He gripped the sides of the chair, fighting emotion, but he showed none. Rage and devastation swirled in him. It was a hot-boy summer, and he was about to cool niggas off. It was time to make it rain. Bullets. Murder Meek wanted to change the forecast and make it rain bullets. This feeling, this news was the worst thing he’d ever felt. It was worse than Mo cutting him off. It hurt more than the discovery of Messiah’s empty hospital room all those years ago. It ached more than the day his father got locked up. This shit was the worst pain he’d ever dealt with.
