everything before her mind caught up. The sheets were too soft, the room too quiet. Then the soreness hit her all at once, low and undeniable, pulling a groan from deep in her chest as she shifted.
“Oh, hell,” she muttered to herself, dropping her face back into the pillow.
She rolled onto her side—and froze.
Tina stood near the window, clipboard tucked neatly under her arm. Elise was beside her, hands folded, posture polite and unreadable. Both of them already dressed, already prepared, already ahead of her.
Annie groaned again. “Here we go,” she said under her breath.
Tina turned at the sound, her expression carefully neutral, though her eyes lingered just a second too long on Annie’s face. It was that look—measured, assessing—that made Annie squint back at her.
“What?” Annie asked, eyebrow lifting. “Why you lookin’ at me like that?”
Tina cleared her throat lightly. “Mr. Moore left instructions this morning.”
That alone was enough to make Annie sit up straighter, ignoring the protest from her body. “Of course he did.”
Tina didn’t rise to the tone. “You are no longer confined to the White House,” she said evenly. “Effective immediately.”
Annie blinked. Once. Twice. “Say that again.”
“You are free to leave the grounds today,” Tina repeated. Then, with a slight shift of her clipboard, she added, “Mr. Moore has instructed that you take a self-care day.”
That stopped Annie cold.
“A… what?”
“A full day,” Tina continued, professional as ever, “beginning with a private appointment at the Élysian Spa. Massage, soak, facial—the full treatment. Afterward, a curated shopping experience has been arranged. Discrete locations. Secure transport.”
Elise smiled softly at that, like she already knew exactly what that day would look like.
Annie leaned back against the headboard, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “So,” she said slowly, “he locks me down,… then sends me to a spa?”
Tina allowed herself the smallest hint of a smile. “Mr. Moore believes in… balance.”
Annie huffed. “That man is unbelievable.”
But even as she said it, part of her chest loosened. The tight coil she’d been carrying since the night before eased just a little. Not because she forgave him. Not because everything was fine.
But because—damn it—he saw her.
Elise stepped forward gently. “Shall I prepare your bath, Mrs. Moore?” she asked. “Something warm. Relaxing.”
Annie closed her eyes for a second, then nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “That sounds real good right now.”
Annie stepped out of her room pulling the door shut behind her, already halfway annoyed.
She was clean, dressed, hair done just enough to pass, body still sore in places she didn’t feel like thinkin’ about. The bath helped some, but it didn’t fix shit. She just wanted out. A few hours where nobody was watchin’ her breathe.
She walked down the hall with purpose.
That’s when she clocked it.
Footsteps behind her. More than one.
She didn’t stop, just sighed. “Don’t tell me y’all finna do this all day.”
Tina’s voice came calm and measured from behind. “Mrs. Moore—”
“I’m goin’ to the spa,” Annie cut in. “Not runnin’ for my life.”
Still, she felt them close in. Suits. Presence. That quiet pressure she was starting to hate.
By the time she reached the doors, her jaw was tight.
Then she saw him.
Sammie stood outside like he’d been there all morning. Hands loose at his sides, weight on one leg, eyes already on her. When their gazes met, his face softened just a little.
“There you is, ma,” he said.
Her shoulders dropped before she could stop it. “Boy,” she muttered, walking straight toward him. “You just be poppin’ up wherever now.”
He smiled, small and familiar. “Kinda my job.”
She hooked her arm through his like she’d done a hundred times before, grounding herself. “You knew I was finna lose my damn mind if they kept hoverin’.”
Sammie glanced past her at the guards. His voice didn’t change, but the tone did. “I got her.”
No arguing. No looks. Just a salute and they peeled off.
Annie watched them go, then shook her head. “Since when folks listen to you like that?”
He shrugged. “Since they had to.”
They started walking.
Annie kept her eyes ahead. “So what, you babysittin’ me now?”
He snorted. “You ain’t never been the type to sit still long enough for that.”
She looked up at him. “Then what is this, Sammie?”
He slowed just a bit. “I’m head of security.”
“For the White House,” she said flatly.
“For you,” he corrected.
She stopped walking.
Turned to him slowly. “You serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
She studied his face. No jokes. No teasing. Just truth. “So Smoke really did all this.”
Sammie didn’t answer right away. “He did what he thought was necessary.”
Annie huffed. “That sounds like his favorite excuse.”
Sammie met her eyes. “Ma… I know you mad. I know you hurt. But don’t make today harder than it already is.”
She held his gaze a second longer, then nodded once. “Fine. But I ain’t disappearin’ into this life like I don’t exist.”
“I wouldn’t let you,” he said quietly.
That did it.
She tightened her arm around his and started walking again. “Alright then. Take me to this fancy-ass spa.”
He smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
body was loose, skin glowing, mind quieter than it had been in days. The tension didn’t disappear completely—it never did—but it softened enough that she could stand up straight without feeling like she was bracing for something. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and took a slow breath.
Then she looked up.
The mall was empty.
No shoppers. No noise. No wandering kids or chatter bouncing off the high ceilings. Just polished floors, storefront lights glowing, and silence so clean it almost echoed.
Annie slowed. “Uh,” she said, turning toward Sammie. “Why it look like we broke in here?”
Sammie didn’t look surprised. Not even a little. “Smoke had it cleared for the day.”
She blinked. “The whole mall?”
“Yes, ma.”
Annie let out a short breath through her nose and nodded once, like she didn’t wanna give him the satisfaction of reacting. “Of course he did.”
They started walking again, her heels tapping softly against the floor. She took a few steps before her phone buzzed in her hand.
Annie froze.
She glanced down at the screen.
Smoke.
For a second, she just stared at his name. Then she unlocked the phone.
You good? Eat somethin’. Don’t skip meals.
Her chest tightened in a way she didn’t ask for.
She didn’t smile—but something in her eased. Just for a moment. Like muscle memory kicking in before she could stop it.
She typed back.
I’m fine. At the mall.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
I know.
She shook her head softly, half-annoyed, half… something else.
You didn’t have to clear the whole place, she sent.
This time, the response took longer.
I wanted you to breathe.
Annie stared at the screen longer than she meant to.
Then she locked the phone and slipped it back into her bag. “Alright,” she muttered to herself. “Let’s get this over with.”
She squared her shoulders and stepped toward the first store, confidence settling back into her walk. Sammie stayed close but not hovering, letting her move at her own pace.
And as Annie disappeared into racks of fabric and quiet luxury, one thing was clear—
Even when she tried to push him away, Smoke was still right there. Watching. Waiting.
The mall cafeteria was just as empty as the rest of the place.
Lights hummed softly overhead, chairs still pushed neatly under tables, the smell of food lingering without the noise that usually came with it. Annie sat at one of the small round tables near the window, a tray in front of her she’d barely touched. Sammie sat across from her, elbows resting easy, posture relaxed but alert like it always was.
Tina stood a few steps off to the side, giving them space without ever really leaving. Clipboard tucked under her arm, eyes moving now and then, but she didn’t interrupt.
For a moment, Annie just stared at her food.
“You gon’ eat that?” Sammie asked lightly.
She huffed a small laugh. “Eventually.”
He shook his head. “You always say that.”
“Because you always rush me,” she shot back, finally picking up her fork.
They ate in silence for a few beats. Not awkward. Just familiar. The kind that didn’t need fillin’.
Annie glanced up at him. “So… how long you been head of security?”
Sammie leaned back in his chair. “Officially? Few months. Unofficially?” He shrugged. “Feels like forever.”
She nodded slowly. “You growin’ up on me.”
He smiled at that. “Somebody had to.”
Her expression softened, just a little. “You ain’t have to carry all this though.”
Sammie’s smile faded, replaced by something steadier. “I wanted to.”
That sat between them for a moment.
Annie poked at her food again. “I don’t like how all this happened,” she said quietly. “Feels like my life got picked up and dropped somewhere else without askin’ me.”
“I know,” he said. No arguing. No correcting.
She looked up, surprised. “You do?”
“I seen you these last eight years,” Sammie said. “I know how hard you worked to get your peace back. Ain’t nobody blind to that.”
Her throat tightened. She swallowed. “Then why it feel like everybody expect me to just fall in line?”
Sammie leaned forward. “They don’t know you like I do.”
Tina shifted slightly but stayed silent.
Annie sighed. “Smoke thinkin’ he do.”
Sammie didn’t respond right away. He studied her face, like he was choosing his words careful. “He different now, ma,” he said finally. “But that don’t mean you wrong for feelin’ how you feel.”
She met his eyes. “You ain’t gon’ tell him everything I say, right?”
He shook his head immediately. “I ain’t his mouthpiece.”
That eased her some.
She sat back, crossing her arms. “I just need time.”
“I know,” Sammie said. Then softer, “Just don’t disappear again.”
Her gaze flicked to his. “You sayin’ that as security or family?”
He held her eyes. “Both.”
Annie nodded once. “Alright.”
She finally took a real bite of her food, chewing slow. Outside the window, sunlight spilled across the empty walkway.
For the first time since all this started, Annie didn’t feel like she was bein’ watched.
She felt… heard.
Meanwhile, deep underground, the city didn’t exist.
Concrete walls pressed in on all sides, thick and damp, carrying the hum of generators and the echo of old footsteps. Smoke stood near the crate, jacket off now, sleeves rolled. His posture was loose, but his eyes stayed sharp. Stack paced beside him, restless as ever, knuckles cracking out of habit.
Footsteps hit the floor—steady, familiar.
Bo Chow came through the shadows like he always had. No rush. No hesitation. Same man who ran the streets with them when they were boys, just dressed better now. His button-down was open at the collar, chain catching the light.
“Damn,” Stack said, grinning wide. “Look at you. Still walk like you own the ground.”
Bo smirked. “Somebody gotta.”
Smoke stepped forward, and they met in the middle—no words, just a solid, chest-to-chest hug. Arms locked tight, brief but heavy. The kind of hug that said we made it without ever saying it out loud.
“Been a minute, Smoke,” Bo said. “Thought power might slow you down.”
Smoke scoffed. “Nah. Just made me smarter.”
Bo’s laugh was quiet. “Same here.”
Two men set the crate down and stepped back. Stack wasted no time, popping it open.
The shine hit his face.
“Shiiit,” Stack muttered, low and impressed. He lifted one of the guns, weighing it. “This ain’t street. This grown-man business.”
Bo chuckled. “You always did like nice things.”
Stack tilted his head. “You always did deliver.”
They moved to the table. Bo pulled his shirt off like it was nothing, tossing it aside. Ink covered his arms—old tattoos, layered over time. Nothing flashy. Everything earned.
Smoke’s eyes flicked over them once. “You still collectin’ stories on your skin.”
Bo shrugged. “Better than collectin’ scars.”
They cracked open beers and sat.
Stack leaned back, bottle resting on his chest. “Crazy how we started with nothin’. Sleeping in basements. Running packs we couldn’t even afford to lose.”
Bo nodded. “We learned early. Trust was currency.”
Smoke took a slow drink. “And weakness got you buried.”
Silence fell for a beat—not awkward, just real.
“You remember that dock job?” Bo said. “Thought we wasn’t walkin’ outta that one.”
Stack laughed. “Man, you froze up.”
Bo shot him a look. “I ain’t freeze. I calculated.”
Smoke smirked. “You always did think slower than you fought.”
Bo leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Yeah. But I’m still here.”
That sat heavy between them.
Three boys who survived long enough to become men nobody touched without permission.
Bo reached for another bottle, sliding it across the table. “Aight,” he said, voice low, familiar. “Enough talk.”
He lifted his beer.
“Let’s drink.”
Bo leaned back in his chair, beer untouched now, forearms resting on the table. The ink on his arms looked darker under the lights, older somehow. When he spoke, his voice slowed, thickened—not louder, just heavier, like every word had already been tested in his head.
“World different now,” Bo said. “Not just louder. Different. When we was boys, we ran underground because we had to. Now? Underground run because it want permission.”
Stack scoffed under his breath, shifting in his seat. “Permission from who?”
Bo glanced at him. “From you,” he said simply. Then his eyes slid back to Smoke. “From him.”
Smoke didn’t react. He didn’t need to.
Bo continued, warming into it. “You sittin’ in a chair people been killin’ for generations. That change how business breathe. Borders ain’t just lines no more—they contracts. Laws ain’t walls, they tools. Everybody lookin’ for angles they can’t buy.”
He took a slow drink, then set the bottle down. “I ain’t here bringin’ you product. I’m bringin’ you insulation.”
Stack leaned forward, grin sharp. “Man, I don’t want insulation. I want leverage.”
Bo smiled faintly. “That is leverage.”
He tapped the table once, steady. “You don’t move loud no more. You move legal. Charities. Clinics. Infrastructure. Things that make senators feel clean when they shake your hand. You don’t stop the underground—you redirect it.”
Stack shook his head. “That sound like dressin’ shit up.”
“It is,” Bo said calmly. “That’s how you win.”
He turned fully toward Smoke now, voice lower. “Old crews don’t know how to deal with that. They understand fear. They don’t understand policy. You let me be the bridge. I keep the dirt where it belong. You keep your hands clean.”
Stack laughed, restless. “And what if somebody don’t wanna play government?”
Bo’s smile disappeared. “Then you let them remind everybody else why this deal exist.”
Smoke finally moved, folding his hands together, eyes unreadable.
Bo finished quietly, deliberate. “This ain’t about survival anymore. This about control without noise. History without fingerprints. You already President. I’m just makin’ sure the world underneath fall in line.”
The room went still.
Stack cracked his neck, half-smiling, half-hungry. “Say less. Just tell me when.”
Bo reached for the beer again, lifting it slightly toward them. “First,” he said, voice easing just a notch, “we drink.”
They lifted their bottles at the same time and took a slow sip. Glass touched lips. Beer went down easy. For a moment, it felt almost like old times—three men sharing a quiet pause before the next move.
Then Bo’s expression shifted.
It was subtle, just a slight narrowing of his eyes, the corner of his mouth tightening like a thought finally deciding to speak. He lowered his bottle and looked straight at Smoke, studying him the way he always had—like he was reading past the suit, past the title, straight into the boy he grew up with.
“So,” Bo said casually, like it was nothing, “how Annie handlin’ her new position?”
Stack lost it instantly. He barked out a laugh, nearly choking on his drink. “Nah—nah, you wild for that,” he said, wiping his mouth. “That’s how you openin’ that conversation?”
Smoke’s head snapped up.
His glare hit Stack first—sharp, warning, absolute. The room shifted with it. Stack’s grin faltered just enough to show he knew he’d crossed something real.
Bo didn’t laugh.
He stayed calm, eyes still on Smoke, unbothered by the tension blooming at the table. He’d seen that look before. Knew what it meant. Knew when to push and when to stand still.
Stack leaned back slowly, hands lifting in mock surrender. “Aight, aight,” he said, tone lighter but cautious now. “I’m just sayin’. Man asked a question.”
Smoke didn’t respond right away. He set his bottle down carefully, jaw tight, silence stretching heavy between them. The underground hummed around them, concrete holding its breath.
Bo finally leaned back, breaking eye contact, voice even. “Just curious,” he said. “No disrespect.”
The laughter was gone. The warmth with it.
Smoke didn’t look away this time.
He leaned back in his chair, shoulders settling, voice low and honest in a way he rarely allowed. “She’s handlin’ it,” he said. “Ain’t easy. Pressure’s different when everybody watchin’, when every move gotta mean somethin’. But she steady. Smarter than folks give her credit for.”
Bo listened without interrupting, head slightly tilted, eyes calm. No judgment. Just taking it in.
“I heard,” Bo said after a beat, nodding slowly, “she got herself a clinic.”
Stack’s brows shot up. “See?” he said, pointing between them. “This what I’m talkin’ about. How everybody know everybody business but me?”
Bo ignored him. “Clinic’s a good start,” he went on, tone thoughtful. “Means she thinkin’ long-term. Means she want roots, not headlines.”
Smoke’s jaw tightened just a touch. He didn’t deny it.
Bo rolled the bottle between his hands, eyes drifting to the concrete floor like he was already mapping something bigger. “If she that homesick,” he said casually, “just buy her a hospital.”
The words landed heavy.
Smoke went still.
Not angry. Not defensive. Thinking. His gaze dropped, unfocused now, mind clearly somewhere else—numbers, logistics, possibilities clicking into place whether he wanted them to or not.
Stack stared at both of them like they’d lost their damn minds. “Hold up,” he said, looking from Smoke to Bo and back again. “Y’all hear yourselves? A hospital? Like we talkin’ ‘bout shoes?”
Bo glanced at him, unfazed. “Same principle. Bigger building.”
Stack laughed, sharp and incredulous. “Man, y’all different now. Dangerous type of different.”
Smoke didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He just lifted his bottle again and took another slow sip, eyes distant, already weighing the cost—and knowing damn well he could afford it.
Bo watched him quietly, saying nothing more.
Some ideas didn’t need pushing.
They just needed time to grow.
@lizbehave @hdfen2474 @brownskincheyenne @blackgirlsrock444@fortheyearnerrss @underated345-blog @theegyal @caramelplug@mmbee675 @shamansha @summrsovrinterludede @bananajoeclone @solunaseira @ayishia101 @pastelprintessa @thedondada05 @mspenpushaa7 @thebumblebeesworld @lestatthelioncourt @katezy @og-goddesstrill @storiesbyasl @xeebop @margepimpson @jaeflair @katezy2x @imperoyalblue @thegreatlibraryofalex @andacouldneversilenceme @endlesslychaoticmantis @theogbadbitch @issfaith
Thissssssssss is the smoke that’s showing up in this fic !! I ain’t know I needed this smoke !! When he told Annie to lock the door !! I damn near jumped out my drawls 😭😭😭… but annie ain’t wrong make him sweat & give him hell !!! Yall got to come read this neowwwwww and show love to the author @othermotherchild frennnnnnn is feeding us so well and doing the biggest one !! Thank you
I don’t know what happened to this author but I miss her stories so much !!
Literallyyy, like come back please!
