Outside, the night greeted me with mist and motorcycle fumes. I scanned the yard. Tino was checking sound equipment; Mouse was zipping back and forth, hauling cases of beer like it meant salvation. Whit’s SUV had already pulled up, him sitting inside making calls he’d pretend were about politics. Cameras were being set in corners, wires hidden under folding tables. A trap dressed up like a block party.
I took it all in, slow, calm. Every bike, every face, every shadow. The Crest wasn’t unpredictable—it was predictable chaos. That’s why I was still alive. Because I treated every laugh like a countdown and every handshake like a setup.
I lit a cigarette, even though I don’t smoke, and let the glow mark my face just enough for the boys to know: Trigger was watching everything tonight.
And when Ro walked in, crown or no crown, I’d remind him this kingdom don’t kneel easy.
He could bring that heir energy, the Zore blood in his chest, and the whispers folks been passing around like dice in an alley—but that wouldn’t change a thing. Tonight, the room bent to my will. And if he tried to grab a piece of it, he’d cut his hands on the edges I sharpened.
Phones buzzed in sequence on my desk. Messages stacked like dominoes:
JINX: Perimeter clean. Eyes in place
MOUSE: Tony in position, cam hot.
TINO: No badges yet. Gate’s ready.
WHIT: Politicians inbound. Don’t let them sweat.
Each one was a piece of the puzzle, and I could see the whole picture before I even blinked.
I read every word twice, let the information settle in my head like rounds chambered in a clip. The machine was running smooth—too smooth. That’s how you knew the streets were holding their breath. Lyon Crest ain’t never quiet without a reason.
I leaned back in my chair, listening to the hum of the neon sign outside. Every light flicker felt like a metronome. The city moved to my beat tonight.
The chair creaked under my weight, leather cracked and slick with history. The smell of gun oil, sweat, and stale smoke clung to this office like wallpaper. My boots tapped against the floorboards slow, a rhythm meant to calm me, but every creak echoed like a warning. There were ghosts in this room, and all of ‘em wore cuts stitched with our colors. Sal’s spirit lingered the heaviest. If he was watching, I hoped he liked how I ran his empire.
I opened the blinds just enough to watch the lot. The rain had left streaks down the glass, and every drop looked like a tear somebody didn’t earn. I’d swept this clubhouse three times already today, checked every lock, every camera feed. Still felt eyes where there shouldn’t be any. That’s the thing about power—it makes you see ghosts even when they ain’t there.
Men were laughing outside, lining up bikes under streetlamps, their voices carrying through the night like clinking bottles. A group of locals huddled under a tarp, passing around foil plates stacked with ribs. Women kept glancing at the gates like they expected hell to roll in at any moment. They weren’t wrong. The Crest didn’t know how to host a party without somebody bleeding by the end of it.
I stood, jacket slung over my shoulder, weight shifting slow as I paced the office. My Glock rested on the desk, loaded, safety off—not because I expected a shootout, but because I always did. My fingers brushed over the handle of Sal’s old gavel sitting on the shelf. The wood was worn smooth, stained darker near the base. I’d seen him slam it down during meetings to shut grown men up mid-rant. Now it just collected dust, a relic of order in a room built for chaos.
I adjusted my cuffs, checked the burn mark on the corner of the desk, the one from the night Sal signed his last shipment papers with a cigarette dangling from his lip. I traced that scar with my thumb every time I needed to remind myself what this seat cost. The weight of this patch on my chest wasn’t pride. It was a sentence I chose to carry.
Through the blinds, I spotted Saint leaning against a black SUV at the far end of the lot, his umbrella closed but in hand, posture calm like he could clear the block without raising his voice. The man never wasted words, which made him dangerous. And then there was Ro. I could almost feel him coming. That heir energy was thick in the air already. Everyshadow out there seemed to shift, making space for him like the Crest remembered what Zore blood meant. But memory don’t make you safe here. It just makes you a target with a legacy.
I reached for my burner, thumbs hovering over keys but sending nothing. Messages were already moving fast enough. What I needed was silence—the kind that made men nervous. I flicked my lighter open and closed, the metal clicking steady. One wrong look tonight and I’d light this whole block up in more ways than one.
Ro was a ghost I couldn’t bury. Not yet. His name still rang out heavy in alleys, even after all these years. Every OG that used to dap him up was startin’ to shift in their seats now that he was back, and with that doctrine in his jacket? Yeah… that paper got weight. It’s a Bible to this life, and Ro walkin’ around with it was makin’ dudes remember Sal’s bloodline was royalty. He thought that gave him a crown. It didn’t. Crowns come with coffins if you ain’t careful. And I’m the one holdin’ the shovel.
Tonight wasn’t no cookout, no “community event.” It was war pre-game, and I was settin’ the tempo. The Crest only moved two ways—loud or dead quiet. I needed both tonight. I needed Ro to feel that spotlight heavy, see who looked at him like a savior, and who kept their hand on their waist while they smiled. This ain’t chess; this is dominoes. And I’m the dude slammin’ the bones.
I reached for the map laid across the table. Every alley, every gate, every line of sight was marked. I’d turned Tino’s block into a chessboard, and I was holding the queen. The rally was bait, but bait only works if the fish think they’re free.
I had shooters sittin’ in whips that didn’t even look like they ran. Kids on BMX bikes postin’ like they ain’t doin’ nothin’ but poppin’ wheelies, when really they watchin’ cars pull up. Old heads playin’ dominoes on porches, knockin’ slow like they ain’tclockin’ who walkin’ past. The Crest was wired like a car bomb tonight, and I’m the only one holdin’ the remote.
Sheriffs were already circling, playing their part. Whit would stand where the cameras liked him. Saint was probably parked two blocks away, umbrella propped up like a halo. That man was a question I didn’t like answering.
Saint was the kinda dude who made silence feel like a confession. You don’t know if he there to protect you or bury you, but you gon’ respect him regardless. Men like him don’t need a pistol; they just need patience.
And Ro? He’d show. Pride makes men predictable. I wasn’t planning to crush him tonight—not yet. I just wanted him loud. A loud man reveals allies faster than a quiet one.
Ro gon’ bark. That’s what bloodlines do. He gon’ bark and everybody gon’ flinch or stand tall, and I’ll know exactly who to feed and who to starve after that. Power ain’t about bullets; it’s about seein’ who too scared to pull one.
I slid my Glock onto the table, wiped it down with a rag. Ritual. Not fear. You don’t get ready for war by pacing; you get ready by polishing. I could hear the bass from somebody’s lowrider creeping down Central, rattling the windows, and I smiled. Lyon Crest was alive tonight. The kind of alive that made folks forget they lived in a coffin.
Outside, I could smell gumbo comin’ from Cruz’s kitchen, smoke from cheap blunts floatin’ in the air, rain mixin’ with oil stains so strong it stuck to your clothes. Folks was already postin’ up—girls in bamboo earrings laughin’ loud, dudes in white tees and Air Forces noddin’ like they ain’t got burners in they waistband. That’s the Crest. Everybody lookin’ casual while they thinkin’ about funerals.
