The streets felt heavier now, mist was hitting the visor like Sal’s ghost was still out here running routes I couldn’t see. I knew he left more than a patch behind. More than stories whispered over whiskey. Somewhere out here was the truth—ink on paper, stamped with his blood and decisions. I just didn’t know where yet.
The tires of my 2002 Yamaha R1 growled low over the gravel road, sending little pebbles skittering into the dark like they were running from something. The headlights carved a narrowblade of light through the fog, but even it looked hesitant, like it didn’t want to know what was waiting on the other side.
The ride in was quiet except for the hum of the engine and the steady percussion of rain, but my head was never quiet — not in this place. The closer I got, the louder the streets whispered, voices I thought I’d buried with the years I left behind.
Lyon Crest didn’t look like the Lyon Crest I’d left. It had a fresh layer of gloss — storefronts lined with new glass, neon signs buzzing in colors too bright for streets that used to be dim and honest about it. Traffic flowed thicker now, headlights glaring like they belonged to somebody. But that shine was a mask, and I’d lived long enough to know what masks hide.
Underneath that polish, I could still smell the damp rot of the alleys where deals went wrong. I could still taste the iron tang in the air from corners that bled out more dreams than they ever built. Lyon Crest wasn’t reborn, it had just learned how to hide the dirt under its nails.
The names started running in my head before I even realized my lips were moving.“Dre… July 3rd. Tasha… February 18th.Me… October 19th.”Each one had its own weight, its own ghost leaning over my shoulder. My own roll call of the dead and the damned.
The road curved upward, and through the gray curtain ahead, the black iron gates of Lyon Crest Graveyard came into view — hunched under years of rust and rain. Fog slid through the bars like it had its own slow heartbeat, curling low at the ground and dragging shadows along with it.
I cut the engine. I stopped at the bridge before I came into view. The silence after was loud — just rain pattering on metal, hissing against hot chrome. For a second, I sat there with my hands still on the grips, feeling the rain creep cold through the seams of my gloves.
Grams’ voice was still in my ears, threaded through my head like barbed wire.“It’s Sal… come home, Ro. It’s—God… it’s Sal.”The pause she took between those words felt longer than the miles I had to cross to get here.Sal…September 20th…
I didn’t ask questions. Didn’t curse. Didn’t cry. I just gripped the phone until it crumbled in my hand as I stared at the wall like it might tell me how to feel. By the time I hung up, I’d already buried him in my mind.
Truth is, I left years ago and never looked over my shoulder. Cut ties like a coward who thought distance might save his soul. But distance don’t mean a damn thing when blood calls you home.
And now that I was back, the streets were already talking. I’d only come in this morning, and lips were looser than pussy juice around here. Sal’s name floated in conversations like a poker chip passed under the table — never too long in one hand, and never without a cost. They said he’d been making moves with the mayor’s son, trading the club’s muscle for city contracts. They said he was laundering cash, using Jinx to ghost shipments in and out without a blip on any scanner. And they said the last job had gone sideways so bad that Sal stopped riding at night. Started looking over his shoulder like even his shadow was clocking him.
Fear like that doesn’t just happen — it’s delivered. Handpicked even. Wrapped in a warning you can’t return.
Even now, I could see it in flashes as I took the long drive to the cemetery…
Sal at his desk in the back of the clubhouse, lamp light low, cigarette smoke curling like it was eavesdropping. His fingers drumming slow against the crown patch while Toothpick Tony leaned in the doorway, asking if the heat was worth the paper. Sal never answered questions like that straight. Just gave thathalf-smile that said he knew it wasn’t worth it, but he was too deep in to back out.
That was Sal — he’d rather burn with the ship than jump.
The rain’s rhythm changed, heavier against the ground as I sat there. I could hear them under it now — the low voices of old Disciples, talking in half-jokes and half-threats. Whispers about Sal’s “handshakes” with City Hall’s finest. A laugh about how the mayor’s boy would be “sending flowers, same way he sent that shipment.”
They didn’t know I could hear them. They didn’t know I was filing each word away. They didn’t know the intel I kept on things around Lyon Crest. I may have been far physically, but I always kept an eye on things around here. I knew more…way more. But there’s always a time and place for everything.
The Disciples were already posted strong when I rolled in. Black leather patches slick with rain, arms crossed, faces half-hidden under brims and bandanas. Silver rivulets running down their cuts, catching in the ink of skin that told more stories than their mouths ever would.
They knew how to make an entrance — loud pipes, heavy presence, the kind that turned heads whether you wanted to look or not. That was their thing. Made them bigger than life.
I wasn’t looking for that today. I wanted to walk in under their noise, let their storm be the cover for mine.
I reached for the keys to pull out the ignition, fingers curling around it slow. Slick with rain, smooth like a secret. A secret like the ones Sal took to his grave — unless somebody here planned on digging them back up. This town didn’t deserve me, but it sure as hell was about to remember me.
When I climbed off my Yamaha R1 Street Bike, the cold air got under my jacket quick, cutting through my shirt and crawling straight into my bones. My boots sank into the mud with a heavy squelch, each step leaving a print that filledinstantly with dirty rainwater. The smell of wet earth rose up strong, mixing with the faint sweetness of flowers laid on graves and the sharper scent of gasoline from somewhere in the parking line behind me.
Under the tent ahead, the crowd was split — half black leather and steel glare of the MC, half church-black with polished shoes that didn’t belong anywhere near this much mud.
Somewhere in the middle, I caught Lani Cruz watching me — chin high, eyes sharp, the same way she probably sized up every man who walked into her soul food spot. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. Just clocked me like she was tallying my worth before God would. And behind her, Cruz himself stood with his jaw tight, scanning like a man who knew too many of Sal’s secrets to feel safe in a crowd.
Eyes tracked me as I moved. Some just glanced and looked away. Others stared long enough to try to read my soul and decide whether I still had one.
Somebody said my name — low but sharp enough to cut through the rain. “Roman Zore.” It rolled through the crowd like a slow ripple, voices passing it down the line until even the ones who didn’t turn knew I was there.
I didn’t nod. Didn’t say a word. My boots kept moving, pushing through the thick air, past memories that flashed like headlights in fog — me and Dre ditching school to ride, Sal’s rough voice teaching me how to hold a clutch steady, Nova standing in a red dress that made the whole world tilt the first time I kissed her behind the club.
The casket was a void in the middle of it all — black lacquer shining under the rain like it could swallow light. Silver trim ran along the edges, bright and cold, and Sal’s crown patch was folded neat on top beside a flag.
I remembered the last time I saw him — his eyes lit like he had a fire behind them, his voice cutting sharp as he spatt,“Youain’t got what it takes to lead, Ro. You got too much heart. Heart’ll get you killed.”
