Rise of the Street King

Chapter 64 — Deals in the Dark

The city had not forgotten.

A week after the lieutenant’s execution, the streets were quieter not from peace, but from exhaustion. Police raids had scorched through the alleys, leaving bruises, broken windows, and pockets emptied by “searches.” But even violence has a rhythm, and once the first wave passed, the slum adapted.

People still had to eat. Markets opened again. Smoke rose from roadside grills, vendors hawked roasted corn, and children ran barefoot, dodging patrol vans as if it were a game.

And through it all, Jayden’s shadow stretched longer.

Every coin paid to a market boy for carrying loads, every gambler’s dice rolled in the backroom dens, every night vendor’s lantern lit under his protection each one was a thread weaving the slum’s survival into Jayden Cole’s name.

But he knew survival wasn’t enough anymore. Not if he wanted to hold what he’d taken...

The meeting was held in a shuttered textile warehouse, dust thick in the air, bolts of faded cloth stacked like barricades. Jayden stood at the center, Malikah by his side, the Burned Boy stationed at the door with three lookouts.

One by one, the figures arrived.

First, merchants: Fat-bellied men in rumpled shirts, gold chains flashing against sweat-stained collars. They brought the smell of spices and grease with them, men who knew the slum’s economy better than any ledger.

Then the minor politicians: councilmen with cheap suits and slicked hair, their smiles oily, their hands quick to shake. They weren’t the power of the city, but they were the ones who brokered its scraps permits, contracts, street licenses, favors whispered in backrooms.

They all came because Jayden had something Razor never gave them: order...

A merchant named Bello spoke first, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

“These patrols are killing us, Jayden. My trucks get stopped every night. Drivers beaten, crates smashed. We bleed money. You want our tribute? Then stop the bleeding.”

Jayden leaned forward on the table, voice calm. “That’s what you’re here for. You pay, I protect. My scouts know every patrol schedule. My people ride with your trucks. You lose nothing again.”

A murmur ran through the merchants. Relief mixed with doubt.

One of the politicians Councilman Garba, thin as a stick, eyes darting cleared his throat. “And the police? What happens when they notice your people sitting in our drivers’ seats?”

Jayden didn’t blink. “Then it’ll be their problem. Because they’ll be finding it harder and harder to tell which stalls and trucks are ours… and which aren’t.” He let the words settle, heavy with suggestion. “They won’t fight everyone. They’ll think twice when every vendor pays me and every merchant swears my name. You want safety? Safety comes through me.”

Silence followed. Then one merchant, older, scarred from an old fire, gave a slow nod. “Better the devil who pays back than the one who only takes.”

One by one, heads followed...

The deal was struck with coin, handshakes, and promises spoken in hushed tones. Jayden’s gambling den would launder their earnings; their businesses would funnel money through his fronts. In return, his people would guard their warehouses, ride shotgun on their trucks, and ensure vendors kept their stalls under his protection.

The slum’s economy began to bend not away from chaos, but toward Jayden.

Outside, Malikah pulled him aside. Her eyes glittered with both triumph and caution.

“You realize what you just did?”

Jayden smirked faintly. “Kept food on their tables.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You just made yourself the spine of this slum. They break you, everything collapses. That makes you stronger, yes. But it also makes you a bigger target.”

Jayden looked out at the dusty street where kids kicked a ball made of rags. “Then we stay unbreakable...

But power was never clean.

That night, as Jayden walked the market to show his face, vendors bowed their heads, slipping him coins wrapped in cloth, whispering blessings and thanks. Yet he noticed the ones who didn’t smile, who looked away quickly, fear sharpening their expressions.

Not everyone wanted his order. Not everyone trusted him to be different from the badge he had killed.

The Burned Boy, marching proudly beside him, muttered, “They’ll all come around. Once they see we don’t bend.”

Jayden said nothing, though a gnawing thought chewed at him: Was he building loyalty… or just another kind of prison?..

The following evening, a more private meeting was called.

A politician’s aide named Femi arrived, slick in his blue suit, shoes polished, his confidence far too big for his youth. He requested to speak with Jayden alone. Malikah bristled but stepped aside, though not far enough to be out of earshot.

Femi sat with a swagger, crossing one leg over the other. “You’re making waves, Mr. Cole. Big ones. Too big to stay under.”

Jayden leaned back, eyes cool. “Say what you came to say.”

The aide smiled like a fox. “You think you’re just running streets, but you’re already running votes. These merchants, these vendors they’re voters. And people listen to whoever puts food in their mouths. That makes you valuable.”

Jayden raised an eyebrow. “To who?”

“To people who can make things… legal,” Femi said, savoring the word. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “Imagine this. No more hiding. No more raids. Your gambling houses with licenses. Your protection written as security contracts. Your crew on payroll as ‘community enforcers.’”

Jayden’s jaw tightened. The thought was intoxicating, dangerous. “And what do they want in return?”

Femi’s smile widened. “Votes. Money flows. Stability where they can point and say, See? We cleaned the slums. You get your empire, they get their power.”

Silence stretched. Jayden’s heartbeat thudded heavy.

Malikah broke it, stepping forward. “And when they’re done with us? When the Council flips the switch and calls us criminals again?”

Femi glanced at her with mild amusement. “That’s politics. You’ll either be too valuable to cut loose… or you’ll burn fast and hard. That choice, Mr. Cole, is yours.”

He stood, smoothing his jacket. “Think on it. People higher than you imagine are watching. And if you play this right… you’ll never need to look over your shoulder again.”

He slipped out into the night, his polished shoes echoing against the cracked concrete.

Jayden stood frozen long after he left. Malikah’s voice cut through the silence, sharp with unease.

“This is a trap.”

“Maybe,” Jayden muttered. His eyes were distant, caught on the vision the aide had painted. His empire, legal. His crew, untouchable. His name, no longer whispered in fear but spoken in city halls.

For a moment, he saw it and for the first time, he wondered if survival was too small a dream.

But in the pit of his stomach, another truth twisted: with every hand he shook, every deal he made, the shadows above grew darker, thicker, closer.

And he had no idea if Amara was one of them..

The memory of Femi’s words lingers like smoke: “Imagine this… legal.” But Malikah’s warning echoes louder: “This is a trap.” Jayden lies awake that night, torn between the hunger for legitimacy and the dread that he’s walking into a cage with golden bars.