Kids darted between grown men’s legs, balloons smacking against chipped car hoods, sneakers splashing through puddles. Women sat on lawn chairs, arms folded tight, eyes sharp. They smiled, but they were watching. Everyone was watching.
My boots scraped the pavement, slow, deliberate. I felt every stare—some familiar, some new, some that made my knuckles itch. A plate of ribs smoked on a rusted grill, fat sizzling loud, and the smell hit my stomach like a punch. Lyon Crest never forgot how to cook for its own, even when the vibe was off.
Trigger’s men were everywhere. Leaning on posts, standing near the corners of the lot, posted up by the gate. Their eyes weren’t on the food or the music—they were on me.
“Look who crawled out,” someone muttered near the fence.
I didn’t flinch, just kept walking.
The mic at the milk crate stage squealed once, a sharp crackle that cut through the chatter. A couple of kids stopped playing. A sheriff at the gate adjusted his belt, glancing my way. My chest tightened, not from fear but from knowing. This wasn’t a rally. This was a stage. And I was the show.
I scanned the yard again—Jinx had shifted, one hand still in his hoodie, the other wrapped around a soda can. His eyes flicked once toward the far corner of the lot, subtle, almost lazy. But I caught it.
Tony was already filming; his old camcorder perched on his shoulder like it was a weapon. The tape spun, red light covered but not hidden. I could feel the lens on me.
Saint? Couldn’t see him. But that meant he was close. Saint didn’t miss nights like this. Saint was the type you felt before you saw.
I moved toward the stage, slow and steady. Every step felt heavier. The music dipped low, someone switched tracks, and the hum of bass turned into the scratch of a record trying to catch its breath. A couple of the OGs near the grill leaned into whisper to each other.
Trigger was here. I didn’t see him yet, but this had his fingerprints all over it—the setup, the energy, the way the yard was full, but nobody felt safe.
The mic squealed again, louder this time. The crowd turned. My name floated through whispers like cigarette smoke.
“Ro.”
“Zore.”
“Sal’s blood.”
I stopped a few feet from the milk crate podium, scanning faces. Some familiar, some strangers with Crest in their eyes.
The music dropped completely, leaving only the sound of grease popping on the grill and a baby crying in the back of the yard.
I lifted my chin just enough to see the crowd without giving them my full face. My hands stayed in my pockets, fingers flexing around nothing.
“Y’all wanted a show,” I muttered under my breath. “Guess I’m here to dance.”
The tension in the yard was a live wire, and I’d just grabbed it with both hands.
I felt him before I saw him. That polished kind of energy don’t blend in a yard like this. The smell of cologne that didn’t come from the corner store, shoes too clean for Crest gravel, posture screaming, I’m untouchable.
Darius Whitmore Jr.
He wove through the crowd smooth, like the rain didn’t dare touch him. People stepped aside without even thinking about it, heads down, conversations shifting mid-word. Money moves silence like that.
“Roman Zore,” he greeted, voice slick but calm, like we were shaking hands at a fundraiser instead of standing in a lion’s den. “The Crest’s prodigal son.”
I didn’t move. “You lost, Whitmore?”
His smile didn’t falter. “Nah. I’m exactly where I need to be.” His eyes scanned me slow, taking in the chain, the jacket, the way I hadn’t taken my hands out of my pockets yet. “You clean up good for a ghost.”
“Ghosts don’t bleed,” I muttered.
“Everybody bleeds.” His tone didn’t shift. “Some just don’t get the privilege of doin’ it in private.”
The crowd noise dipped around us, like the yard itself was eavesdropping.
“You got somethin’ to say?” I asked, leaning in slightly.
