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MidReal Story
Blood & Bane
Scenario:this story is a story in the 1990s era and the year of 1991 in los angeles about music and fights and sex and profanity and nudity and strippers and prostitutes and seduction and gold diggers and cheating and drug dealing and adultery and ghetto and and politics and prison and violence and hardcore and gangsta rap music and pregnancy and music and family and fights and murder and torture and racism and sexism and police and fame and poverty and gangs and slang and my name is mohamed abdi and i am 20 years old and i have tattoos on my arms and neck and legs and abdomen and i want to be a rich and famous rapper because i am poor and i am raised in the ghetto with gangs and drugs and prostitutes and i live with my sister munira abdi she is 14 years old and my parents my father abdinur abdi he is 39 years old and he is a store owner and my mother layla abdi she is 37 years old and she is a stay at home mother and my brother mahad abdi and he is 19 years old and we are a poor family and i have my friends malcolm jackson and marcus johnson and devon richards and they have dark skin and i have been best friends with them since we graduated 2 years ago in 1989
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Mohamed Abdi
He is a 20yearold aspiring rapper from the Los Angeles ghetto. He is determined, passionate, and rebellious. Mohamed grew up in a poor, ganginfested neighborhood with limited opportunities. He aspires to become a wealthy and famous rapper like his idol Ice Cube. Mohamed has close friendships with Malcolm, Marcus, and Devon, and he shares a deep bond with his 14yearold sister, Munira. Despite the harsh environment, he dreams of a better life and struggles to balance his ambition with family responsibilities.
Abdinur Abdi
He is Mohamed's 39yearold father and the owner of a small convenience store in Los Angeles. He is hardworking, conservative, and traditional. Abdinur struggles to make ends meet while maintaining his business and family values. He disapproves of Mohamed's friends from the wrong side of the tracks and worries about his sons’ involvement with gangs. Despite his stern nature, he provides for his family, though he often feels frustrated by their poverty and circumstances.
Devon Richards
He is one of Mohamed's best friends since high school graduation in 1989. He is outspoken, bold, and carefree. Devon often provokes humor among their friend group with his bold statements and antics. Despite his carefree attitude, he deeply values his friendship with Mohamed and the others, considering it a source of support amidst life’s challenges.
I was 20 years old.
It was 1991, and I was living in the ghetto of Los Angeles.
I had nothing except my worn-out jeans, my favorite pair of white Air Jordans, and my black tank top.
I wanted to be a rich and famous rapper like my idol Ice Cube.
I had been rapping ever since I graduated from high school two years ago in 1989 with my friends Malcolm, Marcus, and Devon.
We were best friends for three years because we grew up together in the ghetto.
Malcolm had dark skin like me, while Marcus and Devon were a little lighter.
Malcolm wore blue scrubs because he worked part-time at a hospital as he went to UCLA to become a doctor.
He also hooked up with women every now and then just for sex.
Marcus worked as an electrician, but he wanted to become a professional basketball player like Magic Johnson.
Devon was outspoken and crazy; he would say anything funny just to make us laugh.
One time, he said, "If I were to become the president of the United States, I would make sure that everyone is rich and has their own house."
We all laughed at him for saying something so crazy.
I had a dream of becoming a rich and famous rapper so that I could take my family out of the ghetto and give them a better life.
My father owned a small convenience store, but it wasn’t enough to support us financially.
I walked into Malcolm’s music studio with Devon, Marcus, and three of our other friends.
Malcolm’s music studio was in his house.
He had a small room where he would record music, and it was soundproofed with foam so that no one could hear us rapping.
Devon handed me my lyrics for the song "Ruthless."
It was about how ruthless our neighborhood was and how we had to fight for everything we had.
"You have to record this song," Devon said.
"It’s the best lyrics you have ever written. I love it."
I looked at him and then at the lyrics I wrote.
"Are you sure?"
I asked him.
"Yes, I’m sure," he replied.
"Go ahead and record it."
I took a deep breath and stepped into the booth.
I put on my headphones and adjusted them to fit my head properly.
My friends gathered around the mixing console, waiting for me to start rapping. I cleared my throat and started rapping:
As I finished the last line, Malcolm leaned over to Marcus and whispered, "You think he's ready for the big time?"
Marcus nodded, his eyes fixed on me through the glass. "If he keeps spitting like that, it's only a matter of time before someone notices."
Devon chimed in, his voice full of excitement. "And when they do, we'll all be riding that wave straight outta here."
After I finished the recording, I sat with Malcolm at his mixing board while he adjusted levels and added effects to make the track sound more polished.
"Alright, what do you think?" he asked as he played the final mix.
I listened intently, nodding my head along with the beat.
"It sounds good," I said, "but let’s make sure that we get the right mix."
Malcolm nodded and continued to work on the track.
Our other friends listened to the song, nodding their heads in approval.
After a few minutes of tweaking, Malcolm finally gave me a thumbs-up.
"That's it. That's the one," he said, grinning at me.
I smiled back at him, feeling proud of what we had created.
"Alright, now let’s burn some CDs of the song," I said.
We burned a stack of CDs and handed them out to everyone in the room.
"Make sure to give these out to anyone who will listen," I told them. After we finished recording and mixing the song, we decided to send it to record labels.
I took a stack of CDs and walked to the post office to mail them out.
I addressed envelopes to Interscope Records, Priority Records, Death Row Records, and Ruthless Records.
Death Row was my top priority because Suge Knight, its CEO, came from my neighborhood and had turned it into a multimillion-dollar empire with artists like Tupac Shakur, Dr. Dre, and Snoop Dogg.
I sat by my landline phone every day, waiting for a call back from Death Row.
I watched MTV in our cramped living room, and one day, I saw Suge Knight being interviewed about the success of his label.
My sister Munira walked into the room with a sandwich in her hand.
She handed it to me and said, "You should try showing up at their office in person."
I looked at her and then at the TV screen, where the address of Death Row Records flashed.
It was located in Compton.
I wrote down the address on a piece of paper and then looked at my piggy bank.
I had just enough money from my last shift at the convenience store to cover bus fare to Compton.
I decided that I would go tomorrow, demo tape in hand.
The next morning, with determination in my step and dreams in my pocket, I boarded the bus to Compton.
The bus dropped me off two blocks from Death Row Records.
I walked down the street, my heart pounding in my chest.
The walls were covered with graffiti, and I could feel the energy of the neighborhood pulsing through my veins.
My demo tape burned a hole in my jeans pocket as I walked up to the office building.
Outside, two muscular security guards stood with their arms crossed, eyeing me suspiciously.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my t-shirt and approached them.
"Hey," I said, trying to sound confident.
"I'm here to see Suge Knight. I have a demo for him."
The guards laughed, their deep voices echoing off the walls.
"Get lost, kid," one of them said.
"Suge doesn't see anyone without an appointment."
I stood my ground, pulling out the demo tape from my pocket and holding it up.
"This is good stuff," I said.
"I promise you he'll want to hear it."
The guards exchanged a look, and then one of them stepped forward.
"Let me see that," he said, reaching out his hand. I handed him the tape, and he examined the case carefully.
After what felt like an eternity, he looked up at me and nodded.
"Alright, kid. You've got five minutes. Don't waste it."
Inside, the lobby was dimly lit, with a worn leather couch against one wall.
The guard gestured for me to sit and wait.
I scanned the room, taking in the framed gold and platinum records on the walls.
The air was thick with anticipation, and I could feel the weight of history in every corner.
I took a deep breath and tried to calm my racing heart.
I had rehearsed my pitch a hundred times, but I still felt nervous.
I glanced at my watch for what felt like the hundredth time, willing the hands to move faster.
The guard walked over to me and pointed at a glass-walled office.
"Suge's in there," he said.
"He'll call you when he's ready."
I nodded and watched as Suge Knight paced back and forth behind his desk, talking on the phone.
He was an imposing figure, towering over everyone in the room with his massive frame and commanding presence. I gripped my demo tape tightly, feeling the sweat from my palms seeping into the plastic case.
The door to the office opened, and Suge Knight looked up.
He motioned for me to come in, his voice booming as he spoke into the phone.
I stepped inside, my heart racing.
He hung up and looked at me.
"What's your name, nigga?" he asked.
"Mohamed Abdi," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I'm 20 years old. I want to make music about my life."
Suge nodded, his expression unreadable.
"Give me your demo," he said.
I handed him the CD of "Ruthless."
He popped it into his stereo and listened intently as the song played.
I watched as he nodded along to the lyrics, his eyes narrowing in concentration.
When the song ended, he smiled and leaned back in his chair.
"Mohamed, your lyrics and flow are good, n##a," he said.
"I like what you're doing. Here's a contract."
He slid a piece of paper across the desk towards me. I picked it up and scanned it quickly.
It was a standard recording contract, offering me a $100,000 signing advance with Death Row Records.
My heart skipped a beat as I read the numbers on the page.
I looked up at Suge Knight, who was watching me intently.
"So what do you say?" he asked.
"Do you want to sign with Death Row?"
I hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on me.
Malcolm's voice echoed in my mind: "Remember, man, not all that glitters is gold."
But then I thought of my family and the chance to change everything.
I sat across from Suge Knight, the contract in front of me.
My hand shook as I picked up the pen.
I glanced at the $100,000 figure one last time, thinking of Munira's safety and my family's future.
The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock on the wall.
I remembered Malcolm's words, but I pushed them aside.
Slowly, deliberately, I signed my name on the dotted line: "Mohamed Abdi."
The pen felt heavy in my hand, but my resolve was firm.
I slid the contract back to Suge Knight, who nodded in approval.
"Welcome to Death Row Records, Mohamed," he said, extending his hand.
I shook it firmly, feeling a sense of determination wash over me.
Suge Knight led me out of his office and into the hallway.
We walked past several doors, each one leading to a different studio.
The sound of music drifted through the air, mingling with the smell of weed and ambition.
We stopped in front of a large door, and Suge Knight knocked three times.
The door opened, revealing a dimly lit room filled with smoke.
Dr. Dre sat at a mixing board, surrounded by Tupac Shakur and Snoop Dogg.
They all turned to look at me as I entered the room.
"What's up?"
Tupac asked, his voice deep and smooth.
"This is Mohamed," Suge Knight replied.
"He's our new artist."
Tupac nodded, his eyes narrowing as he looked me up and down.
"Welcome to Death Row," he said finally.
"We're glad to have you on board."
Snoop Dogg stepped forward, a joint dangling from his lips.
"Yo, what's up?" he asked, offering me the joint.
I took it gratefully and inhaled deeply.
The smoke filled my lungs, and I felt a sense of calm wash over me. Dr. Dre nodded at me from behind the mixing board.
He was working on a new track for Tupac's upcoming album.
I watched as he expertly mixed the beat, adding layers of sound that made my head nod involuntarily.
Tupac smiled at me as he listened to the track.
"This is going to be big," he said confidently.
"I can feel it."
Snoop Dogg handed me another joint, and I took it gratefully.
We sat down in chairs scattered around the room, passing the joint back and forth as we talked about music and life on Death Row Records.
After a while, Suge Knight stood up and motioned for me to follow him.
He led me on a tour of the building, showing me various studios and offices along the way. We walked through hallways lined with gold records and platinum plaques, each one representing a success story in the world of hip-hop.
I marveled at the equipment in each studio: state-of-the-art mixing boards, top-of-the-line microphones, and stacks of vinyl records that seemed to stretch up to the ceiling.
Everywhere I looked, there was evidence of Death Row's commitment to excellence in music production.
Suge paused in front of a door marked "Studio B" and turned to me.
"You'll be working here," he said, his voice firm.
"Make something that blows us away, and you'll be on your way to the top."
I entered Studio B alone, taking in the sight of the pristine mixing board and professional equipment that dwarfed Malcolm's setup.
My fingers traced over the sliders and knobs, feeling a sense of excitement and nervousness.
I pulled out my notebook filled with lyrics and sat down in the leather studio chair.
The room was silent except for the hum of the equipment, a stark contrast to the laughter and jokes that usually filled Malcolm's studio.
I set up the mic stand, adjusting its height to fit my frame.
I positioned the pop filter carefully, making sure it was at just the right distance from my lips.
Finally, I sat back down in the chair and pressed the record button.
Standing at the mic in Studio B, I grip my lyric notebook tightly, sweat beading on my forehead under the studio lights.
The instrumental track pounds through the monitors, making the walls vibrate.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and lean into the microphone.
I sit in Studio B, my lyrics notebook open on the mixing desk.
The instrumental track loops as I adjust the microphone, ready to record.
I start rapping about the violence and gangsters in Los Angeles, the Bloods and Crips war, and drug addiction.
Each line flows from my experiences in the ghetto.
I name the song "Juice," a gangsta rap track.
After finishing, I record it onto a CD.
Suge Knight enters, listens, and nods approvingly.
He turns to me, a rare smile on his face. "This is the kind of raw energy we need," he says, his voice full of conviction.
I feel a surge of pride as I reply, "I just want to tell our story, you know? Make sure the world hears what it's really like out there."
Suge hands me a thick envelope.
"Good work, Mohamed. This is for you."
I open it, finding a check for $20,000 - my first real music earnings.
I look out the window and see delivery trucks loaded with "Juice" vinyls heading to distributors.
Suge shows me Billboard charts and sales reports from record stores across California.
"Juice" is selling out within days of its release.
His secretary interrupts to say three more radio stations have added "Juice" to heavy rotation.
I clutch the envelope tightly, thinking of my family's cramped apartment.
I sit across from Suge in his dimly lit office, the scent of cigar smoke and fresh leather filling the air.
He slides a thick contract across his massive mahogany desk.
The gold Death Row Records logo glimmers on the letterhead.
"This is your ticket," he says, his voice low and persuasive.
"A full album deal. Complete creative control. $500,000 advance."
His massive rings catch the light as he points out key sections.
"Look here, 80/20 split on royalties. You'll make bank. And here, you'll tour with us, open for Tupac and Dre. You'll be a star."
I stare at the contract, my hands hovering over the pages.
It's everything I've dreamed of, but something about Suge's predatory smile makes me hesitate.
Malcolm's words echo in my mind - "Always read the fine print."
Suge taps his cigar impatiently on the ashtray.
"Come on, Mohamed. This is a once-in-a-lifetime deal. You can't pass this up."
I take a deep breath and grip the gold pen he hands me.
My heart races as I think of the possibilities - half a million dollars, fame, and a chance to change my life.
The contract's pages feel heavy in my hands.
Tupac and Dr. Dre watch from leather chairs by the window, their expressions unreadable.
Without pausing to study the dense paragraphs of legal text, I flip to the signature page.
Suge points to the dotted line, his rings glinting under the dim lights.
I steady my trembling hand and scrawl my name across the page, thinking of my family's cramped apartment and the future I could give them.
Suge snatches the contract away before the ink dries, tucking it into a drawer with a satisfied smile.
I rise from the leather chair, my legs unsteady.
The office feels smaller now, with Tupac and Dr. Dre's eyes fixed on this moment.
Suge stands, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the room.
His massive hand extends toward me, gold rings catching the afternoon light streaming through the venetian blinds.
The contract is locked away in his desk drawer, but my gaze stays locked on his face, searching for any hint of deception behind his broad smile.
My palm meets his, and his grip tightens - not quite painful, but firm enough to remind me who holds the power.
I pull my hand away, my palm sweaty and tingling.
The leather chairs creak as Tupac and Dre shift in their seats, watching me gather my belongings.
My demo CD case rattles softly as I shove it into my backpack, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
My fingers tremble slightly as I fumble to zip the bag closed.
The gold Death Row Records logo on the wall catches the afternoon light, glinting like a promise.
There's no turning back now.
I wipe my damp palms on my worn jeans and adjust my t-shirt, trying to look more professional than I feel.
Tupac leans forward, his voice calm but firm.
"Just remember, man, this business ain't all glitz and glamour. Keep your eyes open."
Dr. Dre nods, adding quietly, "And trust your gut, Mohamed. It’ll guide you better than any contract."
I walk down Death Row Records' long hallway, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the marble floor.
I push open the door to the record store, my heart racing as I see "Death Trap" displayed prominently on the front wall.
Customers flip through the vinyls, their voices filled with excitement.
I stand there, frozen, listening to them talk about my tracks.
"Have you heard that new album 'Death Trap'?"
"Yeah, it's raw. Real energy."
"Totally. It's like he's telling our story."
The store owner notices me and comes over, shaking my hand firmly.
"Congratulations, Mohamed. You're flying off the shelves."
He leads me to a shelf where "Death Trap" should be - but it's empty.
A sign reads "Sold Out."
I stare in disbelief, my mind racing.
The store owner hands me a marker.
"Would you mind signing some autographs? We have a few fans waiting."
My hand trembles slightly as I scribble my name on vinyl after vinyl.
I can't believe this is happening.
As I leave the store, I spot a group of kids mimicking my album cover pose, pointing imaginary guns at each other.
I smile and shake my head before heading to the bank to deposit the $500,000 check.
I walk into the jewelry store on Rodeo Drive, pointing at the thickest gold chains behind the glass.
The nervous clerk measures an 18-karat Cuban link around my neck while another drapes a diamond-studded Rolex around my wrist.
Back home, I hand my father an envelope stuffed with rent money and car repair receipts.
His eyes widen at the stack of bills.
My mother starts crying when I show her the receipt for her fixed transmission.
Through the window, I spot teenagers wearing t-shirts with my face, rapping my lyrics.
I sit at our small kitchen table, the smell of my mother's cooking filling the room.
My father counts the stack of rent money I gave him while Munira excitedly shows me newspaper clippings about "Death Trap" selling out nationwide.
Mom serves dinner, telling me how her friends at the mosque keep asking about her famous son.
Mrs. Hassan's teenage kids have memorized every track.
Munira jumps in, telling us how her classmates trade bootleg copies at school.
I watch them share proud glances, remembering when we could barely afford groceries.
Dad quietly slides the money back, his voice low.
"Save it for your future, Mohamed."
"But Dad, this is for all of us," I insist, pushing the envelope back toward him.
He shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. "Your success is our pride, son. That's enough for us."
Mom nods, her eyes glistening. "Just promise us you'll stay true to yourself."
I sit with my family around our small kitchen table, the familiar scent of Mom's traditional Somali food filling the air.
Steam rises from the heaping plate of rice and goat meat as Mom portions it onto our mismatched plates.
Munira chatters about my latest radio play while Dad silently serves himself.
The money I tried giving him still sits untouched on the counter.
When Mom asks me to promise I'll stay true to myself, I look at their weathered faces - Dad's calloused hands, Mom's tired eyes, Munira's hopeful smile.
"I promise, Mom," I say, my voice steady despite the emotion welling up inside me.
Munira grins, nudging me playfully. "And maybe promise to take me on tour with you next time?"
Dad chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling with pride. "As long as you remember where home is, Mohamed."
I lean back in my chair, watching Mom clear the dishes while humming one of my songs.
The familiar scent of cardamom tea wafts through the air as she brews Dad's evening cup.
Munira helps wash the dishes, splashing water playfully.
Dad reads his newspaper but keeps glancing at me with a small smile.
When Mom serves Dad his tea, I pull out my wallet and slide several hundred-dollar bills under his teacup.
He finds them, sighs deeply, then quietly tucks them into his shirt pocket.
Mom squeezes my shoulder as she passes, and Munira gives me a knowing wink.
I arrive at Death Row Records early morning, the sun just starting to peek over the Los Angeles skyline.
My heart races as I step inside, greeted by the familiar sight of Suge's massive desk.
He sits behind it, a wide grin spreading across his face as he holds up the latest Billboard magazine.
"Look at this, kid," he says, waving the magazine in the air.
"Your album 'Death Trap' is number one on both rap and hip-hop charts nationwide."
I smile, feeling a mix of pride and relief wash over me.
Suge stands up from his desk and gestures for me to follow him.
We walk out to the parking lot, where a massive black tour bus idles.
The driver steps down from the bus and opens the door for us.
Inside, I see rows of plush leather couches and bunk beds lining the walls.
A gleaming bathroom sits at the back, complete with a shower and marble countertops.
"This is your new home for the next three months," Suge says, patting me on the back.
"You'll be touring every major city in America."
A tall, slender man in a suit steps forward and introduces himself as my new tour manager.
He pulls out a large map of the United States, pointing to various cities marked with red pins. "We'll be traveling from coast to coast," he explains, tracing his finger along our planned route.
"You'll perform in every state, meeting thousands of fans along the way."
I run my hand along the smooth interior of the bus, imagining myself performing in front of packed stadiums and arenas.
Suge hands me a set of keys.
"These are yours now," he says, his voice full of expectation.
I take the keys, feeling their weight in my palm. "This is really happening, isn't it?"
I climb the steep metal steps into the tour bus, my eyes adjusting to the dim interior.
The air is thick with the scent of new leather and polished chrome.
The bus is a marvel of luxury, every detail meticulously crafted for comfort and style.
Rows of plush leather couches line the walls, each one adorned with intricate stitching and soft cushions.
Bunk beds are tucked away in alcoves, their crisp white linens inviting after a long day of travel.
At the rear of the bus, a gleaming bathroom beckons with its marble countertops and spacious shower.
My tour manager follows closely behind, carrying a thick stack of papers and folders.
He hands me a heavy folder filled with venue contracts and appearance schedules for the next three months.
I take it from him, feeling its weight in my hands as I settle into one of the plush seats.
In the kitchenette, a stack of promotional photos waits for me to sign - my face plastered on glossy paper, my name emblazoned in bold letters across the top. I pull out my notebook filled with new lyrics, knowing I'll need fresh material for all these shows.
The words begin to flow onto the page as I strum the chords on my guitar, the rhythm echoing through the bus like a heartbeat.
Outside, the driver climbs into his seat and starts the engine.
Suge leans against the doorframe, watching me with a knowing smile. "You ready for this, Mohamed? It's a whole new world out there."
I step off the tour bus, my feet hitting the hot asphalt of the Los Angeles street.
The past three months have been a blur of performances and travel, my voice hoarse from screaming into microphones and my body weary from the constant motion.
The crowd's cheers still echo in my ears as I make my way towards our small apartment, the smell of Mom's cooking wafting through the air like a warm embrace.
Munira flings herself into my arms as soon as I walk through the door, her bright eyes shining with excitement.
"Tell me everything!" she exclaims, barely letting me catch my breath.
I drop my bags onto the floor and sink onto the couch, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over me like a blanket.
Mom brings me a steaming cup of tea, her hands trembling slightly as she sets it on the table in front of me. "How was the tour?" she asks, her voice filled with worry.
I take a sip of the tea, feeling its warmth spread through my chest.
"It was incredible," I reply, my voice still rough from all the screaming.
"We performed in front of thousands every night."
Dad sits silently across from me, his eyes fixed on my face with a mixture of pride and concern.
I reach into my pocket and pull out an envelope stuffed with cash - earnings from the tour that I've saved up for them.
I hand it to him, watching as he hesitates before finally taking it.
I drag my tired body to the bathroom, the muscles in my legs aching from months of performing on stage.
The hot water hits my shoulders like a wave of relief, washing away the sweat and grime of tour life.
I close my eyes, letting the steam fill the small space as I scrub away the remnants of smoke and makeup.
After brushing my teeth, I collapse onto my childhood bed - still unmade from before I left.
The familiar creaks and groans of our apartment building lull me into the deepest sleep I've had in months, punctuated by the distant wail of sirens outside.
The next morning, as I sit at the kitchen table, Munira slides into the chair across from me, her eyes wide with curiosity.
"Did you really save all that money just for us?" she asks, her voice a mix of disbelief and admiration.
I nod, glancing at Mom who stands by the stove, listening intently. "Yeah, it's for you guys," I reply softly. "I wanted to make sure you'd never have to worry about bills again."
I enter the lobby of Death Row Records, my footsteps echoing off the polished marble floors.
The scent of fresh coffee wafts through the air as I make my way to Suge's office, the sound of his laughter carrying through the open door.
He sits behind his massive mahogany desk, a cigar clenched between his teeth as he reviews stacks of sales reports and financial documents.
I drop into the chair across from him, still feeling the lingering fatigue from tour life.
Suge looks up, a wide grin spreading across his face.
"Welcome back, Mohamed," he says, sliding a check across the desk towards me.
I pick it up, my hands shaking slightly as I examine the amount - $10 million dollars.
My mind races back to our cramped apartment, to Dad's struggling store and Mom's endless worries about bills.
This money could change everything for them. Suge leans back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.
"You did good out there, Mohamed," he says, nodding towards the check in my hand.
"Your album sales are through the roof and your tour was a huge success. You're a rising star."
I look around his office, taking in the framed charts and platinum records that line the walls.
My name is right there alongside Tupac and Dr. Dre - a surreal sight that still feels like a dream come true.
I drive my new black Mercedes through the winding streets of Beverly Hills, scanning the gated properties for the address the realtor gave me.
The sun casts a golden glow over the manicured lawns and towering palm trees, a stark contrast to the gritty streets of South Central where I grew up.
I finally spot the property, a sprawling white mansion set back from the road behind tall iron gates.
The realtor greets me with a smile and leads me through the gates, past perfectly manicured gardens and into the grand foyer.
"This place has top-notch security," he explains, gesturing to the cameras and motion sensors lining the walls.
"And all the windows are bulletproof, so you can feel safe."
I nod, taking in the opulent decor - marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and floor-to-ceiling windows that let in a flood of sunlight.
The realtor leads me on a tour of the sprawling estate, pointing out features like a professional recording studio, an Olympic-sized pool, and a six-car garage.
As we walk through the empty halls, my footsteps echo off the walls. "This place is amazing," I say to him, feeling a sense of awe wash over me.
"It's definitely one-of-a-kind," he replies with a smile.
"And at $7 million, it's a steal."
I swallow hard, trying not to let my shock show on my face.
$7 million was more money than I'd ever dreamed of having in my life.
But if anyone deserved it, it was me.
After signing all the paperwork and transferring funds into his account, I sit alone in the cavernous living room of my new home.
The silence is almost deafening after months of constant noise on tour.
I sit on the plush couch, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sparkling pool and perfectly manicured lawn.
The sun glints off the water, casting a shimmering glow over everything.
I get up and wander through the empty halls, my footsteps echoing off the walls.
There are six bedrooms, each one bigger than our entire apartment back in South Central.
The master bedroom has an en-suite bathroom with a massive walk-in shower and a tub big enough for two people.
I run my hand over the cool marble countertops, feeling a sense of pride and accomplishment wash over me.
This is my home now.
I make my way downstairs to the kitchen, where I find all new appliances and a massive island in the center of the room.
The backyard is just as impressive, with a private patio and outdoor kitchen perfect for hosting parties.
I walk past the pool and into the large garage, where I see space for six cars.
I smile to myself, knowing that I'll have to buy more vehicles to fill it up. As I explore further, I notice a small building tucked away in a corner of the garden - a gym room with state-of-the-art equipment and mirrors lining the walls.
I step inside, running my hand over the weights and machines.
This is going to be my sanctuary when I need to blow off some steam.
Next to the gym is another building that catches my eye - a music studio with professional equipment and instruments lining the walls.
I step inside, feeling a surge of inspiration wash over me.
This is where I'll create new music, pour out my emotions onto paper and turn them into something beautiful.
I sit down at the piano, running my fingers over the keys as I start to play a melody that's been stuck in my head since tour ended.
Words begin to flow onto paper as I sing about life on the road, about seeing new cities and meeting new people.
As I finish up my song, I pull out my phone and dial Mom's number. "Hello?" she answers on the first ring, her voice filled with excitement.
"Hey Mom," I reply, smiling as I hear Munira squealing in the background.
"How are you guys doing?"
"We're good," she replies softly.
"We just got your money. Thank you so much."
I sigh in relief, knowing that they can finally move out of that cramped apartment and into something better.
"You're welcome," I say quietly.
"I wanted to make sure you guys were taken care of."
"Mom, there's something else I need to tell you," I say, my voice trembling slightly.
"What is it, Mohamed?" she asks, a hint of concern creeping into her tone.
"I bought a house here in Beverly Hills," I confess, feeling the weight of the revelation lift off my shoulders.
"Let me show you," I say, holding up my camcorder so they can see.
I pan the camera around the living room, showing them the marble floors and high ceilings.
"Mashallah," Mom says over and over again.
"Can you show me the rooms?" asks Munira, her voice full of excitement.
I lead them on a video tour of the house, pointing out each room and explaining what it's for.
"This is the kitchen," I say, showing them the professional-grade appliances and expansive countertops.
"You can cook all your traditional Somali dishes here."
"Wow," Mom breathes, her eyes wide with wonder.
"And what about this room?" asks Munira, pointing to the studio.
"That's where I'll make music," I reply, feeling a surge of pride.
I lead them upstairs to the bedrooms, showing them the king-sized beds and walk-in closets.
Munira jumps on the bed, laughing as she bounces up and down.
"Can we see the pool?" asks Mom, her voice filled with excitement.
I lead them outside to the backyard, where they gasp at the sight of the sparkling pool and perfectly manicured lawn.
Mom dips her hand into the water, smiling as she feels its coolness.
"It's so nice," she says, looking up at me with gratitude in her eyes.
"Let's go to the gym," I say, leading them to the small building tucked away in a corner of the garden.
"This is where I'll work out," I explain, showing them the weights and machines.
"And what about this room?" asks Munira, pointing to the yoga room next door.
"That's where I'll do my stretches," I reply, feeling a sense of calm wash over me. "Let's go to the garage," I say, leading them back inside and down to the basement level.
"This is where I'll park my cars," I explain, showing them the empty spaces.
"I only have one car right now, but soon I'll have more."
Munira climbs into my Mercedes and pretends to drive it, making engine noises as she turns an invisible wheel.
"Let's go to the garden," I say, leading them back outside to a small patio overlooking Los Angeles.
The city stretches out before us, a sea of twinkling lights stretching as far as the eye can see.
"Wow," Munira breathes, her eyes wide with wonder.
"This is amazing."
"I know," I reply softly, feeling a sense of pride and accomplishment wash over me.
"This is my new home."
As the sun sets over the sprawling city, I realize that this is just the beginning.
I sink into my plush leather couch, stretching out in my silk pajamas.
The soft material feels strange against my skin, a far cry from the worn sweats I used to wear.
The massive 60-inch TV plays MTV, showing my latest music video.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, palm trees sway gently in the Beverly Hills breeze.
The silence of the mansion is almost deafening after years of crowded apartment living.
I grab the remote, flipping through channels as I admire the crystal chandelier's reflection on the Italian marble floors.
My bare feet rest on the Persian rug, feeling the softness beneath me.
The phone rings, interrupting my moment of solitude.
I glance at the caller ID and see it's Suge.
"Hey, Mohamed," his voice booms through the line, "we need to talk about your next move."
I walk into Suge's office at Death Row Records, the morning sunlight glinting off my new gold chains.
The Rolex on my wrist catches the light as I take a seat in the leather chair opposite his desk.
Suge sits behind his massive mahogany desk, his dark suit and sunglasses giving him an intimidating air.
He flips through a stack of papers, reviewing sales reports for my latest single.
"Death Trap" has gone double platinum, a testament to my growing success.
The leather chair creaks as I settle into its soft cushions, listening intently as Suge outlines his expectations for my second album.
With my newfound fame comes higher stakes, and I know that this next release has to be even better than the first.
I sit in Studio B at Death Row Records, surrounded by the hum of equipment and the glow of studio lights.
The gold chains around my neck glint as I lean into the microphone, my voice pouring out as I lay down track after track.
The lyrics flow from my heart, telling the story of my journey from the streets to stardom.
Suge occasionally pokes his head into the studio, checking on my progress and offering words of encouragement.
His presence is a reminder that this album has to be perfect.
I tweak the lyrics and beats, pouring over every detail to ensure that each song is a masterpiece.
The hours blend together as I work tirelessly, driven by my passion for music.
Finally, after months of hard work, I lay down the last track for "Married to the Game."
I step out of the booth, knowing I've just created something that will change everything.
I sit in Studio B at Death Row Records, listening to the final mix of my second album "Married to the Game."
The seventeen tracks flow smoothly from one to the next, each song a testament to my dedication and passion.
I nod my head along to the beat, remembering the countless hours spent perfecting every lyric and melody.
The album is a masterpiece, and I know it's going to be huge.
Suge enters the studio with a stack of papers and a smile on his face.
He drops the stack on the table in front of me, revealing promotional materials for the album.
The cover art catches my eye - an image of me draped in gold chains, sitting on a throne.
I can't help but laugh at the extravagance of it all.
"Here's the plan," Suge says, outlining the distribution strategy for the album.
"We're going big this time. We're releasing it in every major city across North America, and we're expecting huge sales."
I pack up my notebook and head out to the parking lot, where I watch workers load boxes of vinyl records into delivery trucks.
I walk through Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard, watching as customers rush to grab copies of "Married to the Game" from towering display stands.
The manager greets me with a smile, showing me the Billboard charts where my album sits at #1 for the third week in a row.
The store is buzzing with energy as people clamor to get their hands on a copy.
I shake hands with fans, signing autographs and taking photos.
The excitement in the air is palpable as I watch my dreams become a reality.
Back at Death Row Records, Suge hands me a check for $15 million, his grin stretching from ear to ear.
He points to the sales reports, showing that "Married to the Game" has gone double platinum.
I drive straight to the bank, the check burning a hole in my pocket.
My hands tremble as I fill out the deposit slip, my mind racing with thoughts of what this means for my future. The teller's eyes widen as she sees the amount, her gaze flicking up to take in my leather jacket and gold chains.
"You're living the dream, huh?" she says with a hint of awe in her voice.
"Yeah, but sometimes it feels like I'm still dreaming," I reply, trying to mask the uncertainty creeping in.
"Just don't forget where you came from," she adds softly, handing back my receipt with a knowing smile.
I step out of the black limousine and onto the driveway of Suge's mansion, the sound of music pulsating through the air.
The entrance is ablaze with flashing cameras, capturing every moment of my arrival.
Security guards in suits stand at attention, their eyes scanning the crowd as they patrol the perimeter.
Inside, the mansion is a whirlwind of activity - scantily-clad women dance around marble pillars, their bodies swaying to the beat.
The air is thick with cigar smoke and the smell of expensive liquor.
Through the haze, I spot Tupac and Dr. Dre lounging on plush leather couches, nodding their heads to the rhythm.
Suddenly, a commotion breaks out near the entrance, and I turn to see Notorious B.I.G. walking in with Diddy and Mustafa Hassan by his side.
The energy in the room shifts as East Coast meets West Coast.
Suge approaches me with a wide grin on his face, his hand clapping down on my shoulder in a firm grip.
"Yo, what's up?"
He leads me over to where Biggie and Diddy are standing, cameras snapping furiously as we shake hands.
I stand with Tupac near the grand staircase, waving Biggie, Diddy, and Mustafa Hassan over.
Biggie adjusts his dark sunglasses as he approaches, his gold chains swaying with every step.
We exchange handshakes and compliments about each other's music, discussing our recent albums.
Biggie introduces Mustafa as an up-and-coming artist from New York, and I listen intently to stories about his journey into the industry.
The tension in the room dissolves as we share laughs and industry tales, bridging the divide between East Coast and West.
"Man, it's wild seeing us all here together," Biggie says, glancing around the room with a grin.
"Yeah, who would've thought we'd be chillin' like this?" Tupac replies, nodding in agreement.
Mustafa leans in, his voice earnest, "Maybe it's time we show the world that music can unite, not divide."
I sit with Mustafa, Biggie, and Tupac on leather couches in Suge's mansion, surrounded by the opulence of crystal chandeliers and marble floors.
Our gold chains glint under the light as we pass bottles of Cristal between us, sharing stories of our rise to fame.
Suge approaches our group, his broad smile stretching across his face.
He gestures towards the scantily-clad women dancing in the corner, their bodies swaying seductively to the beat.
Leaning close to my ear, he whispers, "I hired them for your entertainment."
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, thinking about the months I've spent focused solely on music.
"Thanks, Suge, but I'm good," I reply, trying to keep my tone light.
Tupac raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly, "Man, you really are all about the music, huh?"
Mustafa nods in agreement, adding, "That's why you're at the top—staying true to what matters."
I lean against the marble pillar, my eyes fixed on Monica Hoang across the room.
Her belly button piercing glints under the chandelier lights as she laughs with Sasha Johnson near the bar.
I turn to Suge, curiosity getting the better of me, "Who's that girl over there?"
Suge follows my gaze, a knowing smile spreading across his face, "That's Monica Hoang. She's a famous magazine model."
He nods towards Sasha, "And that's Sasha Johnson, Brian Johnson's daughter. He's an actor."
Monica's sleek black hair falls over her shoulders as she throws her head back in laughter at something Sasha says.
Her eyes flicker towards me for a moment, but slide right past without any interest.
Suge notices me staring and leans in closer, "You like her?"
I nod, my voice barely above a whisper, "Yeah, I do."
Suge smiles, clapping a hand on my shoulder, "Well, go talk to her then."
I make my way over to the bar where Monica and Sasha are sitting.
My heart pounds in my chest as I approach them.
"Hi, my name is Mohamed Abdi," I say, trying to sound confident.
Monica smiles politely at me, "We know. It's your rap album release party. We're here to celebrate you."
She glances at the album cover in my hand, "Married to the Game. I heard it's better than Death Trap."
I nod, feeling a surge of pride, "Thanks. I worked really hard on it."
Sasha leans in closer, her voice low, "Yeah, it's good. But you curse a lot."
I shrug, feeling a bit defensive, "It's just how I rap. I tell stories from my life."
Monica raises an eyebrow, her voice teasing, "Maybe you should try being more positive with your words."
I smile back at her, feeling a spark of attraction, "Maybe you can teach me sometime."
She laughs softly and looks down at her drink.
Sasha slips me Monica's number on a napkin when she isn't looking.
"Call her," she whispers in my ear.
I lean against the marble bar, watching Monica and Sasha walk away through the crowd of partygoers.
The napkin with Monica's number feels heavy in my pocket.
I order another drink from the bartender, my eyes scanning the room for Tupac.
He catches my eye from across the room and gives me a knowing nod.
The music pulses around us, glasses clinking against each other in celebration.
Laughter echoes through the hall, mingling with the sound of voices discussing everything from music to movies.
But all I can think about is Monica's smile and how it lit up her entire face when she laughed at something Sasha said.
My mind drifts back to that moment, replaying it over and over in my head like a song on repeat.
Suge approaches me with a smile, "What do you think of the party?"
I turn to him, trying to focus on the present moment, "It's amazing. You really know how to throw a party."
He nods, his expression serious, "Tomorrow we'll be heading to the studio. We need to start working on your next album."
I nod in agreement, feeling a sense of excitement wash over me at the thought of creating new music.
But my mind keeps drifting back to Monica and how much I want to call her.
I step out onto Suge's marble balcony, the cool night air hitting me like a wave.
The lights of Los Angeles twinkle below, stretching out as far as the eye can see.
I pull out my cigarettes and the napkin with Monica's number from my pocket.
My hands shake slightly as I dial the number on my cell phone, but my voice remains steady.
"Hello?"
Monica's voice is cool and detached on the other end of the line.
"Hey, it's Mohamed Abdi," I say, trying to sound casual.
"Hi Mohamed," she replies, her tone neutral.
"I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date with me sometime," I ask, my heart pounding in my chest.
There's a pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment I think she's going to say no.
But then she speaks up, her voice still cool but slightly softer.
"What kind of date?"
I take a long drag from my cigarette, feeling a sense of relief wash over me.
"I don't know," I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Dinner maybe?"
There's another pause, and I can tell she's considering it.
"Okay," she finally says.
"But just one date. No pressure. If I'm not interested after that, then we'll just part ways."
I nod, even though she can't see me.
"That's fair," I say, trying to hide my excitement.
She chuckles softly, "Alright then, text me the details."
"Will do," I reply, feeling a mix of anticipation and nerves as I hang up.
I sit on my leather couch in the Beverly Hills mansion, staring at my phone screen.
After deleting and rewriting the text several times, I finally type out the details for Monica.
"Dinner at Spago in Beverly Hills tomorrow at 8 PM."
My thumb hovers over the send button as doubt creeps in.
What if she thinks it's too fancy?
What if she doesn't show up?
Taking a deep breath, I hit send.
The message status changes to "delivered" almost instantly.
"Sounds good," her reply comes through, and I exhale, feeling the weight of uncertainty lift.
I pick Monica up at 9 pm in my black 1991 Mercedes.
We hug before she gets into the car, and then I drive to a restaurant in Los Angeles that I frequent.
As a nationally famous rapper with two platinum albums, "Death Trap" and "Married to the Game," I'm recognized by the staff.
They seat us at a prime table near the window, where we can see the bustling nightlife of the city below.
I order two steaks and a bottle of red wine, telling the waiter that Monica can have anything she wants, on me.
She smiles at my generosity and agrees.
Before our food arrives, she excuses herself to use the restroom.
I drum my fingers on the white tablecloth, watching the door to the ladies' room while trying to appear casual.
The waiter refills my water glass, and I thank him quietly.
Through the window, Los Angeles stretches out like a sea of stars, reminding me of late nights spent recording at Death Row Records.
A couple at the next table whispers and points in my direction, clearly recognizing me.
I adjust my gold chain and check my phone for any messages from the studio.
The maître d' escorts a wealthy couple past our table, their conversation hushed and private.
Monica returns from the bathroom, her eyes shining like diamonds in the restaurant lights.
She sits across from me, leaning forward slightly as she places her napkin on her lap.
"So, how did you become famous so fast?"
Her voice is curious, and I can tell she's genuinely interested in hearing my story.
I take a sip of wine before answering.
"I grew up in Compton. My neighborhood was filled with Bloods and Crips. I had to be careful not to get caught up in their drama. The police were racist and corrupt, always looking for an excuse to arrest someone."
I pause, taking another sip of wine before continuing.
"My friend Malcolm had a home studio. We would record there all the time. One day, Suge Knight heard our song 'Ruthless' and signed us to Death Row Records."
Monica nods, her eyes never leaving mine.
"And then?"
"Then we released 'Death Trap,' which went double platinum. After that, we released 'Married to the Game,' which also went double platinum. We've been touring nonstop ever since."
Monica smiles at me, "I'm happy for you."
I reach across the white tablecloth to touch her hand.
"Thanks. So, how about you? What do you do?"
Monica's fingers intertwine with mine, "I'm a college student. I'm 21."
I raise an eyebrow, "You're only one year older than me."
Monica laughs, "Yeah, I know. I just turned 21."
The waiter arrives with our steaks and sets them down on the table.
We both thank him, but we don't let go of each other's hands.
As we eat, I tell her more about my life.
I explain how Malcolm made a makeshift recording booth out of blankets in his bedroom.
Monica laughs at this, her voice echoing through the restaurant.
When I tell her about how my family reacted when I got my first record deal, she smiles at me.
Her thumb traces circles on my palm as we talk.
Before I know it, our food is cold and we've been talking for over an hour.
The waiter comes back to refill our water glasses and asks if we want dessert.
Monica glances at me, a playful glint in her eyes.
"Only if you're up for sharing," she teases, her voice light.
I chuckle, nodding in agreement. "Sure, let's get the chocolate lava cake."
The waiter nods, his face expressionless.
Monica and I continue to talk as we wait for our dessert.
She tells me about her major in journalism at UCLA and her dream of becoming a music reporter.
I listen intently, asking questions about her interests and goals.
When the waiter returns with our dessert, Monica cuts into the warm chocolate lava cake and lets out a satisfied sigh.
The melted center spills onto the pristine white plate.
I watch as she takes a bite, her eyes closing in bliss.
"Wow, this is so good," she says, opening her eyes and smiling at me.
I take a bite of the cake, savoring the rich flavors on my tongue.
After dinner, I drive Monica home in my black Mercedes.
I pull up to her apartment building in Los Angeles and turn off the engine.
Monica leans over and kisses me softly on the lips before getting out of the car.
"Goodbye, Mohamed," she says, closing the car door with a smile.
I watch her walk into the building before starting the engine again and heading back to my Beverly Hills mansion.
The security gates open automatically as I drive up the hill.
I park in the garage next to my other cars, a white Bentley and a black Range Rover.
The house is quiet as I walk through it, my footsteps echoing off the marble floors.
I pass by the pool and garden, where I often host parties for friends and celebrities.
As I enter the living room, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It's a text from Monica: "I had a great time tonight. Let's do it again soon."
I smile, typing back, "Absolutely, let me know when you're free."
I walk over to the bar and grab a bottle of expensive red wine from my collection.
I pour some into a crystal glass and watch as the liquid swirls inside.
Then, I move to the white leather couch facing the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The cushions are soft as I sink into them.
Beyond the glass, Los Angeles stretches out like a glittering carpet.
I sip my wine, feeling the weight of the city and its promises.
The sun is high in the sky when I wake up.
The floor-to-ceiling windows in my bedroom let in a flood of sunlight.
I stretch out on my king-sized bed, feeling the softness of the sheets against my skin.
The landline phone on my nightstand rings, breaking the silence of the room.
I reach over to answer it, my voice still heavy with sleep.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Mohamed," Monica's voice comes through the line.
"Good morning. How are you?"
"I'm good. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up today."
I glance at the clock on my nightstand and see that it's already afternoon.
"I can't today. I have a meeting at Death Row Records with Suge."
"Oh, okay. Well, maybe some other time then."
"Yeah, definitely. I'll call you later."
I hang up the phone and get out of bed.
My bare feet touch the cool marble floor as I walk into the bathroom.
The gold-framed mirror above the sink reflects my disheveled appearance.
My hair is messy from sleep and I'm shirtless. I turn on the shower and step under the hot water, letting it wash away the remnants of sleep.
When I'm done, I dry myself off with a towel and head back to my bedroom.
I open the closet door and scan through my clothes, looking for something suitable to wear to Death Row Records.
I choose a pair of black jeans and a white t-shirt, along with a black leather jacket.
I put them on and then head back to the bathroom to style my hair.
I use some gel to make it look neat and tidy.
Finally, I put on my gold chains and Rolex watch before heading downstairs to grab some lunch.
I finish my breakfast of eggs and toast in the kitchen, looking out at the pool and garden through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The sun is shining brightly, casting a warm glow over everything.
When I'm done, I head back upstairs to get my keys.
I set the security alarm on the house before walking out to my car.
The black Porsche 911 gleams in the sunlight as I climb inside.
The leather seats are still cool from being in the shade all morning.
I start the engine and feel it purr beneath me.
Then, I press the remote for the gate and watch as it slides open.
As I drive away, I catch one last glimpse of my mansion in the rearview mirror.
The palm trees sway gently in the breeze as I make my way down the hill.
The streets are busy with morning traffic, but I navigate through them easily.
It's a short drive to Death Row Records, and before long, I pull into the parking lot.
I see Tupac's car parked next to Dr. Dre's, and I know that they're probably inside already. As I walk into the building, Suge's secretary looks up from her desk and waves me straight to his office.
I nod at her before heading down the hall.
When I reach his door, I knock twice and wait for him to call me in.
"Come in," Suge's voice comes from inside.
I open the door and see him sitting behind his desk with Tupac and Dr. Dre lounging on chairs next to him.
Snoop Dogg is also there, leaning against the wall with a smile on his face.
"Hey Mohamed," Suge says as I enter.
"Hey Suge. What's up?"
"Not much. Just got some bad news."
He looks tense as he says this, and I can tell that something is bothering him.
"What's wrong?"
"The Vice President of the United States just gave a speech at a conference in Washington D.C. He talked about how your albums 'Death Trap' and 'Married to the Game' are corrupting our youth and promoting violence, obscenity, and misogyny."
I sigh and shake my head.
"That's not true. My songs are just reflecting the harsh realities of life in Compton, where I grew up. It's not all sunshine and rainbows there."
Suge nods in agreement.
"I know, man. But we need to do something about this. We can't let them paint you as some kind of monster."
I lean forward in my chair and look at Suge intently.
"I'm not a monster. I respect women and treat them like queens. I was raised by my mother, who taught me that women are sacred."
Suge nods again.
Suge leans back, his eyes narrowing with resolve. "Then let's show them who you really are."
I sit in Studio B at Death Row Records, flipping through the pages of my new notebook.
The Vice President's words still echo in my mind, and I feel a surge of motivation to create something that will change his opinion.
I start writing a rap song titled "For My Women."
The lyrics flow easily, pouring out of me like a river.
I write about respecting women, valuing them, and treating them right.
I write about how they are the backbone of our society, and without them, we would be lost.
Twenty minutes later, I have finished writing the song.
I read it over one last time before heading into the recording booth.
I put on my headphones and adjust the mic stand to the right height.
Then, I take a deep breath and begin to rap.
The words flow smoothly from my mouth, and I can feel the energy building inside me.
When I finish, I take off my headphones and listen to the playback.
It sounds good, but I know that I can do better. So, I record it again, this time with even more passion and conviction.
When I finish, I listen to it once more and nod in satisfaction.
This is it; this is the one that will show the world who I really am.
I walk out of the recording booth and meet Suge in the control room.
He listens to the song and smiles broadly when it's over.
"That's it," he says, slapping me on the back.
"That's going to change everything."
We spend the next hour mixing and mastering the track until it sounds perfect.
Then, we decide on a cover for the single - a picture of me standing in front of a group of beautiful women from different ethnicities.
The title "For My Women" is written in bold letters across the top of the cover. Finally, we're done.
"Now we just need to get this out there," Suge says, leaning back in his chair.
"I'll take care of it," I say, smiling at him.
"Good," Suge replies, standing up from his chair.
"Now let's celebrate."
We walk out of the recording studio and head to Suge's office.
He sits down at his desk and pulls out a checkbook.
Then, he writes me a check for $3 million.
"For what?"
I ask, looking at the check in surprise.
"For 'For My Women' going platinum," he replies, smiling at me.
"But it just came out today," I say, confused.
Suge laughs at this.
"Trust me, Mohamed. This song is going to be huge. Just wait and see."
I nod at him, feeling a sense of excitement building inside me.
Then, I take the check and put it in my pocket before leaving the office.
As I walk out of Death Row Records, I see workers loading vinyls and CDs into trucks.
They're going to distribute them all over the country, and I know that they'll sell out quickly. The sun is setting as I drive back to my mansion in Beverly Hills.
The sky is painted with hues of orange and pink, and I can't help but feel grateful for this beautiful life that I've created for myself.
When I arrive home, I go straight to my bedroom and take off my clothes.
Then, I climb into bed and drift off to sleep, dreaming about the success of "For My Women."
The next day, Suge calls me into his office again.
This time, he has a big smile on his face when he sees me.
"Guess what?" he asks excitedly.
"What?"
I reply, curious about what he's going to say.
"'For My Women' has sold out across the country," he says triumphantly.
I grin at this news, feeling a sense of pride and accomplishment.
"That's amazing," I say sincerely.
Suge nods in agreement.
"And it's not just that. The media is finally starting to turn around. They're seeing that you're not some kind of monster who hates women."
He shows me some newspaper articles and magazine covers featuring stories about my new song and how it's changing people's perceptions of me. One article reads: "Mohamed has proven himself to be a talented rapper who truly cares about his fans. His latest single 'For My Women' is a testament to his dedication to spreading positivity and respect."
I sit alone in my home studio, surrounded by platinum records and magazine covers featuring my success.
The morning sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow over everything.
I'm reading the latest review of "For My Women" in the LA Times.
The headline reads: "Mohamed's Latest Single Is a Game-Changer."
As I read the article, my phone buzzes with notifications.
I look down and see that I have messages from Mom, Munira, and Monica, all congratulating me on my success.
A smile spreads across my face as I think about how far I've come.
From recording "Ruthless" in Malcolm's cramped bedroom to now having millions of people listening to my music - it's a dream come true.
My vision blurs as tears fill my eyes.
I wipe them away, knowing this is just the beginning.
I sit in my home studio, surrounded by the newspapers from this morning.
They all have my picture on the front page, praising "For My Women."
My phone buzzes, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Monica's name flashes on the screen.
I pick up the call, and her gentle voice fills the line.
"Hello, Mohamed," she says softly.
"Hi, Monica. How are you?"
"I'm good. I just wanted to congratulate you again on your success."
"Thanks," I reply, feeling a warmth in my chest.
"I was wondering if you wanted to come to Mustafa Hassan's album release party tonight," she continues.
"He's a rapper from New York and he's really talented."
"Sure, I'd love to," I say, already imagining the fun we'll have.
The club is buzzing with energy as I walk in.
I'm wearing my gold chains, rings, and Rolex watch, along with a fresh new pair of tattoos on my arms.
I look like a million bucks, and everyone knows it.
Monica greets me with a warm smile as I enter the club.
We hug each other tightly, and she introduces me to Mustafa Hassan, the rapper whose album release party we're attending.
Mustafa is a tall guy with dreadlocks and a charismatic smile.
He thanks me for coming and invites me to join him and his crew at their table.
As we sit down, I notice that everyone around us is looking at me with admiration.
I nod at them respectfully, knowing that they're fans of my music. Mustafa introduces me to his crew from New York, and we talk about our shared passion for hip-hop.
They tell me about their experiences growing up in the streets of Brooklyn and how they found solace in rap music.
I share my own story of growing up in Compton and how I used rap to express myself and escape the harsh realities of my surroundings.
We all relate to each other's struggles and triumphs, and before long, we're laughing and joking like old friends.
Suddenly, there's a commotion near the entrance of the club.
Everyone turns to see what's happening, and that's when we notice Biggie Smalls and Diddy walking in together.
They're surrounded by bodyguards and paparazzi, but they still manage to make their way through the crowd with ease.
Biggie spots Mustafa and waves at him from across the room.
Mustafa stands up and goes over to greet him, shaking his hand firmly before introducing him to me. "What's up Mohamed?"
Biggie asks as he shakes my hand too.
"Not much Biggie," I reply with a grin.
"Just enjoying the party."
"Yeah man, this is definitely going to be a wild night," Biggie says excitedly as he looks around the club.
I nod in agreement before turning back to Monica, who has been watching our interaction with interest.
"So, Mustafa," I say as we sit back down at our table.
"Tell me more about yourself."
Mustafa leans forward and starts telling me about his childhood in Brooklyn and how he discovered his passion for rap music.
I listen intently, nodding my head from time to time to show that I'm interested in what he has to say.
When he finishes, I share some stories about my own experiences growing up in Compton and how I got into the hip-hop scene.
We both laugh and joke around as we talk, and before long, we're like two old friends catching up after years apart.
Biggie and Diddy join us at our table after a while, and we all chat about the music industry and our shared love for hip-hop.
Monica mingles with her friends nearby, occasionally glancing over at us with a smile on her face.
As the night wears on, Mustafa suggests that we move to a private booth so we can talk more freely without distractions. We agree and make our way through the crowded club to a secluded corner where we can sit comfortably and enjoy each other's company.
The music is loud, but we don't let that stop us from having a good time.
We order some drinks and continue our conversation, laughing and joking around like teenagers.
At one point, Mustafa stands up and invites me to join him on the dance floor.
I hesitate for a moment, but then I decide why not?
After all, this is a party and I'm here to have fun too!
We dance together for a few songs before returning to our booth.
Monica comes over to join us after a while, looking beautiful in her tight dress and high heels.
She sits next to me in the VIP booth, her perfume mixing with the smoke and sweat in the air.
"So, Mohamed," Biggie says as he leans back against the wall.
"Is this your girlfriend?"
I glance over at Monica, who smiles shyly at me.
"Yeah, she is," I reply proudly.
Biggie nods his head in approval.
"She's beautiful," he says sincerely.
Monica blushes at this compliment, and I can tell that she's pleased to hear such kind words from someone like Biggie Smalls.
"So, Biggie," I ask curiously.
"Who's your girlfriend?"
Biggie grins mischievously at me before answering.
"Well, I've been seeing Faith Evans lately," he admits.
I nod my head thoughtfully at this revelation.
Faith Evans is a talented singer who has worked with several big-name artists in the music industry.
She's also known for her stunning looks and charming personality. "That's great," I say sincerely to Biggie.
"I hope it works out between you two."
Biggie smiles at me gratefully before turning his attention back to Monica.
"So, Monica," he asks curiously.
"What do you do for a living?"
Monica thinks about this question for a moment before answering.
"I'm a model," she says confidently.
"I work with several different agencies and brands, doing photo shoots and runway shows."
Biggie nods his head in approval at this information.
"That's really cool," he says genuinely.
"You must be very busy with all of that."
Monica laughs at this comment before responding.
"Yeah, it keeps me on my toes," she admits.
"But I enjoy it. It's fun to meet new people and try out different looks."
We continue talking like this for a while longer, getting to know each other better and sharing stories about our lives. The club is still crowded and noisy, but we're able to focus on our conversation without distractions.
At one point, Tupac joins us in the booth, holding a bottle of champagne in his hand.
He pours some into glasses for each of us before sitting down next to Diddy on the couch across from us. "To new friends," Tupac says as he raises his glass in a toast.
"And to many more good times together."
I raise my own champagne flute in response, clinking it against Tupac's before taking a sip.
The crystal makes a delicate ring as we toast, and the sound carries through the dimly lit VIP booth.
Monica squeezes my hand under the table, and I can feel her warmth radiating through me.
Faith Evans leans over to whisper something in Biggie's ear, and he grins at her before turning his attention back to our conversation.
It's surreal to be sitting here with some of the biggest names in hip-hop, sharing drinks and stories like old friends.
Security guards stand nearby, keeping a watchful eye on us as camera flashes pop from the main club area.
Tupac grins at me across the table, nodding his head in approval as he takes another sip of champagne.
I sit with Monica in the VIP booth, our shoulders touching as the bass thumps through the club.
The ice in my glass clinks softly against the sides as I lean closer to her, my gold chains brushing against the leather seat.
"I'm heading to Brooklyn tomorrow," Mustafa says as he leans back in his seat.
"Want to come hang out or work on a song together?"
I nod, feeling the excitement build inside me.
"That sounds like a plan."
The next day, I step into Mustafa's studio building in Brooklyn, the city buzzing with energy around me.
The elevator doors slide open and I press the button for his floor.
As I wait, five men walk toward me, their faces twisted in anger.
I recognize them as Mustafa's friends from last night's party.
They stop in front of me, guns drawn, their eyes cold and hard.
"You think you can act like a gangster and disrespect people?" one of them spits at me.
"Well, we're here to show you what happens when you cross us."
Before I can react, they open fire, bullets ripping into my body.
I feel the pain surge through me as I fall to the ground, my vision blurring.
They shoot me five times before turning to leave. "Take everything he has," one of them orders as they strip my gold chains, watch, and rings from my body.
I lie there, bleeding and helpless, as they disappear into the night.
Suddenly, the elevator doors burst open and my friends rush in, their faces filled with shock and panic.
They lift me quickly into a car and speed away to the nearest hospital in Brooklyn.
I wake up in the hospital, bandages covering my wounds and pain pulsing through my body.
My parents, Munira, and Monica sit around me, their faces etched with worry.
The doctors tell me I'll survive, but I know Mustafa is behind this.
He's trying to send a message to the West Coast.
The door to my hospital room opens and Suge walks in, a boom box in his hand.
He turns it on and Mustafa's voice fills the room.
It's his new song, "Look at You," and the lyrics are about me.
He raps about how he s#t me and took everything from me, mocking my survival.
Suge looks at me, his eyes filled with anger.
"You need to respond to this," he says firmly.
"We can't let them think they can just come at us like this."
I nod, knowing he's right.
Tupac, Dr. Dre, and Snoop Dogg walk into the room too, all of them ready to back me up.
Tupac leans in, his voice low and intense.
"We're gonna hit the studio as soon as you're outta here, Mohamed. We need to show them we're not backing down."
Dr. Dre nods in agreement, his expression serious.
"This isn't just about you, man. It's about all of us, and we gotta make sure they know that."
Snoop Dogg chimes in, his voice smooth but determined.
"Let's drop a track that'll shake the whole damn industry. They won't know what hit 'em."
I lie in the hospital bed, feeling the pain from my wounds but fueled by Suge's boom box playing Mustafa's mocking song.
My family and Monica sit around me, their faces filled with worry and concern.
Tupac, Dr. Dre, and Snoop Dogg stand by my side, their presence filling the room with resolve.
"We're gonna make a song that'll show them we're not afraid," Tupac says firmly.
"We're gonna stand strong for the West Coast."
Dr. Dre nods in agreement, his expression serious.
"We need to make it clear that we won't back down."
Snoop Dogg adds his voice, his tone smooth but determined.
"We gotta hit 'em hard with our rhymes, show 'em we're not playing games."
I listen intently to their words, nodding along as they speak.
Despite my injuries, I feel a surge of determination course through me.
"I'll be out of here soon," I tell them.
"And when I am, we'll make sure they hear us loud and clear."
Two weeks after the shooting, I walk into the Death Row building, my body still recovering but my mind fueled by anger and determination.
I head straight to a room and grab a notepad and pen.
With intense focus, I start writing furiously, the words flowing from my heart to the page.
The song begins to take shape, and I title it "Monster."
It's a diss track aimed directly at Mustafa, and I pour all my emotions into it.
The lyrics are fierce and raw, reflecting my feelings of betrayal and defiance.
I'm done writing, and I head to the studio where Suge and Tupac are waiting for me.
I step into the recording booth, ready to bring my words to life.
Dr. Dre sits behind the controls, his eyes locked on me as he starts producing the beat.
The music fills the room, and I begin to rap.
My voice echoes through the booth, filled with passion and conviction.
I spit bars about Mustafa's betrayal, warning him that I'm a monster now.
My lyrics are sharp and cutting, leaving no room for doubt or weakness.
Suge, Tupac, and Dr. Dre watch intently as I record my track.
When I finish, they nod their heads in approval.
"You nailed it," Suge says with a smile.
"That's gonna send a strong message."
Tupac agrees, his expression serious.
"Mustafa won't know what hit him."
Suge plays the rough cut of "Monster" for me, and I listen intently.
The beat is hard and intense, matching the energy of my lyrics.
I nod my head in approval, feeling satisfied with what we've created.
For the next few days, we work tirelessly to perfect the track.
We mix and master it until it's just right, making sure every detail is precise.
Suge oversees the process closely, ensuring that everything meets his high standards.
Finally, "Monster" is ready to be released to the world.
Suge sends it to record stores everywhere, and I watch from my hospital bed as it quickly climbs the charts.
The world knows now: we won't be silenced.
I exit the hospital doors in a wheelchair, Suge and my Death Row crew surrounding me.
My wounds are still bandaged, but seeing all the reporters and fans waiting outside gives me the strength to keep going.
Security clears a path through the crowd as they push me toward the waiting Mercedes.
Photographers snap pictures as we make our way to the car.
Once inside, Suge hands me a copy of Billboard magazine.
I see that "Monster" has reached #1 on the charts.
He also passes me some papers showing sales reports - we've gone double platinum already.
Suge smiles at me, clearly pleased with the success.
"This song is playing nonstop on every radio station in California," he says proudly.
"We've made our mark, and now it's time to take it even further."
I sit in my Beverly Hills mansion's living room, watching the news.
Reports are coming in about more violence between East and West Coast rappers.
Monica unpacks boxes nearby, putting her designer clothes away in our walk-in closet.
Security guards patrol the grounds outside, keeping an eye on everything.
Through the bulletproof windows, I see my Bentley and Rolls-Royce parked in the gated driveway.
The TV shows footage of recent shootings and fights between rappers from different coasts.
My phone buzzes with texts from Suge saying that new diss tracks are dropping soon.
Monica stops unpacking to come over and massage my healing gunshot wounds.
She whispers in my ear that she feels safer here with me than in her old apartment.
I sit in my Beverly Hills mansion, still recovering from the shooting.
The doorbell rings, and I see Monica walking in with shopping bags in her hands.
She drops them and comes over to give me a tight hug.
"I'm so glad you're okay," she says, her voice filled with emotion.
"I love you so much."
I hold her close, feeling the warmth of her body against mine.
"I love you too," I reply, kissing her softly on the lips.
I sit in my Beverly Hills mansion, adjusting my new gold chains and designer clothes.
The bullet wounds are healing, and I feel revitalized.
Monica walks over and turns on the radio.
My diss track "Monster" starts playing, and we listen intently.
When it ends, the DJ announces that both my albums "Death Trap" and "Married to the Game" have gone double platinum.
He also mentions the ongoing feud with the East Coast and how Suge Knight is backing me up.
Monica smiles at me, clearly proud of my success.
I nod back at her, thinking about how far we've come.
The next song starts playing, and I get up from the couch to walk to the window.
I watch as Monica packs up her modeling portfolio and gives me a kiss goodbye before leaving for her photoshoot.
After she's gone, I grab my notebook and car keys, double-checking the security system before heading out.
I get into my black Mercedes and grip the steering wheel tightly, feeling the leather against my healing wounds.
The morning traffic crawls along as I drive to Death Row Records, thinking about what I'll say to Suge when I get there.
The gold chains around my neck catch the sunlight as I rehearse ideas for new songs in my head.
As I pull into the parking lot, Suge is already outside, waiting for me with a serious look on his face.
"Yo, Mohamed," he calls out as I step out of the car.
"We need to talk about the next move. Things are heating up."
I walk through the marble lobby of Death Row Records with Suge, my silk shirt and gold chains glinting under the lights.
The bullet wounds are still healing, but I keep them hidden.
Security guards nod as we pass, and I notice the new platinum records on the walls.
Suge opens the heavy door to his office and closes it behind us.
He dims the lights, creating an intimate atmosphere.
I take a seat across from his mahogany desk as he settles into his leather chair.
My heart races as he leans forward, fingers steepled, and begins laying out his vision for expanding Death Row's empire through my next album.
I pull up to Suge's mansion in my black Mercedes, parking next to his Rolls-Royce and other luxury cars.
It's 10 pm, and the mansion is lit up like a castle.
I step out of the car, adjusting my designer suit as requested by Suge.
The valet takes my keys and I head inside.
The grand foyer has a sweeping staircase and marble floors.
Suge stands there with Tupac, Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, and other Death Row artists and producers.
Everyone is dressed in their best suits.
We walk into the kitchen, where a long table is set with fine china and crystal glasses.
The room is filled with the aroma of delicious food.
We gather around the massive dining table, with Suge at the head.
As we sit down, I can feel the anticipation building.
The tension in the air is palpable, and I know that something big is about to happen.
Suge raises his glass, signaling for us to do the same.
I watch nervously as he stands up, his champagne glass held high.
The crystal chandelier above the table glints off the rings on his fingers.
He clears his throat to speak, and the room falls silent.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," Suge says, his voice booming through the room.
"As you all know, this is a special occasion. For the first time in history, Death Row Records has earned $100 million in a single year. This is a monumental achievement, and I want to thank each and every one of you for your hard work and dedication."
We all raise our glasses in a toast to Suge and Death Row's success.
The sound of clinking crystal fills the air as we celebrate.
Suge takes a sip of his champagne before continuing.
"However, I also want to address some concerns. Marcel Williams, also known as Marcel the Prince, has not been living up to his contract. He released one song two weeks ago but hasn't produced anything since. When questioned about it, he claimed he needed time to focus on his craft."
Suge pauses for dramatic effect before continuing.
"I understand that creativity takes time, but I will not tolerate any artist who does not meet their obligations. Marcel, I'm afraid your time with Death Row Records has come to an end."
With that, Suge grabs a knife from his plate and s##s Marcel repeatedly in the c##t.
Blood splatters everywhere, staining the fine china and crystal glasses.
The room falls silent once again as we watch in shock.
Marcel's body slumps forward onto the table, lifeless.
Suge signals to his security guards, who rush over and remove Marcel's body from the room.
The rest of us sit frozen, glasses still raised, as Suge calmly wipes the blood from his hands and resumes his meal.
I sit there at Suge's dinner table, my appetite gone after witnessing Marcel's murder.
Suge laughs, reminding us of the three-album contract we all signed.
He explains that Marcel's failure to produce more than one song led to his death.
I glance around at Tupac, Dr. Dre, and Snoop Dogg, their faces tense but silent.
My mind races, thinking of my own success with "Death Trap" and "Married to the Game," both double platinum.
With $20 million in my account, I know I need to focus on my third album soon.
Suge's eyes lock onto mine, his voice low and menacing.
"Are you working on your third album?" he asks.
I nod, trying to keep my composure.
"Yes, it's in progress," I reply, my voice steady despite the trembling of my hands under the table.
Suge studies me for a moment, then returns to eating.
The rest of the dinner is tense, with Tupac and Dr. Dre exchanging worried glances while Snoop Dogg sips his drink quietly.
I know I need to deliver a hit album soon to avoid Marcel's fate.
As the night ends, I leave the mansion and head back to my home in Beverly Hills.
I sit in Studio B at Death Row Records, surrounded by the hum of equipment and the faint scent of smoke.
I'm working on my third album, "The World is Mine," and I'm determined to make it the best one yet.
I spend hours in the studio, pouring my heart and soul into each song.
I record 15 gangster rap tracks, each one reflecting my life's journey and the harsh realities of the streets.
Suge Knight checks in periodically, nodding his head to the beats as he listens.
Finally, after weeks of hard work, I finish recording the last song.
I feel a mix of pride and relief as I listen to the final mix.
Suge walks into the room, a smile on his face as he listens to the album from start to finish.
When it's done, he nods in approval.
"Good job," he says, patting me on the back.
"Now let's get this mixed and mastered."
We spend the next few days fine-tuning the album, making sure every beat and lyric is perfect.
Finally, we're ready to release it to the world. Suge calls a meeting with all of Death Row's artists and staff to announce the release of "The World is Mine."
He holds up a copy of the album cover, which features me standing on top of a globe with my foot on Earth.
"This is going to be big," he says, grinning from ear to ear.
"I can feel it."
We all nod in agreement, eager to see how well the album will do.
I sit in my Beverly Hills mansion, watching the news as "The World is Mine" hits number one on the charts worldwide.
The phone rings nonstop with congratulations from record executives and fans.
I drive to the bank, depositing the $15 million check from Suge.
My account now totals $35 million.
At the bank, the tellers recognize me, their eyes wide with awe.
I return home to find Monica celebrating with champagne.
We toast to my success, but her smile can't erase the memory of Marcel's murder.
Monica sets her glass down, her expression turning serious.
"Do you ever think about leaving Death Row?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I sit in Suge Knight's office, the morning sun casting long shadows across the room.
Suge leans back in his chair, puffing on a cigar as he listens to me.
"I've fulfilled my contract with three double-platinum albums," I say, my voice steady.
"The World is Mine" is doing well, and I'm considering my next move."
Suge nods thoughtfully, his expression unreadable.
"Death Row has been good to me," I continue.
"They've supported me and paid me well. But after Marcel's m##r, I can't help but think about what's best for my career and my life."
Suge leans forward, his eyes locked on mine.
"What do you want?" he asks, his voice low and serious.
I hesitate for a moment, thinking of Monica's words and the weight of my decision.
"I need time to think," I say finally.
"I'll let you know soon."
I walk out of Suge's office, my mind racing with thoughts about my future at Death Row Records.
The familiar hallways seem different now, filled with memories of the violence and pressure that come with being part of the label.
I pause by the studio where I recorded my albums, feeling a mix of gratitude and unease.
Outside, I sit in my Mercedes, gripping the steering wheel tightly as I weigh my options.
The engine hums quietly as I consider Monica's advice to leave.
I drive, the wind blowing through my hair as I reflect on the past.
It's 1991, and I've gone from a broke 20-year-old to a world-famous rapper with $35 million in the bank.
My life has changed in ways I never imagined.
I now live in a luxurious mansion in Beverly Hills, complete with a pool, gym, and multiple bedrooms.
Monica and I have our own private movie theater, and we often host lavish parties for Hollywood celebrities and other famous rappers.
My parents and Munira live in a mansion I bought for them, just a few miles away from my own home.
My father's store has expanded nationwide and into Canada, thanks to the money I've made from my albums.
As I drive, I think about Monica - the love of my life.
She's always there to support me, whether I'm in the studio or at home.
I feel grateful for her presence in my life. My mind wanders back to the rap game.
I'm currently at the top of the charts, with three double-platinum albums and several hit singles under my belt.
My latest album, "The World is Mine," has been a huge success, with over 10 million copies sold worldwide.
I'm proud of what I've achieved, but I know there's still more to come.
As I pull into my driveway, I can't help but feel a sense of excitement and anticipation for what's next.
The gate opens automatically as I drive up, revealing a long winding path that leads to my front door.
The house is lit up beautifully, with spotlights shining on the perfectly manicured lawn and garden.
I step out of the car and into my marble foyer, where Monica is waiting for me.
She's wearing a tight silk dress that hugs her curves perfectly, and her perfume fills the air.
She walks over to give me a kiss, and I can feel her soft lips against mine.
"Hey, babe," she says, smiling up at me.
"How was your day?"
I follow her into the living room, which has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights of Los Angeles.
We sit down on the leather couch together, holding hands as we look out at the breathtaking view.
Monica turns to face me, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
"So, what did Suge say?" she asks, leaning in close.
I take a deep breath before answering.
"He wants me to stay with Death Row," I say, my voice steady.
"But I told him I need some time to think about it."
Monica nods thoughtfully, her fingers intertwining with mine.
"I think you should leave," she says softly.
"I don't want you to get hurt."
I look at her, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside me.
"I love you," I say, squeezing her hand gently.
"And I'll do whatever it takes to make you happy." Monica smiles back at me, her eyes shining with love and adoration.
"I love you too," she says softly.
"And I know that whatever decision you make will be the right one."
We sit there together in silence for a moment, watching the city lights twinkle below us.
Then Monica speaks up again, her voice filled with emotion.
"I want to spend the rest of my life with you," she says softly.
"I want us to get married and have kids together."
My heart skips a beat as I hear her words.
I've always dreamed of having a family of my own, but I never thought it would happen so soon.
Monica looks at me expectantly, waiting for my response.
But before I can say anything, my mind flashes back to what Suge told me about gold diggers and groupies who only want me for my money and fame. I freeze for a moment, unsure of what to do next.
Monica notices my hesitation and looks at me curiously.
"What's wrong?" she asks softly.
"Why aren't you saying anything?"
I take a deep breath before answering her question truthfully.
"I'm scared," I admit quietly.
"I don't know if I'm ready for marriage and kids yet."
Monica takes a deep breath, her eyes searching mine.
"I understand," she says gently. "But I want you to know that I'm here for you, no matter what."
I nod, feeling the weight of her words and the sincerity behind them.
We sit there in silence for a moment, the only sound the rustling of Monica's silk dress as she shifts on the couch.
The scent of her perfume fills the air, mingling with the smell of leather and wealth that permeates our living room.
I look out at the city lights twinkling below us, feeling the weight of my gold chains against my skin.
My mind is racing with thoughts and memories, from Suge's warnings about gold diggers to Marcel's murder and my own rise to fame.
Despite all the money and success I've achieved, I can't shake off the feeling of fear that grips me.
Monica looks at me with concern in her eyes, her voice filled with genuine care.
"Are you okay?" she asks softly.
I meet her gaze, searching for any sign of insincerity or manipulation.
But all I see is love and sincerity in her eyes. I move closer to her, feeling drawn to her warmth and comfort.
I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her into a tight hug as I bury my face in her hair.
I hold her close, feeling the smoothness of her silk dress against my arms.
The city lights shine through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow over us.
I breathe in her familiar perfume, feeling the softness of her body against mine.
The weight of my gold chains presses against my skin, a reminder of everything I've gained and everything I could lose.
My heart races as I think about our future together.
Part of me wants to rush forward and seize every opportunity that comes our way.
But another part of me is cautious, remembering Suge's warnings and the betrayals I've faced in the industry.
I draw back slightly, looking into Monica's eyes as I speak softly.
"I love you," I say, my voice filled with emotion.
"And I want to spend the rest of my life with you."
Monica smiles back at me, her eyes shining with happiness.
"I love you too," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Forever and always."
I pull her into another tight hug, feeling a sense of relief wash over me.
I know that no matter what happens in the future, I'll always have Monica by my side.
The sound of laughter and music fills the air as I walk through the grand foyer of my Beverly Hills mansion.
Monica's 21st birthday party is in full swing, and the atmosphere is electric.
The walls are adorned with crystal chandeliers and fairy lights, casting a warm glow over the room.
Roses are scattered throughout the space, adding a touch of elegance and romance to the celebration.
The catering staff moves efficiently through the crowd, offering trays of gourmet appetizers and champagne cocktails.
My security team stands watchfully at the entrance, carefully screening each guest before allowing them inside.
I make my way through the throng of people, nodding greetings to familiar faces from the music industry and Hollywood elite. Monica appears by my side, her red dress shimmering under the lights as she smiles brightly at our guests.
She's beaming with joy, clearly thrilled with how everything has come together.
I lean in close to whisper in her ear.
"You look stunning," I say softly.
"Happy birthday, baby."
Monica blushes slightly, her eyes sparkling with delight.
"Thank you," she replies quietly.
"This is the best birthday ever."
I lead her toward my private study, where I've set up a special surprise for her.
The room is dimly lit, with candles flickering softly on the shelves.
A small table in the center holds three gifts wrapped elegantly in silver paper and tied with satin ribbons.
Monica's eyes widen as she takes in the scene before us.
"What's this?" she asks curiously, glancing up at me with excitement. "Open them," I encourage softly, gesturing toward the gifts.
Monica's hands tremble slightly as she reaches for the first package.
She unwraps it slowly, revealing a diamond necklace nestled against black velvet inside a delicate box.
Her gasp of amazement echoes through the room as she lifts out the sparkling gemstone and holds it up against her skin.
"It's beautiful," she whispers breathlessly, turning to face me with gratitude in her eyes.
"I wanted you to have something that shines as brightly as you do," I say, watching her reaction closely.
Monica's eyes glisten with tears of joy as she carefully places the necklace around her neck.
"Thank you," she murmurs, her voice full of emotion, "but there's something I need to tell you."
I help Monica pack up her apartment, carefully wrapping her journalism awards and photo albums in tissue paper before placing them into boxes.
The scent of fresh coffee fills the air as we work together, the sound of jazz music playing softly in the background.
Monica's eyes sparkle with excitement as she watches me carry each box out to my car.
"I can't believe I'm finally moving in with you," she says, her voice filled with emotion.
I smile back at her, feeling a sense of anticipation wash over me.
"Me neither," I reply softly.
"Let's get everything loaded up and head to the mansion."
We make our way through the crowded streets of Los Angeles, the sun shining brightly overhead.
Monica sits beside me in the passenger seat, her hand resting gently on my thigh as we drive.
The sound of the engine purrs smoothly, blending with the hum of the city around us. We pull up to my mansion, and I direct the maids to bring Monica's belongings inside.
They efficiently carry her boxes upstairs to the master bedroom, where they begin unpacking her clothes and personal items.
Monica watches as they arrange her designer dresses and shoes in my expansive walk-in closet.
She smiles at me, her eyes shining with happiness as she runs her fingers over the soft fabrics.
"This is amazing," she says quietly, glancing at me with gratitude.
"I can't believe this is our home now."
I nod in agreement, feeling a sense of pride and contentment wash over me.
"It's perfect," I say softly, taking her hand in mine.
Monica turns to face me, her lips curving into a gentle smile.
"I love you," she whispers, leaning in close to kiss me softly on the cheek. Monica arranges her books on my office shelves, carefully placing them next to my collection of music magazines and platinum records.
The scent of old paper and leather fills the air as she works, the sound of jazz music playing softly in the background.
I watch from across the room as she places a framed photo of us next to my Grammy Awards.
Her UCLA textbooks sit alongside my favorite novels, blending seamlessly into our shared space.
Monica steps back to admire her work, a sense of satisfaction evident on her face.
"It looks perfect," she says quietly, glancing at me with a smile.
I nod in agreement, feeling a sense of pride and contentment wash over me.
"You've made this place feel like home," I say softly, crossing the room to stand beside her.
"Together, we'll build a life that truly belongs to us."
Monica turns to face me, her eyes shining with emotion as she smiles.
"I couldn't have asked for anything more," she replies quietly, her voice filled with sincerity.
The late afternoon sun casts a warm glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the room with a soft golden light.
Monica's fingers brush against my arm as she reaches for the last of her boxes.
I watch as she carefully places it on the desk, opening it to reveal a stack of framed photographs and mementos.
She begins to arrange them on the shelf, each one telling a story of our time together.
Her fingers linger on the frame of our first photo shoot, the one that brought us closer than we ever thought possible.
As she places it next to a picture of her family, a mix of sadness and joy crosses her face. I step forward, reaching out to touch her shoulder gently.
"You're not alone anymore," I say softly, my voice filled with reassurance.
Monica turns to face me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sound of my own heartbeat.
The scent of her perfume wafts between us, familiar and comforting.
I feel my heart rate quicken as she takes a step closer, her hand reaching out to grasp mine.
Her touch is gentle yet firm against my palm, sending shivers down my spine.
Monica looks up at me, her eyes searching mine.
I guide her toward the master bedroom, the anticipation building between us.
We step into the spacious room, the soft glow of the evening sun filtering through the large windows.
The king-size bed beckons, its plush sheets inviting us to surrender to our desires.
Monica's eyes meet mine, filled with a hunger that matches my own.
Without a word, we begin to undress each other, our movements slow and deliberate.
The air is charged with electricity as we shed our clothes, revealing the bare skin beneath.
I pull her into my arms, feeling her warmth against my own n####s.
Our lips meet in a passionate kiss, our t###s dancing together in a s###l rhythm.
Monica's hands explore my body, tracing paths of d##e along my skin.
I respond in kind, caressing her curves and eliciting soft moans of pleasure from her lips. We fall onto the bed, our bodies entwined as we surrender to our passion.
The soft sheets envelop us, providing a comfortable haven for our intimacy.
We make love three times, exploring different p####s and d##s of connection.
Each time is more intense than the last, our desire growing with every touch and every kiss.
Finally, we lie naked on the bed, catching our breath and basking in the aftermath of our l####g.
Monica rests her head on my chest, her hair spilling across my skin like a golden cascade.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her close as we drift into a state of contentment.
The sound of our heartbeats fills the room, a soothing melody that accompanies our intimate embrace.
As the night falls, we remain entwined, our love strong and unwavering.
Monica's breathing becomes steady, indicating that she has fallen asleep in my arms.
I hold her gently, feeling grateful for this moment of peace and connection.
The world outside may be chaotic, but in this moment, all that matters is the love we share.
We sit together on the plush couch in my living room, the city lights twinkling outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Monica rests her head against my shoulder, her hair brushing softly against my skin.
I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her closer to me as we watch the sunset together. The room is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional chirp of a bird outside.
It's moments like these that I cherish most – just us, alone and content in each other's company.
Monica shifts slightly, her hand reaching up to gently brush a strand of hair away from my forehead.
Her touch sends a shiver down my spine, and I smile softly at her.
"You make every moment special," I whisper, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.
Monica looks up at me, her eyes shining with love and adoration.
"You do the same for me," she replies quietly, her voice filled with sincerity.
The sky outside begins to darken, signaling the end of another day in our lives together.
I hold Monica closer, feeling grateful for this peaceful evening spent in each other's company.
The sound of birds chirping fills the air as I sit in my backyard, surrounded by lush greenery and vibrant flowers.
The morning sunlight casts a warm glow over the entire scene, adding a sense of serenity to the atmosphere. Monica emerges from the house, dressed in a stylish outfit that accentuates her beauty.
She carries a large bag slung over her shoulder, filled with her modeling gear and makeup supplies.
"Good morning," she greets me with a smile, taking a seat beside me on the bench.
"Morning," I reply softly, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face.
"You look beautiful today."
Monica blushes slightly at my compliment, her cheeks flushing with a hint of pink.
"Thank you," she says quietly, glancing down at her outfit.
"I have a big shoot for a magazine cover today. They want me to look my best."
I nod understandingly, feeling proud of how far she's come in her career as a model.
"You're going to knock their socks off," I assure her confidently.
"I know you will."
Monica smiles again, this time with a hint of determination in her eyes.
"I'm going to give it my all," she promises, standing up from the bench and adjusting her bag over her shoulder.
"I'll see you later tonight."
I stand in my driveway, watching as Monica drives away in her brand-new red Porsche.
The sports car purrs smoothly as she disappears down the winding road that leads to her photoshoot location.
I remain standing there for a moment, replaying the goodbye kiss she gave me before leaving.
The taste of her lips still lingers on mine, a sweet reminder of our love.
Once she's out of sight, I turn and walk back into my empty mansion.
The silence is deafening, a stark contrast to the warmth and laughter that fills the space when Monica is here.
I grab a pack of Marlboros from the kitchen counter and head into the living room.
Sinking into my oversized leather couch, I flick on the massive flat-screen TV that dominates the wall.
Cycling through various news channels, I light a cigarette and exhale smoke rings into the air.
I sit there for a while, flipping through channels until I find a sports program that catches my attention.
The hours pass slowly, and eventually, the sun begins to set outside my windows.
I hear the sound of Monica's car pulling into the driveway, signaling her return from her photoshoot.
I quickly extinguish my cigarette and make my way to the front door to greet her.
Monica steps inside, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she drops her bag onto the floor.
"Hey, babe," she greets me with a bright smile, throwing her arms around my neck in a tight hug.
"How was your day?"
I wrap my arms around her waist, holding her close as I inhale the scent of her perfume.
"It was good," I reply softly, feeling grateful for her presence once again.
"How about you? How did the shoot go?"
Monica pulls away slightly, her face lighting up with enthusiasm as she begins to tell me about her day.
"It was amazing," she exclaims excitedly.
"The photographer was fantastic, and we got some incredible shots. I think this is going to be one of my best covers yet."
I congratulate her on a job well done, and she thanks me with another warm hug before heading upstairs to change out of her outfit. The next morning, I wake up early and head downstairs to make breakfast for Monica and myself.
The kitchen is filled with the delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon as I work on preparing our meal.
Monica joins me a few minutes later, dressed in a cozy robe and looking adorable with sleep still in her eyes.
We eat together at the kitchen table, enjoying each other's company as we start our day.
Once we're finished eating, I clear our plates and turn to face Monica with a thoughtful expression on my face.
"There's something I want to talk to you about," I say softly, reaching out to take her hand in mine.
"I've been thinking about introducing you to my family. Would you like that?"
Monica's eyes widen slightly at my suggestion, but she nods eagerly in agreement.
"I'd love to meet them," she replies warmly, squeezing my hand gently in hers.
"I'm sure they're wonderful people."
I smile back at her, feeling grateful for her enthusiasm and understanding.
"They are," I assure her sincerely.
"I think you'll really like them."
As we finish our breakfast, I realize that this next step is the beginning of something truly meaningful.
I drive my 1969 Mustang with Monica to my parents' mansion in Beverly Hills, where Munira lives with them.
We pull into the circular driveway, and I park the car near the front entrance.
Monica follows me inside, and we're greeted by my parents in the spacious foyer.
They smile warmly at us, their eyes curious about this new woman in my life.
Munira rushes down the grand staircase, eager to meet Monica for herself.
We all gather in the living room, surrounded by plush furniture and family photos adorning the walls.
My father takes a seat on one of the couches, while my mother sits in a nearby armchair.
Munira perches on the edge of another couch, her eyes fixed intently on Monica as she introduces herself.
"Hi, I'm Monica," she says with a friendly smile, extending her hand towards Munira.
"It's nice to meet you."
Munira takes Monica's hand and shakes it firmly.
"I'm Munira," she replies warmly.
"Welcome to our home."
I take a seat next to Monica on the couch, feeling grateful that everyone is getting along well so far. "So, Monica," my father begins, leaning forward slightly in his chair.
"Tell us about yourself. What do you do?"
Monica smiles politely at him before answering.
"I'm studying journalism at UCLA," she explains proudly.
"And I've been working as a model for several years now."
My mother nods thoughtfully at this information, her expression filled with interest.
"That sounds fascinating," she says kindly.
"I've always admired women who pursue their passions."
Monica smiles back at her gratefully before continuing.
"I love what I do," she admits honestly.
"It allows me to express myself creatively and connect with people from all walks of life."
As we chat, Munira shows Monica around the mansion, pointing out various rooms and features along the way.
They walk through the expansive kitchen and dining area before heading upstairs to see Munira's bedroom. "This is where I sleep," Munira explains excitedly as they enter her room.
Monica looks around curiously at all the toys and decorations scattered throughout the space.
"It's very nice," she compliments sincerely.
Munira beams with pride at this praise before leading Monica back downstairs to join us for dinner.
The table is set elegantly with fine china and crystal glasses as we take our seats around it.
My father sits at the head of the table, while my mother takes her place beside him.
Munira and I sit across from each other, with Monica next to me.
The maids bring out the first course, and we begin eating.
As we enjoy our meal, my father starts telling Monica about our family's history.
"We used to live in Compton," he explains.
"It was a rough neighborhood back then. There was poverty, gangs, drugs, violence, and racist police."
Monica nods thoughtfully at this information, her eyes never leaving his face.
"I know about Compton," she admits softly.
"It's not a place I would want to visit alone."
My father chuckles at her response before continuing his story.
"Your boyfriend here made 'Ruthless' and got signed by Suge Knight at Death Row Records," he says proudly.
"He became a world-famous rapper with three double-platinum albums: 'Death Trap,' 'Married to the Game,' and 'The World is Mine.'"
Monica smiles politely at this information, familiar with Suge Knight's name from the music industry.
"He bought us this mansion and helped me expand my store across the U.S. and Canada with his money," my father adds gratefully.
"Now I own over 100 stores nationwide."
Monica nods again, her eyes shining with admiration for what we've accomplished together.
I watch as she leans forward slightly in her chair, her silk dress catching the light from the chandelier above us.
"What's your favorite memory from Compton?" she asks my father curiously.
My father pauses for a moment before answering, setting his fork down on his plate.
He glances over at my mother, and I notice a hint of nostalgia in his eyes.
"The day I opened my first small convenience store," he replies softly.
"I worked eighteen-hour shifts every day and saved every penny I could."
Monica nods thoughtfully at this information, her eyes never leaving his face.
"What was the neighborhood like back then?" she asks curiously.
My father leans back in his chair, a distant look crossing his features as he begins to tell us about our past.
"Compton was a tough place to grow up," he admits quietly.
"There were gangs and violence everywhere you looked. It was hard to find work and make ends meet."
Monica listens intently as my father continues speaking, her expression filled with interest and compassion.
"I remember seeing kids younger than me selling drugs on street corners," he says sadly.
"Some of them didn't even know what they were getting themselves into."
Monica shakes her head in disbelief at this revelation, her eyes filled with pity for those who suffered during that time. "It's heartbreaking to think about all the lives lost due to crime and addiction," she says softly.
"But it's also inspiring to see how far you've come since then."
My father smiles at her kind words, feeling grateful for the support and understanding she's shown us so far.
"Thank you," he replies sincerely.
"It means a lot to hear that from someone who cares."
The maids bring out dessert, interrupting our conversation for a moment as we enjoy the delicious treats before us.
As we finish eating, my father starts telling Monica more stories about our family's history in Compton.
Monica leans in, her curiosity piqued.
"Did you ever think you'd end up here, in a place like this?" she asks softly.
My father chuckles, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
"Honestly, I never dared to dream this big," he admits, glancing around the opulent dining room.
"But your boyfriend's success changed everything for us."
I thank my father sincerely for his words while Monica squeezes my hand under the table.
The family moves to the living room, settling into plush leather couches as the staff clears dinner.
Mom brings out cardamom tea and Somali sweets, insisting we stay longer.
When Monica stifles a yawn, Mom offers us one of their guest bedrooms for the night.
Though tempted by the warmth of family, I politely decline, explaining we need to return to our own home.
Monica and I say our goodbyes, promising to visit again soon.
I walk with Monica to my muscle Mustang, parked outside the mansion.
We climb in, and I start the engine, feeling its powerful rumble beneath us.
Monica smiles at me as we pull out of the driveway, her eyes shining with happiness.
As we drive through the winding roads of Beverly Hills, she gazes out the window at the city lights twinkling below us.
Finally, we reach my mansion on a hill overlooking Los Angeles.
I press a button on my remote, opening the large gate that secures my property.
As we pull into the driveway, Monica looks up at the house with admiration.
"It's beautiful," she says softly, her voice filled with awe.
I park the car and lead her inside, giving her a tour of our home.
We walk through the spacious living room and kitchen before heading upstairs to see our bedroom.
Monica's eyes widen as she takes in the expansive space, filled with all the luxuries we could ever want.
"This is amazing," she breathes, glancing around in wonder.
I smile at her reaction, feeling grateful for this life we've built together. "Let me show you around," I say softly, taking her hand in mine as we explore our home together.
We walk down a hallway lined with large windows that offer breathtaking views of Los Angeles below us.
Monica pauses at each window, taking in the stunning scenery before moving on to see more.
Eventually, we come to a door that leads outside to our private backyard.
Monica steps out onto the patio, her eyes widening in amazement as she takes in the sight before her.
The pool glistens under the moonlight, surrounded by lush greenery and vibrant flowers that fill the air with their sweet fragrance.
"Wow," she whispers softly, glancing over at me with a smile on her face.
"This is incredible."
I nod in agreement, feeling proud of what I've accomplished here.
"Welcome to our home," I say softly, wrapping my arms around her waist as we gaze out at the breathtaking view together. "This is amazing," Monica says softly as we stand on the balcony overlooking Los Angeles.
The city lights twinkle below us like diamonds against a dark canvas.
I nod in agreement, feeling grateful for this moment together.
"I'm glad you like it," I reply quietly, wrapping my arms around her waist as we take in the view side by side.
Monica turns to face me with a smile on her lips.