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Tasha had landed a CEO.
    Maybe Mom should find herself a George instead of wasting time with losers. Then again, maybe she couldn’t land one. She was always complaining about the “slim pickings” out there. Kiki’s father had seemed promising for a while, until Mom found out he had another girlfriend. Forget about tracking him down for child support. Last we’d heard, he’d moved back to the Caribbean.
    Dinner was good. I made sure to load my plate up high, a habit from juvie, where you didn’t get to go back for seconds. Just the thought of juvie made me tense. I shrugged it off and focused on Kiki, who always put a smile on my face. He had this habit of secretly stashing food he didn’t like under him, which was why thebutt of his pants was always covered in squashed food. I spotted him hiding some bits of chicken and gave him a wink.
    I looked around the table at my family and suddenly thought of Jessica. For a second, I pictured what it would be like if she were here having dinner with us.
    It could still happen, Jessica and me. But first I had to finish what I started. If Prescott’s raid of the Cash Stop went as planned, my work would be done. I could gradually pull away from the game and focus on what I really wanted in my life—music, school, Jessica.
    Then I would really be free.

JUVIE
    J uvie was full of guys like me, young street dealers taking the fall for bigger players. All we’d wanted was a few extra bucks and some status in neighborhoods where the kingpins were royalty. Stupid, yeah, and we paid the price. The justice system was all about teaching us a lesson. Problem was, the real criminals were sitting in VIP booths drinking Cristal while their minions were doing time.
    But it wasn’t only guys like me in juvie. There were guys who’d killed and raped, then bragged about it so you’d be scared of them. I had to walk beside them, eat lunch with them, clean floors with them, and sometimes bunk in the same room with them.
    In juvie, you needed a survival strategy. You had to choose a role and play it well: bully, follower, comic, psychotic loner, whatever. Mine was the independent who flew under the radar and didn’t take sides. But there was one thing I couldn’t do: look the other way when it wasn’t a fair fight. Maybe I got that from my dad, who became a peacekeeper to help people in war-torn countries. When I saw some pipsqueak getting jumped, I got involved. But do that a few times and you might as well paint a bull’s-eye on your back.
    The worst of the psychos was Jongo. The second he walked into juvie, he called himself the Original Gangsta, started his own gang, and squashed anyone he didn’t like. He went after a friend of mine, White Chris, beating him so bad Chris went blind in one eye, all because he talked back.
    I knew that Jongo’s reign had to end and that it would end with me. So I started to mess with Jongo’s head. I spread rumors about him. Tipped off some guards to interfere with his dealing. Made sure he knew I was behind all of it too. Jongo went to the trouble of smuggling in a razor blade just for me. When he pulled it on me in the TV room, I was ready for him. I knew I had to let him cut me if my plan was going to work, but I sure as hell didn’t want to die. He went for my neck, and I dodged him so he only caught my shoulder. I ended up with ten stitches. Jongo ended up in an adult prison.
    While I was in juvie, I also learned more about Diamond Tony. I’d only known him as a feared and revered kingpin, but the details I heard from prisoners and guards were ugly. Murders, beatings, intimidation. Lots of kids had gotten locked up or killed because they worked for Tony. I was one of them. And it would continue unless someone stopped him.
    I wanted that someone to be me.

THE BUST
    A t 7:37 Monday morning, my secret cell rang.
    â€œIt’s Prescott,” he said, as if he wasn’t the