Darius went home first.
Not to the villa. Not to any of the properties Jake owned. Home. Liberty City. The apartment wasn't there anymore. His mother had moved to a better place in Opa-locka three years ago, paid for by Darius's salary from Jake's operation, and the old two-bedroom on NW 15th Avenue was a parking lot now. But the neighborhood was still there. The corners were still there. The men who stood on them were different men, younger men, but they stood the same way and watched the same way and the code was the same code it had always been. You didn't walk into someone's territory without being introduced. You didn't ask questions without offering something first. And you didn't come back to a place you'd left and expect it to remember you.
Darius parked on NW 27th Avenue at two in the morning and walked.
