Chapter 1 “Scam Goddess Red Bottoms”
Lace fronts. Loaded Glocks. Loyalty for sale.
Brielle “Bree” Knox didn’t walk—she floated like a secret.
She stepped out of her obsidian Tesla Model S parked diagonally in front of the Hotel ZaZa valet lane, black rims spinning under the moonlight. The air in Montrose buzzed with late-night wealth and quiet deals, the kind of space where a queenpin could disappear into velvet shadows and designer scents.
She was a vision: golden brown skin glowing under the amber streetlight, 30-inch bone-straight jet-black wig with a deep side part. Her edges were laid, kissed by hints of rosemary and hibiscus oil. A mocha-brown nude lip with a gloss finish glinted like diamonds. She wore a bronze mesh Mugler body suit, black tailored high-waisted pants that fit like they were poured onto her hips, and open-toe Versace heels with gold Medusa studs.
On her arm, a vintage Dior saddlebag. Inside? A Glock 42, her prayer beads, and a phone that never rang unless money was talking.
She walked through the lobby, nodded to the desk manager—who dropped his gaze to her heels out of respect, or fear. The elevator smelled like bergamot and ambition.
Inside the penthouse suite, Tasha Monet—Bree’s right hand, part bookkeeper, part wolf in pink acrylics—sat behind a MacBook, a burner phone in one hand and a glass of Casamigos in the other. Her hair was twisted into long, honey-blonde goddess braids, eyes rimmed with smoky liner. She wore an oversized cream Fendi cardigan and no pants. Her vibe: brains in heels, bullets in spreadsheets.
“Wire hit. 45K in. Three shells got cleaned,” Tasha said, tapping her screen with long, French-tipped nails.
“Canada or ATL?” Bree asked, sliding her Louboutins off and sinking into the couch.
“ATL through the skincare shell, Canada via the ghost courier. You good.”
Tasha rolled her red-lacquered almond nails on the desk. “Ma strategy is slow-burn, legit laundering.” She tapped a key. Money split into four places before Tasha blinked.
“Sloppy is posting cash on the ‘gram with your mama still on Section 8,” Tasha teased.
Bree took the glass from her, sipped. Sweet burn. “See, that’s why I don’t outsource. They’d fuck around and get flashy. Post the wire. Get the feds watching. Meanwhile, you over here cleaning like it’s your altar.”
“Bitch, I am the altar.” Tasha didn’t smile.
“Strategy,” Tasha stated, lips curving with pride. Gloss reflecting chandelier lights. She breathed it in: Money.
“You miss her?” Tasha asked quietly.
The air in the room shifted.
“I don’t miss dead bitches,” Brielle said, lying through glossy lips.
But she did miss her. Nia “Staxx” Johnson. The one who used to ride with her, sleep in her bed, move weight and laugh like it wasn’t nothing. Until the night of the fire. Until the rumors. Until she was gone.
They laughed. Then the door cracked
They didn’t need no army. Just each other. And maybe one more.
Enter Mekka “Blaze” Davis—5’9” of bad bitch artillery and temptation. Luxury Escalade still running taxi-side beneath the valet canopy downstairs. Blaze wore a floor-length black leather trench coat over a sheer brown bodysuit, red bone, freckled skin shining with cocoa butter and sin. Her platinum-blonde and ginger locs were twisted high into a bun, with edges sharp as blades. Tattoos lined her collarbone: skulls, wilted roses, bullets, a crown. With a Glock holstered under her Coach crossbody, she placed a burner on the desk.
Her scent was a mix of Creed Aventus and weed smoke.
She walked with a limp—old wound from the night she walked off the stage at Club Obsidian for good. Ex lesbian stripper. Full-time weapons broker now.
“Y’all looked too calm,” Blaze said.
“What the fuck is this?” Brielle said.
“Picture drop,” Blaze growled. The screen lit up: a grainy photo, hoodie down, grill flashing. That same, “Fuck around and find out” face.
Bree sat up straight. Her heart stuttered in her ribcage.
Nia. Alive.
