Chapter One

We Came Too Far

​

Summer 2023

  “Come on, Anaiyah. What’s up with your focus level? You still got two more takes after this one. After scene we’ll shoot the standoff scene later on this evening and the movie is finished. Pull it together.”

I try to sound like a director, but it comes out more like a brother. I’m Zaylen — lead actor, writer, director Executive Producer of the movie Black Wall Street Empire— and if the weight of all four jobs doesn’t kill me, the drama will.

She shakes her head, rubbing her temple.

   “I know I’m fucking up, Zay. I’m just not feeling this shit today. I swear, I’m damn near like fuck everything.”

  “You’re not fucking up,” I tell her, keeping it firm. “You’re the co-star, the face. Leave the problems outside the set. That’s my rule, and you know it.”

She exhales, straightens her back, then nods. 

    “Alright. Let’s run it.”

We start again. The lines hit smoother, the crew eases. But once I call cut, the storm comes right back.

 

*****

​

Later, while I’m reviewing playback, I ask,

   “What’s really wrong? You know I hate seeing you like this.”

   “It’s Dreon,” she snaps. “Since we started this movie, he’s been stressing me. Throwing new actresses at me like I’m supposed to compete. I’m tired.”

That’s Anaiyah. Fighter to her core on the outside soft and warm hearted on the inside. She’s been standing up to dudes twice her size since grade school — including Dreon himself the love of her life.

I try to calm her. “Sis, you’re not replaceable. You’re lead actress. Dreon’s under pressure too — producers, investors, deadlines. Don’t let him shake you.”

She leans on my shoulder. 

  “You right. I just had to say it.”

Dreon barges in like he owns the room, laughing. 

  “Alright now, Zay! How many times I gotta tell you to stop hugging up on my bitch before I knock you the fuck out?”

That’s Dreon Shmurdoff. Six-six, three-fifteen, larger than life. Born in New York, raised in Naptown after his parents split. He was the fat Haitian kid who got teased until I stood up for him. By sixteen, he was already hustling schemes his Wall Street uncle put him on to. He built Black Wall Street Empire — a mix of Ponzi scams, heroin routes, and street muscle. Fifteen deep back then; most dead or in the feds now. Dreon survived because he was smart enough to move smooth.

Anaiyah presses her chest into him, unbothered.

   “What I tell you about calling me out of my name? And about acting brand new because of this movie shit Dreon. I remember when you was broke ass fuck, sleeping in my mama’s basement. Don’t get all Hollywood now.”

He tries to laugh it off.

   “Alright, Naiyah. My bad. Now come sit on my lap and let’s watch playback.”

Dreon sits down pulling Anaiyah onto his lap, Keisha slides in, messy.

   “There’s my big daddy. Got room for me too?”

Anaiyah cuts her off instantly stands at her feet. 

  “Bitch, one more step and I’ll snatch that weave straight off your head.”

Keisha smirks. 

  “Bitch! Please. Acting all jelly because Fat Mac got my hair done. You better be lucky he waited so late, or I’d be on the movie poster as lead actress instead yo dog head ass.”

   “That’s it”. Anaiyah swings, connects twice before Dreon pulls her back. Keisha stumbles, humiliated.

Then Anaiyah slaps Dreon across the face.

   “So now you paying for these bum-ass bitches’ hair too?”

Dreon raises his hands.   

“Chill, Naiyah. They’re cast, same as you were when you started. Don’t make me shut the set down.”

She grabs her bag, fire in her voice. 

  “No fuck chill! Zay, send me the playback. I’m out.” She storms off.

  “I told you she was crazy.” Dreon says.

Keisha mutters over to Dreon as she leaves,

   “Yeah, keep fucking me good and I’ma drive the hoe insane.”

The room goes quiet. Dreon sighs, dropping into a chair. 

  “You see the shit I gotta deal with, Bro?”

I keep my eyes on the screen editing our movie.

  “My name’s Bennett and I ain’t in it. But Naiyah killed this scene.”

Dreon grins, watching her acting on screen.

   “Can you believe that’s the same tomboy we grew up with? Cuts and bruises every week back then. Now she’s fine as hell. I swear I’ma marry her one day.”

I shake my head. 

  “Get your house in order first. We’re too old for this.”

He laughs. 

  “Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you’re ready to be my best man.”

I look at him like he lost his mind.

  “While you’re planning for wedding and shit, you need to be focused on or standoff scene so we can finish this movie and get the fuck on. 

 

*****

​

We reset the stage for the standoff scene. The air is still thick with the earlier drama. The studio hums under the lights, and the crew holds its breath because I told them to. I’m not just Zaylen right now; the writer of these lines, and the director who put everyone on their marks. I’m JT the lead actor.

Dreon stands eight feet away; two Smith & Wesson .45 Shields aimed at my chest like punctuation that ends a life. 

I call it:

   “Action.”

Dreon’s voice cuts the room. 

  “Is this what it had to come down to, JT? I thought we were better than that.” 

He hits the line we rehearsed, but the heat in his voice feels older than acting.

I lock both hands around the Heckler & Koch P30sk. My palms sweat, but the barrel stays level. I say the words I wrote steadily, controlled.

  “Drop your guns, Kelz. It doesn’t have to end this way. We’ve known each other too long.”

The words are scripted. The tension isn’t. And for a moment, even I can’t tell if we’re shooting a movie — or reliving the streets that made us. 

His eyes don’t blink. 

  “You should’ve thought about that before you backdoored me and got on some G shit. You killed my nephew, took my money, and—”

The door bangs open. Anaiyah storms in, gun raised, voice sharp enough to slice the silence.

  “Drop your guns, Kelz! Don’t pull those triggers!”

He pivots, one gun for her, one for me, feet edging back until he’s got both of us in a clean triangle. It’s perfect blocking—if this were only a scene.

  “I got one for you too, Naiyah. We can all die right now.”

The room feels different. He’s acting — but not. She’s acting — but not. And me? I’m standing in the middle of a script I wrote, watching real life leak into the frame. The standoff blurs movie scene and reality until there’s no difference.

    “What are you doing here?” I keep my eyes on his fingers. “I told you I could handle this.”

    “Fuck that,” she snaps. “We don’t owe him anything. If he kills you, I kill him.”

Dreon’s mouth hardens. 

  “You owe me everything. I made the moves that put us on top—millions. And now you pull guns on me?”

  “You know what you did,” she says. “No more innocent act.”

He inhales like a man diving in a pool. 

  “Then let’s do it.”

  “Lights!” Anaiyah barks.

On queue a crew member hits the breaker. Pitch black. The sound in the dark had me feeling like it was a real-life shoot-out. The lights returned I stood to my feet and called once more.

 “Cut! End scene! It’s a wrap” 

​

*****

​

As I watched the play back. The first muzzle flash turned the room into a strobe-lit nightmare. Four blasts—white-hot, frame by frame—faces lit like morbid portraits. Sound compresses to a ringing that lives behind the eyes.

I’m on the checkered tile, heat spreading under my back. Smoke curls off barrels near limp hands. Dreon and Anaiyah lie still. The set was no longer a set; it was a crime scene wearing makeup.