I didn’t answer. That was an answer.
She exhaled shaky, stared out the window at the passing streetlights. “You gon’ get me killed, Ro. I swear to God.”
I stayed silent, navigating backstreets I’d known since I was twelve. Each turn I took was muscle memory—alleys narrow as secrets, streetlights flickering like warning signs. My shoulders stayed tight, one hand on the wheel, one near my piece.
We pulled up to a little roadside motel tucked behind a liquor store, neon sign buzzing like a dying insect. Two stories, peeling paint, door numbers half missing. The kind of spot nobody remembers being at. Perfect.
“Grab your bag,” I muttered, pulling into a back corner spot.
She hesitated. “This where you droppin’ me?”
“For now,” I replied, scanning the lot. A couple cracked-out silhouettes sat on a stairwell, minding their own business. Good.
We walked inside the office. The clerk behind the glass barely looked up, just slid me a clipboard. I scribbled a name that wasn’t mine, slid cash under the glass, and took the key. “Room twelve,” he mumbled, not caring enough to make eye contact.
Inside, the room smelled like bleach and old smoke. I set her bag down, checked the bathroom, closet, under the bed—old habits. No surprises. She stood near the door, arms crossed, lip trembling.
“You good here?” I asked, my voice low.
She finally looked at me, eyes tired, mouth tight. “Don’t act like you care.”
I sighed, rubbed the back of my neck. “If I ain’t care, you’d still be sittin’ in that apartment.”
She scoffed. “Yee, so I could catch another bullet.”
I stepped closer, close enough to smell her vanilla perfume mixed with fear. “Look… this ain’t forever. Just until I figure some shit out. Keep the door locked. Don’t answer unless it’s me.”
“You gon’ come back?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yee. Always.”
She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes. I left her with the key and one last look before stepping back into the cold.
The mist clung to my hoodie as I walked back to the car, every streetlight buzzing like it had something to say. The motel lot smelled like wet pavement and cigarettes, and my boots splashed through shallow puddles as I moved, scanning every shadow. Even with her stashed away, I couldn’t shake the weight pressing on my chest. That shooting wasn’t random—it was a promise. And every corner of Lyon Crest felt like it was whispering my name, waiting to cash it in.
The air hit different once I was alone again. Mist clung to my hoodie, streetlights flickering in the distance. My boots splashed through puddles as I crossed the lot, eyes scanning every shadow like the city was breathing down my neck. The Crest had that pulse tonight, the kind that crawled up your spine and whispered names you thought you’d buried. Even the wind felt thick, carrying smoke and rain and old grudges, like the whole block was awake and watching.
I climbed into the Impala and sat for a moment, engine off, hand resting on the wheel. My chest felt heavy, but not from the shooting. From the guilt. Tarnesha didn’t sign up for this, and I knew I’d dragged her deeper than she could swim. Her face flashed in my mind—lip trembling, mascara streaking down her cheeks, arms clutching that duffel like it was a life raft. That look was gonna stick to me longer than any bullet hole.
I started the car, rolled out slow, keeping to side streets until I hit the cemetery gates. The iron bars stood tall, slick with rain, the padlock rusted but familiar. I parked outside, stepped out, and scaled the fence like I used to when I was a kid. The cold metal bit into my palms, and for a second, I felt twelve again—skinny, reckless, running from a future I didn’t understand yet. Funny how I ended up climbing back into it.
The graveyard smelled like wet dirt and eucalyptus trees, the kind of scent that sticks in your memory like a scar. The ground sucked at my boots, mud soft from days of drizzle, and the rain dripping from branches made a rhythm I couldn’t ignore. It was quiet here, but not dead. Cemeteries never are. They hum low, like every name carved in stone is whispering.
I moved through rows of headstones, boots sinking slightly into the soft ground. Every step felt like it echoed, even though the night was quiet. Sal’s plot sat near the back, under a crooked oak tree. The flowers from last week were already dead, petalsblackened and curling. I crouched low, running a hand over the stone.
“Big homie,” I muttered, voice rough. “They still callin’ you a legend out here. Still blamin’ you for shit you ain’t even get to see.”
I leaned back on my heels, scanning the empty cemetery. The wind carried faint sounds from the city—distant engines, a siren, some drunk yelling down a block too far to matter. This was the only quiet I could trust. But even here, I felt like I was bein’ watched. The Crest didn’t let you have peace. Not even around the dead. I could feel it—the eyes, the tension, that electric hum before somebody makes a move.
I pulled my hoodie tighter, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on Sal’s name carved in stone. “You left me this mess,” I whispered. “And I’m out here tryin’ to clean it up before they put me next to you.” The words hit harder than I wanted to admit. My throat burned, but no tears came. The Crest don’t let you cry easy; it just lets the guilt rot slow.
The headstone was slick with mist. The rain misted light, but the ground was soaked, soft under my boots like it knew what I came here to do—bleed out my thoughts where nobody could use ‘em. My fingertips traced the letters like they might spell out a different truth if I touched them enough times. Salvatore Zore. Brother. Leader. Legend. Lies. All of it felt heavy now.
I leaned forward, knuckles pressed to the wet grass, breath fogging in the cold. The eucalyptus trees rattled above like bones in a box, wind slicing through their branches, carrying the faint smell of earth and gasoline from the street beyond the gates. Every sound felt close—the crunch of gravel under my boots, a distant dog barking two blocks over, the hum of a car engine creeping past on Central. Lyon Crest was never quiet, even in a graveyard.
“Trigger movin’ like he own this whole city, Saint watchin’ me like I’m a suspect, and half the block don’t even remember who I am.” My jaw tightened. “You made me heir to somethin’ I don’t even know if I wanna lead no more. You feel me? You left me a name, Sal. Not a crown. A damn target.”
“And you know I never wanted this chair, Sal,” I muttered, voice barely carrying past my own chest. “You made it look like power was somethin’ solid, somethin’ a man could stand on. Now I see it’s just a tightrope strung over a pit. And I’m out here slippin’, tryin’ not to drag everyone I love down with me.”
