I’ve got no interest in the dope game at all. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t give a fuck how a muthafucka makes his money.

That’s his business.

And as long as his business doesn’t cut into mine, it’s none of my business. It’s all about business to me.

But this shit with the DEA ain’t about business, its personal. If you believe Bobby’s version of it, it began years ago when I bitch slapped Diego Estabon. Back then, Diego was with just Gomez Estabon’s fresh off the boat, punk-ass kid, who was trying to make a name for himself in his daddy’s drug business.

It was years later that Diego came up with some wild-ass scheme to implicate me in the game. Part of his plan involved kidnapping my wife Cassandra, and he died for it. I thought it would end there, but it didn’t. That led to one of his partners, a DEA agent name Kenneth DeFrancisco, goin’ to jail, and he blamed me for being there.

Me?

Why me?

Why not blame your dumb-ass partner for coming up with the dumb-ass plan?

Drunk or sober, I still haven’t figured that out. But because he blamed me, DeFrancisco ordered Cassandra’s murder. I killed him and everybody else that was involved in it. The only one left was another DEA agent named Pete Vinnelli, and I would get to him in due time. But these other two I never saw coming.

“Look, Angee, all I know is that these two fucks were plannin’ to kill me. What the fuck was I supposed to do?” How the fuck was I supposed to know that they were DEA?

If I hadn’t asked Jackie Washington, a very pretty robber-turned-gambler, who I’ve recently taken more of an interest in for more reasons than just business, to keep an eye on Mylo, I’d be dead now. Mylo used to run a high-stakes poker game for Freeze, but there was something about him that I didn’t trust.