I let my eyes drift down and back up slow, like I was reading every word on his jacket before I answered. “I’m not here for the tent. I’m here for Sal.”
Trigger’s laugh was short, dry. “You think that’s what this is? A damn memorial?” He stepped in closer, close enough that the smell of wet leather and cheap bourbon slid in under the rain. “This is a meet-and-measure, boy. Every man here’s clocking you right now. And from where I’m standing, you ain’t measuring up.”
My hand twitched once at my side, not enough to be seen unless you were looking for it. I was looking at him, though, dead on. “I didn’t ride in for your approval.”
“No,” he mocked, grinning without humor. “You rode in ‘cause Grams called. You rode in ‘cause the last Zore with a crown patch is in that box, and the streets are wondering if you got enough bite to hold what’s left or let it fall.”
Behind him, I caught sight of Jinx leaning against one of the poles holding up the tent, a cigarette cupped in his hand to keep it dry. His eyes weren’t on the casket. They were on me. Toothpick Tony was a few feet away, chewing slow, that toothpick bouncing with every shift of his jaw. Watching. Listening. Filing it away.
“You still talk too much, Trigger.” I countered, stepping just enough to the side to make him move or block me again.
He didn’t move. “You still run too easy, Saintless.”
That one hit deeper than it should have, maybe because he wasn’t wrong.
I let the rain run down my face before I answered. “I didn’t run. I chose to keep breathing, you copy that?”
He countered a laugh at that, the kind that wasn’t meant to find anything funny. “Sal always said your problem was you thought heart could keep you alive. It don’t. Steel does. Fire does. And right now, you ain’t showing me either.”
I leaned in just a fraction, enough so only he could hear it over the rain. “You keep trying to measure me, Trigger. But youforgot — I’m not here to fit into your cut. I’m here to bury my blood. I already own the cut.”
His eyes narrowed, and for a second, I thought he might swing just to prove something. Instead, he stepped back half a pace, boots sucking at the mud, lips curling into something that was almost a smirk.
“You’re in the middle of something you don’t even see yet,” he taunted. “But you will. And when you do, I hope you’re ready to bleed for it.”
He turned away before I could answer, boots carrying him back toward the line of patched brothers near the back. The ones who’d been watching all along.
The preacher’s voice rose over the rain now.
“Ashes to Ashes. Dusk to Dusk.”
People began to shift, gathering in closer to the casket. I moved toward the front, sliding past Cruz, who gave me a look again that screamed he knew more than he’d ever tell me in public. Lani was beside him, arms crossed, lips pressed tight like she’d been holding in the urge to speak all service long.
Up at the casket, the black lacquer gleamed under the storm light, silver trim catching the flashes of movement around it. The crown patch on top looked too clean, too untouched by the kind of weather Sal had lived in. I reached out, fingers brushing the edge just long enough to feel the chill in the metal before I pulled back.
The preacher’s voice rolled low under the tent, a deep, gravel-worn baritone that carried even through the hammer of rain on canvas.
“A man’s word… it’s all he’s got when the dirt comes to claim him,” he bellowed, palm pressed to the black lacquer of Sal’s casket like he was swearing in on it. “You break that? You ain’t just lost your honor — you done sold your soul cheap.”
A pause. The wind pushed the tent walls in, snapping the plastic like a warning.
“Loyalty ain’t for fair weather. Loyalty is the storm. It’s the hand you still grip when every bone in it is broken. It’s standin’ for your brother even when the ground under you turnin’ to ash. And if you ain’t built for that… best step off before you’re the reason they gotta bury another man too soon.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd — low coughs, shifting boots, the faint creak of leather. Sniffles that couldn’t go unnoticed. I should’ve been locked on his words, hearing them for what they were. Maybe a warning. Maybe a judgment.
But I wasn’t.
Because my eyes were drawn, like they had been all day — back to the edge of the tent.
Saint was gone.
Nova was still there, holding the little girl, but the umbrella was closed now, hanging at her side, water dripping from its tips. She was looking out into the fog where he’d walked, her face unreadable.
Trigger’s words were still in my head, mixing with the image of Saint’s hand on her arm, the way the kid had clung to her sleeve, the way the umbrella had tilted just enough to block my line of vision.
The streets were already moving under this storm. And I was standing in the middle without knowing whose rain was about to hit me first.
The preacher’s voice had settled into that funeral rhythm—low, drawn out, and heavy enough to put more weight on the rain. Each word dragged like boots through wet gravel, meant to sound holy but landing like they’d been pulled from a script.
