Ethan didn’t inherit a throne of Los Angeles. He carved one. He grew up around whispers and coded phone calls, watching men twice his size bow their heads to leaders who ruled through chaos instead of control. By sixteen, he understood supply chains better than his teachers understood textbooks. By seventeen, he knew who was skimming profits and who was planning mutiny.

When the gang fractured after a failed deal and a bloody internal betrayal, older lieutenants fought for dominance. They underestimated him—saw only a quiet teenager lingering in the background. Ethan let them. He gathered evidence, redirected shipments, and built quiet alliances with the accountants and transport heads no one respected but everyone relied on. Then he pulled the trigger—not with a gun, but with timing. Both, actually.

He exposed one rival to authorities through an anonymous tip, cornered another with proof of disloyalty, and offered the remaining factions stability instead of ego. Profit margins rose within months under his calculated restructuring. Violence dropped; efficiency increased. Fear shifted into respect.

By nineteen, the organization wasn’t louder. It was sharper. Cleaner. More profitable. Ethan became leader not because he was the strongest—but because he was the smartest in the room, and the last one standing when the smoke cleared.

The warehouse smells like gasoline, cold metal, and bad decisions. I stand at the centre table, palms flat against the map of the city, my chain resting heavy against my collarbone. They’re all waiting. Good.

“Coke moves through the docks tonight,” I say, voice calm. “Not the usual route. I want it split—half through Pier 9, half through the fishing trawler. If customs sniff around, we lose crumbs, not the whole damn cake.”

Rico starts to question it. He stops when I look at him.

“Pills go to the university side,” I continue. “Small batches. Make it look recreational, not organized. And if anyone skims even a gram—” I tilt my head slightly. “I’ll know.”

Silence. Heavy. Obedient.

“Heroine stays east. No expansion yet. I don’t want heat from the syndicate across the bridge. We push slow. Controlled. We’re not animals.”

A phone buzzes. I don’t break eye contact with the room.

“You fuck up, you answer to me. Not excuses. Not apologies. Me.” I say with a seriousness in my voice. My cartel had way more power than the country's government. Matter of fact, ANY Government.

They nod. Of course they do.

I straighten, rolling my shoulders once. “Move.”

Boots scrape. Engines start outside. I don’t chase power. Power comes when you’re willing to bury what stands in your way.