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Dominique "baby" Jones 23
2:30 PM – Midtown Atlanta
Baby slid into the backseat of his black Escalade, his jaw tight as he tapped his fingers against his knee. The city was in distress, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't know who the fuck was coming for him.
The police had been all over him since last night's explosion, pressing him for answers, but he had long since mastered the art of playing dumb. His lawyers and people in high places had cleaned up the mess—at least, the drug part of it. As far as the city was concerned, it was a random terrorist act.
But Baby knew better.
This wasn't no random shit. This was a message.
Now, he was at his third club, checking every square inch for bombs. His people had already swept it twice, but he didn't trust nobody right now.
His crew was quiet as fuck as he moved through the club, his eyes dark, scanning every face like he was seeing them for the first time.
"You. The fuck you been at?" He pointed at a bouncer by the door.
The man swallowed hard. "Boss, I—I was off last night."
Baby stepped closer. "Who put you on this shift?"
"D-DeShawn. He told me to come in today."
Baby nodded. His stomach already told him what was up, but he needed confirmation. "Where's DeShawn?"
Silence.
Baby turned his head toward Thugga, his right-hand man, who was already on his phone, searching.
Nothing. DeShawn was gone.
Then, one of Baby's shooters walked in, holding a phone. "Boss, found this in DeShawn's locker."
Baby took the phone and flipped it open. A single text message was left on the screen.
"I'm coming for you."
The heat in Baby's chest turned ice cold. His grip tightened around the phone. This wasn't a warning—this was a declaration.
His mind immediately started running through possibilities. Who had the balls to touch him like this?
Not the local crews. He had too much power over them. Not the cartel. He had their respect. Not the feds. They played the long game.
So who the fuck—
His mama. His sister.
Baby pulled out his personal phone and dialed. His mother answered after two rings.
"Boy, what you calling me for? I'm watchin' my shows."
Baby exhaled sharply. "Pack your shit. You and Kierra moving to the other house tonight."
Silence.
His mother hated that house. Said it was too far, too isolated. But Baby ain't have time to argue.
"I ain't askin', Ma," he said, voice low. "Do it. Now."
"You tell me what the hell is going on, Dom—"
"Later," he snapped. "Just move."
She sighed but didn't argue further. "Alright. But you better fix whatever the hell this is."
He just hung up.
Now, it was time to move.
⸻
Baby, Thugga, and his cousin Quan sat in a private section of one of the most poppin' restaurants in the city. His own. The place was packed, the air filled with the smell of soul food, and liquor.
Baby picked at his plate, his mind elsewhere. He was tryna connect the dots.
Whoever was doing this was smart. Calculated. They didn't hit the streets first. They hit him where it hurt—the money.
Ain't nobody ever been bold enough to pull some shit like this in Atlanta before.
Then Thugga's phone rang.
He answered, listening for a few seconds before his face twisted.
"What? Fuck you mean?" His voice was sharp. "Yo aii', get all the product you can before 12 get there." He hung up, his face tight with frustration.
Baby looked up. "The fuck goin' on now?"
Thugga exhaled, running a hand down his face. "Two of our projects just got lit up. Niggas came through airin' shit out. Half them corner boys gone."
Baby stood up so fast his chair slid back. "Who?"
Thugga shook his head. "Ain't no name yet. Just bodies droppin'."
His blood was boiling now. Somebody was really tryna push him out his own city.
The club bombing? That was loud. But this? This was straight-up war.
He pulled out his phone, already dialing.
"Have someone check the cameras from the club before the explosion. I want every unfamiliar face identified."
His jaw clenched, his voice dropping lower. "And I need reports on who's new around here. I want this shit handled. Now."
