Grams’ place smelled like it always did the second I stepped inside—Pine-Sol, sage, and whatever was simmering in the pot just because she liked to “keep the house warm.” She was at the kitchen table in her robe, glasses low on her nose, Bible open but her eyes were already on me like she’d been waiting.
“Roman,” she said softly, but it carried. “You look like hell walked you home.”
“Somethin’ like that,” I muttered, dropping my duffel on the floor and kicking my boots off by the door. “Ain’t come to worry you, Grams. Just need to change, figure some shit out.”
She closed the Bible slow, folding her hands over it. “You smell like rain and trouble. Sit down and talk to me.”
I dragged out a chair, the old wood creaking under me, and laid it all out—the shooting at the apartment, Tarnesha breaking down, Nova in the graveyard, my son’s name carved in stone. My voice cracked once, and I looked away, jaw tight.
Grams didn’t flinch, didn’t interrupt, just listened with that calm that made men like me feel like boys again. She finally stood, went to her China cabinet, and lit seven white candles one by one, whispering prayers I’d heard all my life.
“Your daddy’s blood runs hot in you,” she breathed, placing a candle on the windowsill. “And your mama’s prayers run deep. This family been marked, Roman. Blessed and cursed all at once. But God don’t waste nothin’, not even pain.”
I rubbed my face hard, leaning forward on the table. “Feels like He’s wastin’ me.”
She turned, eyes sharp enough to cut me where I sat. “Boy, if He was done with you, you’d be under that dirt next to your son. You here ‘cause He still got work for you.”
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed on the table, screen lighting up with Jinx’s name. I snatched it up quick. “Yo.”
“You movin’ solo tonight?” Jinx’s voice was low, clipped, like he was whispering over static.
“Yee. Why?”
“Keep your head on a swivel,” he said flatly. “Snakes out tonight. I don’t like the way Trigger’s movin’. Too quiet. That ain’t his style. Whit been sniffin’ around too, askin’ the wrong questions.”
My fingers drummed on the table, heart beating harder. “He tryin’ to set me up?”
Jinx exhaled. “He settin’ the stage. Question is, for who. Might be you. Might be all of us. Watch your back, Ro.”
Grams lit another candle, whispering Psalm 91 under her breath. “God’ll cover you.” She exhaled, but her eyes stayed on me like she already knew I was stepping into fire.
“I got it,” I muttered, though I didn’t. “Thanks, Jinx.” I hung up and stared at the flames dancing in the glass.
Grams came over, her wrinkled hand resting on my shoulder. “Don’t go out there thinkin’ you gotta be Sal,” she warned softly. “Be smarter. Or they’ll bury you right next to him.”
I nodded, standing, jaw locked as I grabbed my duffel. “I’ll be ready for whatever comes.”
The candles around the room flickered as a draft slipped through the hall, almost like the house itself was breathing. “Go on,” she encouraged. “There’s something waiting for you.”
I followed her gesture, slipping down the narrow hallway until I reached the garage door. The smell of motor oil and rusthit me instantly, pulling me back years. Sal’s custom Harley sat under a tarp like a caged animal, its chrome glinting through the dust. I tugged the tarp back slow, revealing the deep black paint job and the hand-etched crown insignia Sal was proud of.
Something about the bike felt… heavier. I crouched, running my fingers over the seat, tracing the stitching until I felt the seam give. A hidden compartment popped with a faint click and inside was a black leather notebook. My stomach knotted as I lifted it. The edges were frayed, the leather cracked, pages yellowed but full of tight, deliberate handwriting. It smelled like time—like smoke, sweat, and ink that carried more blood than words.
This was doctrine. The book wasn’t just a ledger—it felt alive. The leather smelled like dust and gasoline, edges cracked, pages thick with secrets only blood could buy. The black leather cover was cracked and soft from decades of hands flipping its pages, the kind of soft that only comes from sweat, oil, and blood soaking through over the years. A faint smell of gunpowder lingered in the binding, like it had been stored with weapons, maybe carried through more shootouts than funerals.
Embossed faintly in the corner of the cover was a crown symbol, burned into the leather so deep it looked like it might bleed ink if you pressed it. Around the crown were initials of original members—Sal’s at the top, the founder’s circle beneath it. Some names had been carved out, their corners slashed in an “X,” meaning dead or dishonored.
Inside, the first page wasn’t words, it was a map of Lyon Crest. Not the map the city handed out at the DMV—this one was hand-drawn, streets marked in red and gold. Circles showed drop spots, meeting corners, dead zones where no Disciple would ever be found. It was art and blueprint all in one, edges smudged where fingers traced routes over and over.
Flipping through it, I saw names I recognized. Men still breathing. Men buried. Codes and numbers only insiders couldread. Rules for the club, written like scripture. This wasn’t a ledger. Sal’s blueprint for how the Disciples were built—and how they could burn.
Flip another page and there were rules—“The Code of the Crown”written in tight block letters, some lines underlined in red ink so dark it almost looked brown from age. Rules like scripture:
Bloodline is the highest currency.
