Hemsworth held his stare, fully aware Danger was the one who had blown the Ravens’ clubhouse to pieces. He had tracked down their dancer, and she sang like a bird.
“No one is more powerful than the Council,” he said calmly. “Remember that.”
Crown and Danger made their exits when the meeting was over. Prophet’s gaze followed both until they disappeared, his expression unreadable as the door closed behind them.
An hour later, Crown leaned against the railing, a cold beer in hand as the night unfolded around him. His club was strategically positioned, alert, and ready for anything. Smoky spoke with a couple of old heads near the bikes, but Crown knew better. Even when the nigga seemed focused on one thing, he was always watching. Danger sat a few feet away, arms crossed, scanning the crowd, clocking faces, and reading energy. Without Lil Mo at his side, he couldn’t enjoy events the way he once did, especially not with the news he’d just received. The Council’s decision had hit him the hardest. Crown, on the other hand, had already compartmentalized that shit.
The other clubs filled the space, talking, laughing, and drinking, playing it cool. Word spread quickly about Nico. The Council had made a statement that night, and nobody wanted to be next. Occasionally, eyes drifted toward the Ravens, or what remained of them. Losing a president didn't just sting; it shattered structure, and everyone could feel it. The Ravens were still standing, but panic lingered behind their eyes as theyquietly tried to assess their next move. Gunner felt it the most. When he finally counted heads, the truth settled heavily in his chest. Most of their strongest were gone. The Knights had taken them. Not to mention, they didn’t even have a clubhouse at the moment. He had so much shit to figure out.
The roar of engines thundered down the road past the lot. There was one bike leading, followed closely by another, then three more. Cheers erupted as each one crossed the finish line, the sound carrying across the grounds. Racing always followed Council business; it was how niggas burned off tension without spilling blood.
Crown finished his beer, stood, and tossed the bottle in the trash. He was up next. They always saved the winner of the second-to-last race for him since he was the reigning champion. He walked toward his bike, slipped on his helmet, and swung a leg over. The engine roared to life beneath him, the vibration settling deep in his chest. Anyone thinking they could take his crown was mistaken. He rolled forward as the previous winner, Grinch, lined up beside him. They didn’t exchange words, only respectful head nods.
The crowd tightened, forming a loose lane down the road as each council member joined the spectacle. Hunter stepped forward to do a countdown, a half-smile playing on his lips, framed by his salt-and-pepper beard. He lived for this shit. As soon as his hand dropped, both men tore down the stretch, their engines roaring, and wind cutting sharply against their vests.
“Big wheels, big straps, you know I like it super-sized.
Passenger's a redbone, her weave look like some curly fries.
Inside fish sticks, outside tartar sauce.
Pocket full of celery, imagine what she tellin' me.”
As Jeezy’s voice boomed from the speakers, Crown leaned into it, instinct guiding his every move. He held the lead for a few seconds with his Road King, which was lighter and quicker. He held long enough to set the tone and remind everyone who he was. However, Grinch’s Green Street Glide began doing what it was built to do, pulling once the speed settled, and closing the gap. The man pushed hard, hoping to win and take the title from Crown. Adrenaline took over as he twisted the throttle, surging past and claiming the lead.
Grinch’s club went crazy, rooting for him. However, the rest of the crowd barely reacted. They knew better than to judge too quickly. They’d seen this before. This was Crown’s technique. He let them think they had it.
Sure enough, Crown stayed right on his ass, locked in, watching and timing. Then swiftly, he adjusted his line and rolled back on the throttle, inching forward. The small gap shrank, and Grinch felt him before he saw him. Crown’s bike crept even, then pulled ahead the last couple of seconds, the front tire clearing Grinch’s as he crossed the finish line. The only thing Grinch saw at that point was smoke as he crossed shortly after. Noise from the crowd exploded.
The races were never long, 12-seconds max, avoiding cops, crashes, and other interferences. Crown eased off the throttle, slowing as his club closed in around him, slapping his back and cheering. Riders from other clubs nodded in acknowledgment, showing their respect as he lifted his visor for fresh air.
But in the crowd, Crown caught sight of one hatin’ ass face. Gunner stood watching him with a raw, hollow expression. Crown didn’t give a fuck about his feelings or losses, though. He met his stare, held it, and then gave a slow wink, taunting him…reminding him that no one could touch the king. Crown would always win because he always stayed two steps ahead.
Chapter Thirteen
A few days BEFORE.
The cabin Crown pulled up to sat far enough outside Satin Hills that the noise from the city never reached it. He killed the engine and took a moment to absorb the scene. It had been a while since he’d driven out this way. The place still appeared peaceful, but he knew better. Everything about Prophet was calculated. Calm on the surface, but dangerous beneath. Anyone thinking they could catch him off guard out there would be sadly mistaken. The property was filled with booby traps and weapons. His Electra Glide parked out front gleamed in the moonlight, the blue-burst paint shimmering.
Inside the cabin, a fire crackled low in the stone fireplace, casting a warm glow. Prophet had just returned from his long morning walk. He stood in front of the refrigerator, a beer in hand, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt that clung to his rich dark skin, while his other hand rested lightly on his cane. A leg injury from a gunshot wound slowed his stride, but it hadn’t dampened his spirit. Riding remained second nature to him at seventy. Long walks were the only time he needed extra support.Otherwise, the old man was in good health. He often joked,“Funny thing is, I can ride all day. Walking’s what fucks me up”.
“I didn’t know you were coming through, but I’m not surprised after that call you received.” Prophet said without turning around, having heard Crown’s approach long before he entered. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you too, old man. I’m certainly here on business.”
Setting his helmet down, Crown took a seat at the small wooden table, his eyes habitually scanning the room. To this day, it contained no picture frames, decorations, or clutter, only the essentials. That was Prophet’s way. He had never married or had children. The Knights had been his life for so long, serving as his only memories.
“I’m listening.”
“What should I expect tomorrow?”
Prophet took a slow sip of his beer before finally turning around. “Heat. You didn’t break the truce first, but you responded without approval. You both must bleed, one more than the other.”
Crown nodded. Hearing that confirmed what his instincts had been telling him. He lifted a duffel bag onto the table, the thud of it heavy. Prophet shook his head, chuckling. The sound alone was enough. The bag didn’t need to be unzipped for him to know the contents in it. He was a street nigga through and through.
“You know damn well your money is no good here.”
Prophet spoke the truth. He considered Crown and Danger as his grandsons and wouldn’t dare take anything from them. If they were in need, he would give them the shirt off his back without hesitation.
