That name hit the table like a dropped knife. The old heads at the counter suddenly got real interested in their plates.
I lowered my tone, kept it between us. “Listen. I ain’t judging Saint, but men like him don’t move without a reason. If he’s circling you, Nova, that reason got numbers attached. Paper, favors, protection—always a price. And I need you to know the streets ain’t gon’ be gentle just ‘cause you holding a baby on your hip.”
Nova blinked hard, hazel eyes glistening but not breaking. She swallowed like the truth scraped her throat. “I just buried some one that was like a true uncle to me and Aaliyah. I can’t bury Cruz, too. I can’t bury Ro… not again. And now I’m standing here feeling like I’m carrying the whole block’s sins, and I didn’t even write ‘em.”
Her voice dropped low, near a whisper. “Lani… what if they come for me? For my baby?”
I reached across the counter, covered her hand with mine, coffee-stained rag still clutched in my fist. My voice softened but stayed steel. “Then they gotta get through me first. And through Cruz. And through that patch. You ain’t standing alone, Nova. Don’t let the whispers fool you. You family here. You blood by choice.”
The room was quiet now, even Tony kept his fool mouth shut.
I let go of her hand, picked the rag back up. “But you need to keep your eyes open, baby girl. Debt don’t die with the man. It waits for the widow.”
Nova’s voice cracked the quiet, low but jagged.
“Tell me straight, Lani. What’s you think is Saint’s angle? What’s the Mayor’s boy got to do with all this? Don’t dance me around it—I need the truth.”
I blew out a breath through my nose, leaned on the counter with both elbows. The rag hung loose from my hand now, grease stains like battle scars. “Alright. You want it raw; I’ll give it raw. Sal wasn’t just runnin’ bikes and bluster. He owed. Heavy. Word is, he cut deals with the mayor’s golden boy—contracts, cash washed through Cruz’s other diner on the boardwalk, and Saint playin’ middleman so nothing left a paper trail.”
Nova’s jaw clenched; her fingers twisted the chain at her neck like she was wringing it. “So, Saint wasn’t there for me… he was there for Sal’s ghost.”
I nodded slow. “Exactly. Saint ain’t just a shadow—he a ledger with legs. He makes sure what’s owed gets paid, and he don’t care if the man who owed it is six feet down. Debts outlive the dead, baby girl. And right now? They lookin’ at Cruz, at me, at you… hell, even at that little one holdin’ your hand every day, like somebody gotta pay up.”
Her breath hitched, hazel eyes sharp but wet. “That baby don’t owe nobody nothin’. I won’t let her wear no man’s sins.”
I reached over, tapped her wrist where her chain rested. My voice dropped, blunt but soft. “Then you better stand taller than you ever have, Nova. ‘Cause peace don’t come free out here. Not in Lyon Crest. Saint’s presence might feel calm, but calm is just another kind of pressure. You hear me?”
She swallowed hard, nodding, lips tight like she was tasting metal. “I hear you. But I swear, if they think they can use me, or her, as leverage—” she cut herself off, shaking her head, curls sticking to her cheeks, “they gon’ learn I ain’t the scared little girl Ro left behind.”
I smirked, leaned back, voice carrying that mix of pride and warning. “Good. ‘Cause being scared don’t keep you alive out here. Being ready does.”
The chatter picked back up at the tables—forks scraping, old heads slurping coffee like nothing was said. But me and Nova? We were in our own bubble, both of us knowing the block’s whispers weren’t just noise anymore. They were directions.
The bell over the door cut through our quiet. Not the regular ding of neighbors drifting in—this one snapped the room like a switchblade. Every fork paused midair, every laugh choked short.
Three cats walked in, dripping rain off leather jackets too clean to be locals. Not patched Disciples, not Sunday folk either—Mayor’s boy’s crew. I knew it by the smug way they carried themselves, like the whole block was theirs to audit.
One of ‘em—light-skinned, thin goatee sharp as a pencil—slapped wet bills on the counter without looking at me. “Three plates. Quick.” His eyes weren’t hungry for food. They were hungry for attention.
The old heads at the counter muttered low, shifted their cups. Kids in the booth shrank quiet. I kept my rag moving, like always, but my ears sharpened.
The tallest one leaned back against the jukebox, tapping it like he owned the rhythm. He scanned the room slow, then landed on Nova. “Funny. Don’t the widow eat alone no more?”
Nova stiffened beside me, her hand curling on the counter like she was holding herself back from breaking something. “Don’t call me that.” Her voice cut like glass, low and dangerous.
I slid in between them with my own voice. “This ain’t no place for y’all to stir nothin’. You want food, you sit. You want trouble, take it to the street.”
He smirked, eyes flicking to my ring, then back up. “We just here to collect what’s owed.”
The spot went so quiet I could hear the rain tick against the windows.
The one at the counter leaned closer, palm flattening on the register like he owned it. “Cruz got tabs open all over this block. Sal ain’t here no more, which means somebody’s payin’.”
“Not here you don’t,” I fired back, voice iron.
He smiled, slow and mean. “Cute.”
Before I could blink, one of his boys reached out and hooked a finger in Nova’s sleeve. “What about you, pretty thing? You holdin’ it down for your old man?”
