On the other side of the city, Mr. Denzel Cole was running another type of game the polished, elite kind.
Where Kane dealt with guns and debtors, Denzel dealt with judges, pastors, and billionaires. Same hustle, different outfits.
Sunday mornings, he stood beside pastors like he wasn't laundering half the offering.
He donated millions to hospitals while owning the pharmaceutical company that kept people sick.
He built youth centers while quietly using them to recruit new political loyalists.
To him, religion wasn't sacred it was strategic.
"People believe anything when they're scared," he once told his assistant.
"And religion keeps them scared enough to obey."
He wasn't loud.
He wasn't reckless.
He was a ghost wearing a designer suit.
And deep inside his soul, he knew he was an OG — just one who traded bullets for influence.
He and his circle used to laugh quietly after church service.
> "People pray for miracles," Denzel would say, sipping imported wine.
"But miracles cost money. And we own the money."
Unlike street OGs, elite OGs didn't fear the police — they owned the police.
They didn't run from law — they rewrote law.
They didn't dodge bullets — they dodged headlines.
But the funniest part?
They believed they were cleaner than people like Kane.
As if sins disappear when you commit them in expensive rooms.
Denzel had one philosophy:
"The poor break rules to survive.
The rich bend rules to stay powerful.
And both sides call themselves blessed."
But fate had a wicked sense of humor.
It was already weaving Kane and Denzel's worlds together two kings of different kingdoms destined for collision.