“Three. Maybe four.” He sits like his ribs hurt, but he doesn’t complain. “Didn’t count after the first one squealed.”
“Jesus,” I say again, but it’s quieter this time.
Dad walks in just as I’m finishing with Rock’s busted knuckles. Tama King doesn’t say a word for a minute, just eyes the kid like he’s measuring him for a grave or a cut. It's hard to tell with my old man.
Then he grunts and jerks his head. “With me.”
Rock follows without question, limping slightly. I hear the low rumble of their voices in the hall, too muffled to make out until Dad’s voice cuts sharp and clean: “You ever back down?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. You keep that heat, Mercer. Just learn to aim it.”
There’s a pause, then Dad nods toward the room I’m still sitting in. “Stick to him. He’s green too, but he’s smart. You two? You’ll catch fire together.”
Rock returns a moment later, quieter than before. Still bloodied, breathing like a storm in a cage, but there’s a weight behind his steps now. Like someone finally handed him a reason.
He looks at me and asks, dead serious. “So, what the hell’s a zoning variance?”
I hand him a pen and the paperwork. “Guess you’re about to find out.”
Some weeks, I barely leave the meeting room. I’ve become the Saints’ unofficial legal department, therapist, and janitor for the kind of messes bleach won’t touch.
I don’t wear a patch yet, but they talk to me like I do. Because when the IRS comes sniffing, when a landlord tries to break a lease, when a DA starts circling like a shark, it’s not my father they call. It’s me. Sometimes I think that scares my father more than any bullet ever could.
I’m still young, still wearing my tie too tight on the days I do court runs, but I know enough to cover our tracks. I bury receipts under new EINs. Move cash through half a dozen hands before it hits the books. I don’t ask where it comes from anymore.
My dad once told me,“Saints don’t lie. We just tell the truth slower than most.”
Now I know what he meant.
Late one night, I’m holed up at the long table in Church, redlining a stack of building permits. The clubhouse smells like oil and whiskey and burnt coffee, and the only sound is the low thump of music bleeding in from the garage.
Rock’s across from me, flipping through a thick zoning binder like it’s a training manual. Kid’s still rough, but he’s focused. Never asks for a break, just keeps grinding.
I glance over. “You know we’re not getting paid for this, right?”
He grins, split lip still healing. “You meanyou’renot. I’m here for the free beer and a door that locks.”
Fair.
That’s when it starts to shift, quietly, steadily.
Word gets around that Isaiah Saint can make a cop’s warrant disappear in paperwork before it hits a judge’s desk. He can get your stolen bike back and make the insurance company thank you for it. That if you sit down with him, shut up, and sign where he says, you won’t go to prison.
Suddenly, I’m fielding more than just contracts. I’m reading people. Interpreting tone. Navigating egos. I learn who lies with a smile, who flinches at the word “court,” who breaks when you saysubpoena.
It isn’t just about laws anymore. It’s about strategy. About protecting the Saints before they even know they need protecting.
Tama starts letting me into the heavier meetings. Shit that used to be handled in back rooms with whiskey and silence.
At first, I just sit and listen. Then they start asking whatIthink.
One night, after we dodge a land seizure with a forged easement and a very persuasive city clerk, Dad lights a cigarette and watches me like I’m a stranger.
“You’re not just doin’ paperwork, son,” he says finally.
“No, I’m doin’ cleanup.”
