“We gather here in the shadow of loss… to remember a man who now rests in peace, ya dig?” he voiced, slow and deliberate, eyes sweeping over the crowd like he was checking if we believedhim. “The Lord says in John 14…‘Let not your heart be troubled.’He says there is a place prepared for us, where pain don’t touch and tears don’t fall.”
The rain smacked against the tent, dripping steady down the poles, pooling at his feet like it was daring him to step off and meet it.
“Brother Sal walks those streets now—gold underfoot, crown on his head, free from the battles of this life. We can honor him best by finding that same peace… by laying down our burdens… by letting go.”
He looked around like he was waiting for nods, for “Amens” to fill the gaps between the drops. But none came.
I’d heard enough sermons in my life to know the difference between someone speaking life and someone just filling the air so it ain’t quiet. This one? Just smoke. No fire. No grit. No truth that could cut deep enough to matter.
The MC moved like wolves at the edge of the flock—leather creaking, boots shifting in the mud, eyes scanning the crowd the way they used to scan an alley before a deal. It wasn’t grief they carried. It was turf. Sal might’ve been in the ground, but the patch on his back was still out here breathing, still marking space.
Lani Cruz stood near the front, her black coat wrapped tight, a hand resting just above the strap of her bag. Her eyes swept the whole gathering like she was working the register at the diner—counting heads, tallying debts, remembering who paid and who didn’t. Behind her, Cruz himself stood with a stillness I didn’t trust. Man’s jaw looked like it’d been carved out of tension. I knew that look. It’s the one you wear when you’re wondering if the ground you’re standing on is about to give way.
The preacher finally concluded his planned sermon, turning over the funeral into the hands of the funeral home team.
“We want you to know that our condolences goes out to each and every one of you.” The lady in the all black dress stated.
The man to the right of her, started next. “If we could have all the pallbearers rise and make their way to the front at this time.”
The pallbearers were six Disciples, big enough to make the casket look smaller than it was, their hands gripping the polished wood. Jinx was one of them. I hadn’t seen him in years, but the tattoos on his neck were the same—only now they’d spread up into the hollow under his jaw, black ink creeping toward his ear. He caught me watching and nodded once. Not a welcome. Not a warning. Just a mark in his mental notebook.
Toothpick Tony lingered off to the side, like he didn’t wanna be part of the official crew. Still chewing that same damn splinter like he’d been working it since the day I left. Rain slid down his cheek, but his hands stayed dry in his pockets—always hiding, always holding.
They started moving the casket from the tent to the grave, boots sucking at the mud with every step. The sound was harshly wet, like the earth didn’t wanna take Sal back. I moved closer without meaning to, my boots falling in step with the slow march.
That’s when Nova caught my eye again. Still standing there, like she hadn’t shifted since I first laid eyes on her. But she wasn’t alone anymore.
Saint had reappeared but now not underneath the umbrella. He was holding the big black umbrella so wide it covered her and the little girl standing in front of her. I still couldn’t believe the shit that I was hearing about him. He may not have been seen, but I heard all about him.
My stomach tightened before my brain could remind me it didn’t matter. Saint wasn’t one of us. Never wore a patch, never stood under the colors. But his name had weight in the city—a fixer who could clean up messes before the cops even knew theyexisted. He’d been moving around Sal’s orbit the year before I left, always quiet, always in the background, but his eyes missed nothing.
Now, those same eyes were on the casket, but his hand was steady over Nova, keeping the rain off her. The little girl had since been placed on her feet and shifted closer to Nova’s leg, and Nova rested her hand on the child’s hair without looking down. I didn’t need to be told whose kid that was. The air between us already carried that truth.
I should’ve looked away. Should’ve focused on the hole in the ground and the man going into it. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. My jaw clenched so tight it made my ears buzz, and I felt the faint sting of the rain cutting at the side of my neck.
Trigger caught my stare and followed it, his smirk turning into something sharper. “Saint’s keepin’ your seat warm, huh?” he murmured, low enough so the funeral director’s words covered it.
I didn’t take the bait. Just kept my eyes forward, on the men lowering Sal into the earth. The chains rattled as they let the casket down, each clink like a clock ticking off the last seconds of whatever Sal had left above ground.
“From dust we came, to dust we return.” The preacher chanted, his voice catching the rhythm of the chains.
The first shovel of dirt hit the lid with a sound that went straight through my teeth. The rain swallowed the rest, turning the soil into a heavy, clinging mess. The pallbearers stepped back, making room for Grams. She moved slow; the rosary still clutched like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She tossed a single white lily into the grave, and the petals caught on the wet wood before sliding down into the dark.
People started lining up to pay their last touch, some dropping flowers, others just laying a hand on the casket before stepping back. I didn’t move. Not yet. I was watching Nova.
She shifted under the umbrella, saying something to Saint that I couldn’t catch. He leaned in slightly, listening, his hand adjusting the angle of the umbrella, so it shielded her more. The little girl—my little girl—peeked around Nova’s leg, her eyes wide and curious, like she was trying to figure out if she’d seen me before.
I felt that hit in my chest like a punch I hadn’t braced for.
The preacher called my name then asked if I wanted to say anything. I shook my head once, no words in my throat that wouldn’t come out as smoke or blood. The preacher didn’t push. Just moved on, his voice carrying another verse into the gray.
When I finally stepped forward, I didn’t touch the casket. Didn’t drop a flower. Just stood there, letting the rain drip off my hair into the mud, looking down at the man who’d raised me rough, taught me how to ride, and then told me I wasn’t fit to lead.
“You were wrong, Sal,” I growled under my breath, the words swallowed before they could carry. “It ain’t the heart that gets you killed. It’s forgetting why you needed it in the first place.”
I stepped back, and my boots slid just enough to catch me off balance for a split second. A hand caught my elbow—Saint’s. I hadn’t seen him move from Nova’s side, but there he was.
“Careful.” He spoke, voice low, steady, with no inflection that gave away anything more than the word.
