Chapter 1 -Overtown Baptism
2002, Overtown, Miami
Overtown don't forgive and it don't forget. Violence and dope—those are the only two languages that matter down here, the only currencies that spend. Even the hardest crews tread careful in these blocks, each gang holding down maybe three, four corners at most before the chaos swallows them whole. It's a war zone where the sirens never stop wailing and the gunshots blend into the Miami heat like some twisted lullaby.
Me? I'm just another hustler doing what Overtown boys do best—surviving. And sometimes, that means fighting.
Today's fight is over territory. Same old story, different day. My crew's been pushing weight on this corner for three years straight, and some wannabe soldiers think they can just roll up and take what's ours. We're all kids, but we fight like we got everything to lose. 'Cause we do.
I'm thirteen, though ain't nobody believe it when they see me. Been big since I could walk, my pops used to say. Speaking of Pops—he was slinging rock till a bullet found him when I was nine. Moms bounced when I was six, tried to take me with her, but Pops threatened her so bad she ran solo. Can't say I blame her. He wasn't no saint, even if he looked out for me.
Spent a year in the system after that, but them group homes ain't built for kids like me. Ran back to the only place that made sense when I was ten, picked up where Pops left off. Built this crew from nothing—Ray, Ace, Blaze, and Miguel. They older than me, but they follow my lead. Loyalty runs deeper than blood out here .
The scrap's heating up now. I'm dancing with some punk who got maybe two years on me, but he's sloppy. Keeps his hands high, protecting that pretty face, but leaves his legs wide open like he's asking for it. I feint left, then drive my knee straight into his kneecap. He buckles, and I'm on him before he hits concrete—left hook, right cross, left again till his eyes roll back.
One down.
Movement catches my eye—another fool coming at me with steel. Switchblade, probably lifted from his mama's kitchen. He swipes wild, all flash, no technique. I slip the blade, step inside his guard, and crack him across the jaw with everything I got. Boxing lessons been paying off.
I grab a broken two-by-four off the ground, hustle over to where Ace is trading shots with some hard-looking dude. I sweep the fool's legs, watch him eat pavement, then break the wood across his skull for good measure.
Ace shoots me a nod—that's all we need. We been doing this dance too long for words.But then everything changes.
"Fucking finally!"The voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. One of their boys—tall, dark, gold teeth flashing—got heat pointed straight at my chest. My blood turns to ice water.
"It's over, white boy," he snarls, finger dancing on the trigger. "Time to send you back where you came from."
The whole block goes quiet. Even the traffic seems to hold its breath.
He squeezes.
Click.
Nothing.
I'm supposed to be dead, but the universe got jokes. His piece jammed up tighter than a virgin on prom night. He starts slapping the gun, cursing, trying to clear whatever's got it stuck.
"Blaze!" I scream.
Ryan—street name Blaze on account of his temper—comes flying out of nowhere. Found him in the same group home I ran from. White boy like me, which makes us unicorns in Overtown, but he earned his stripes the hard way. Hits like a freight train and never backs down from nothing.
Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer.
"Grab that piece and let's bounce!" I shout to my crew.We scatter like roaches when the lights come on, feet pounding concrete, diving through chain-link cuts and over fences till we deep in the maze of project buildings where even the cops think twice about following.
Safe house is a busted apartment in Building C, third floor. No electricity, no running water, but it's ours. We catch our breath, hearts still hammering from the adrenaline.
Ray collapses against the wall, wiping sweat from his dark face. "Yo, Link, you almost caught that hot one, for real. Dude had you dead to rights."
Ace, oldest at sixteen and built like he been lifting weights since he was born, shakes his head. "Streets getting too hot. Fools pulling iron over corner disputes now."
Blaze tosses me the gun, metal still warm from the other boy's grip. "Crazy bastard almost smoked you, bruv. We can't be out here naked no more."
Miguel, our Mexican connect who keeps us supplied, nods slow. "Sí, hermano. Shit's getting real loco out here."
I turn the pistol over in my hands—cheap .38, serial numbers filed clean off. Pop the cylinder, count five rounds looking back at me. Should've been my brains decorating that sidewalk."Y'all wanna know something funny?" I start laughing, can't help it.
"Check this out."
Miguel leans forward. "¿Qué pasó, hermano?"
"Fool had the safety on." I click it off, then back on. "Dumbass was about to send me to meet Jesus, but he ain't never learned how his own heat works."
Ray cracks up first, then the rest follow. "Man, Link, your white ass got saved by some amateur hour bullshit!"
"Probably his first time holding steel," Blaze adds, grinning.But the laughter dies quick. We all know what this means.
"Time to level up," I say, meeting each of their eyes. "Ace, you got the deepest connections. Use whatever we got saved up and get us all strapped. I'm talking real pieces, not some Saturday night special that jams when you need it most."
Ray's face falls. "Damn, there goes all our paper."
"Paper don't mean shit if we dead," I counter.
"Can't spend money from a grave."Ace nods hard."Real talk. We can always make more bread. Can't make more life."
Miguel crosses himself. "Verdad, como una pinche madre."
Ray just stares at the cracked ceiling. "I know, I know. Just hurts watching three months of grinding disappear, you feel me?"
I understand his pain, but this is Overtown. You adapt or you die.
Simple as that.Outside, the sirens fade into the distance, and the neighborhood settles back into its usual rhythm of hustle and survival.
Tomorrow, we'll be back on our corner, but next time, we'll be ready for whatever comes.
Question is: will we make it out of these streets, or just become another cautionary tale whispered in project hallways?Only time will tell.
To be continued...