Oh shit, now Avon has to deal with his sister. At her elegant home, an irate Brianna is complaining that Avon didn't have to send D'Angelo to New York the way he did: "In one car? He should've been trailing a mule!...He shouldn't've been out there alone!" Avon, awkwardly jiggling his legs on the tiny loveseat, tries to get a word in edgewise, but she's not having it: "Ain't you ever heard of a trap-car? You send my son to New York in a motherfucking rental? And then you just let him ride with that package in the trunk?" Avon starts to apologize, but she talks over him: "Sorry ain't gonna bring that boy out of prison!" Yeah, you can stuff your sorries in a sack! Also, way to come over for this serious conversation in your manpris and t-shirt with gaping arm-holes, Avon. Take a page from D'Angelo's book and try to smarten up a little next time you get one of your sister's children arrested. Anyway, Brianna tells Avon to make sure his "Jew lawyer" earns his money, and Avon mumbles that D'Angelo will have to do his part. "Meaning what?" demands Brianna. "You like the car you're driving, there, right?" Avon needles, quietly. "You like this crib? I put you in this crib. You like it? Yeah, I mean, we all got a lot to protect here. You need to remind him of that. So when he come down to it, he can stand up tall." Brianna studies the floor, apparently not enjoying the reminder of past compromises she's made -- is making, even as Avon speaks. She sits, sighing, and tells Avon he doesn't have to worry about D'Angelo: "I raised that boy, and I raised him right." According to a version of the Ten Commandments heavily weighted toward injunctions against snitching, I assume.