You mean to tell me… the same man who many believe had a hand in orchestrating Biggie’s murder is the one who threw the most extravagant funeral New York had ever seen, complete with a horse-drawn carriage, white Rolls-Royces, and thousands of mourners lining the streets of Brooklyn? A funeral so over-the-top it felt more like a coronation than a goodbye. And the wildest part? Biggie’s own estate footed the bill. Every single dollar.

That’s not even the coldest move. After Christopher Wallace was laid to rest, this individual quietly went back and altered contracts, retroactively, so that royalties, publishing, everything Biggie bled for, would never fully reach his mother, Voletta, or his kids, T’yanna and CJ. Advances that were supposed to be recouped turned into permanent debts. Masters that should’ve been returned stayed locked away. The estate has been fighting in court for decades just to see a fraction of what was promised.

Yet there he was, front row at the funeral, eyes glossy for the cameras, hugging Faith Evans, whispering “We lost a king today” while the whole world watched him play the grieving godfather. The same man who, weeks earlier, allegedly knew the hit was coming. The same man whose name keeps surfacing in unsolved case files, in Gene Deal’s interviews, in Reggie Wright Jr.’s cryptic comments, in the retired detectives who still say “we know who ordered it, we just can’t prove it… yet.”

And the performance never stopped. Every March 9th, the tributes roll in from him: “Gone but never forgotten,” “The greatest to ever do it,” “Miss my brother.” Meanwhile, Biggie’s children grew up without their father’s full legacy because the paperwork was “restructured” six feet under. Voletta Wallace still speaks softly, with class, but even she has said on record: certain people enriched themselves off her son’s death and never looked back.

This isn’t just betrayal. This is biblical-level deception. Judas had the decency to hang himself after thirty pieces of silver. This man turned those thirty pieces into a billion-dollar empire and still wears the cross around his neck on stage, rapping Biggie’s lyrics back to crowds who have no idea they’re cheering for the reaper himself.

The streets been whispering it for almost thirty years. The feds been circling it. The documentaries keep dancing around it. But every time someone gets close, another distraction drops: a new album, a new business deal, a new “Verzuz” moment where he cries on cue.

So yeah… he gave Biggie the biggest funeral hip-hop ever saw. Paid for with Biggie’s own money. Then swallowed his catalog, his legacy, and his children’s future like it was just another business expense.

And the world still calls him King.

Tell me that ain’t the coldest shit you ever heard.