That’s when I spotted Saint.
He clocked me the second I stepped into the yard, his eyes cutting sharper than the rain in Crest winters. He leaned on that umbrella like a cane, shoulders relaxed, but I could see the shift in his jaw. The cut had his full attention. It was a declaration. He didn’t nod, didn’t speak. Just straightened the umbrella and followed me with his eyes, the kind of silent respect that feels like a warning. Saint wasn’t spooked easy, but he knew what that jacket meant. Everybody did.
I adjusted my cut over my hoodie, the weight of the leather hitting my shoulders like a reminder of every mile I’d ever bled for this club. They sat on me like armor that had already seen war. Black leather cracked from years of rain and blood; gold thread dulled to bronze from too many nights under streetlights. The crest on my back—crown over a burning Bible,STREET DISCIPLE MCwrapped around it like a verdict—wasn’t just a patch, it was history sewn in needle and consequence. Every rip had a story. Every stitch carried a name I couldn’t say out loud anymore. That weight wasn’t fabric; it was a throne built on labor of my bloodline. When I walked through the yard in my cut, I wasn’t just Ro. I was a Zore, a ghost of a kingdom that refused to die.
When I found my cuts hanging in my closet back at Grams house. I knew it was a sign. It was a sign to stop running from my legacy. It was time to face everything Lyon Crest attempted to steal from me.
Saint didn’t have to move. He didn’t have to speak. Just him being there was a signal. That was the Crest code.
My gut tightened. Trigger’s shadow was all over this yard, but if Saint was ready, that meant my time to move was now.
I took one last sweep of the crowd, feeling every stare that pretended it wasn’t staring. Jinx was gone. Whit was somewhere schmoozing politicians. Tony’s camera glinted under the yard lights like a hitter scope. And Trigger? I could feel him, even if I couldn’t see him.
The mic crackled, the crowd buzzed, and the weight of every set of eyes in Lyon Crest locked onto my back as I stepped up.
Tonight, they were hunting, and I was the prey.
Act III
Trigger
The Storm
Recommended Song: Deep Cover [Mixed] by Dr. Dre & Snoop Dogg
Everyone was in place.My gaze fell onto Ro as he began climbing the stairs to the stage.
I stayed in the shadows, half in smoke, half in darkness, where power lives. My back pressed to cold brick, and the hum of the block vibrated through it like a warning. I dragged on the blunt, exhaling slow, letting the smoke curl through the dim like snakes testing the air. My other hand rested low near my waistband, fingers grazing steel—habit, not panic. This was my yard, and I didn’t let my pulse tell me otherwise. The crowd wasn’t just buzzing low; it rippled, restless, like the city itself was holding its breath.
Tino stood front and center, leather cut heavy with patches that told more history than any city plaque ever could. He had that mic in his fist like it owed him rent.
“Y’all hear me?” his voice boomed, gritty, carrying over the hum of lowriders and the smell of mesquite from the grill. Hedidn’t ask twice. The block got quiet like church on a Sunday after a shooting.
“This Crest ain’t no playground,” Tino barked, chin high, one hand tugging at his vest where the Sgt-at-Arms rocker gleamed under the lights. “It’s a battleground we bleed for. Y’all out here smilin’, eatin’, drinkin’, but don’t get it twisted—we watchin’ everything. Ain’t no outsiders runnin’ this block. Ain’t no snitches breathin’ our air. You step wrong, you get stepped on. Period.”
Heads nodded sharp. Some faces stiffened. The message wasn’t a warning; it was a reminder. The crowd roared approval—claps, whistles, some fool hollerin’ “Talk that shit, Tee!” Tino’s eyes scanned ‘em all, slower this time, his left-hand twitching once at his vest like he was signing to me without words. I caught it, logged it, kept my face blank. Men who survive this long don’t speak unless they have to.
Mouse slid up from the side, hoodie shadowing his face. His hands stayed buried in his pockets, head tilted just enough to look like he was people-watching, not reporting.
“Two o’clock, Raiders jacket,” he growled low, not looking at me. “Piece on his right. Ain’t twitchin’ though.”
I nodded once. “Let him sweat. He’s bait.”
Mouse peeled off without another word, melting into the bodies near the gate.
He kept going, voice thick with authority. “Tonight’s about family. About showin’ love to this Crest that raised us. We feedin’ you, protectin’ you, makin’ sure them badges stay on the other side of the gate. But don’t forget who put this together. Don’t forget who keep this yard safe when y’all sleepin’. This here is Street Disciples business.”
The applause wasn’t all joy; some of it was compliance. You learn to tell the difference. I flicked ash and smirked from my corner. Tino was perfect for this—hard enough to keep‘em respectful, loyal enough to know the script. He was the gatekeeper, the wolf at the door. And me? I was the hand holding the leash.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
JINX: “Gate steady. No shakes yet.”
I replied with a single period. That was all he needed. Silence kept men disciplined.
From where I stood, I clocked everything. Every sidelong glance, every whispered exchange that cut off too quick, every nervous twitch near the gate. The crowd’s body language, the shifts in conversation when Whit and his crew moved through, the tension around the sheriffs at the gate.
Ro was posted near the edge of the stage now, jaw tight, eyes cutting through the crowd like he was memorizing faces. He wore that cut tonight too—the Street Disciples rocker weathered, colors darker than fresh asphalt, patches stitched with stories most men don’t live to tell. Those cuts alone were history.
