Page 25 of The Street Disciples
Tony chuckled, oblivious or pretending to be. “I mean, brother rolled up at the funeral lookin’ like he was born under your umbrella. Ain’t a raindrop dared touch him. That’s money posture, y’know? Mayor’s boy posture. You don’t buy them suits off the rack.”
I stopped wiping, leaned on the counter. “Tony,” I warned, voice flat.
He grinned wider, popped the toothpick between his teeth, grease still glistening on his fingers. “What? I’m just sayin’ what everybody already whisperin’. Sal owed the mayor’s son heavy. Whole block know it. One thing I do know is he won’t get the MC.”
Nova’s hand found the chain at her breastbone, thumb rubbing slow like she was trying to polish the truth out of it. She didn’t speak, but her silence said plenty.
I leaned across the counter, close enough Tony could smell the hot sauce still in the air. “You run your mouth too loose, boy. These women ain’t your audience.”
He threw both hands up, grinning around the toothpick. “Aight, aight. No disrespect. Just tryna keep it real. But real got a price, don’t it?”
The spot went quiet for a beat. Just the crackle of the fryer and the faint hum of the radio. Nova’s eyes glistened like she wanted to say something but didn’t trust her throat.
Tony finally leaned back, stuffing another piece of chicken in his mouth. “Y’all don’t gotta thank me. I’m just the messenger.”
I muttered under my breath, low enough only I could hear: “Messengers get shot first.”
Tony smirked like he’d just dropped the hottest line of the year, grease glistening on his lips, toothpick cocked like punctuation. “Saint ain’t just there for shade—he’s there collectin’ receipts.”
That’s when Nova snapped.
Her coffee cup hit the counter with a sharp crack, dark liquid rippling over the rim. Her hazel eyes lit like they caught a spark, voice tight but cutting clean through the chatter.
“Watch your damn mouth, Tony.” Her tone didn’t rise, but it sliced sharper than any shout could’ve. “You think ‘cause you sit in the corner with your little camcorder and that toothpick you get to narrate people’s lives? Sal’s dead. My life’s not your street comedy.”
The whole spot hushed, like even the fryer oil leaned in.
Tony blinked, caught mid-chew, then tried to recover with a weak grin. “Aww, c’mon, Nova. I ain’t mean no?—”
“You meant it.” She cut him off cold, shoulders squared. “You meant every word, and don’t think I don’t hear it. You wanna spit Saint’s name, spit it outside. Not in front of me, and you better not ever fix your mouth to spit it if and when my daughter is in front of any of you, and damn sure not in the place Lani gotta run so her man don’t drown in the same mess all y’all keep stirring.”
Her voice shook on the last words—not from weakness but from the heat she was holding back.
Tony’s grin faltered, the toothpick stilled. He glanced at me like maybe I’d bail him out. I didn’t. I just kept wiping the counter, slow, steady, letting Nova’s words hang in the thick, gossip infested air.
The old heads shifted in their seats, murmuring low. One of them whistled under his breath. Kids at the back table went wide-eyed, forks frozen halfway to their mouths. Even the mailman ducked his head, suddenly fascinated with his biscuit.
Tony cleared his throat, tried for a shrug. “Aight. My bad. Just playin’.”
But Nova wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was staring down at her hands, chain caught between her fingers, chest rising heavy.
I leaned across the counter, voice low but sharp enough for him to feel it. “Play somewhere else today, Tony. Today isn’t the day.”
He nodded quick, stuffed the last of his chicken in his mouth, and sank back in his chair, quiet for once.
The radio hummed soft in the corner, like it was trying to smooth the air back flat. But the truth was out now, and it wasn’t going back.
Nova’s chain glinted under the neon light, her fingers clutching it like it was the only thing steady in this room. Her voice came low but sharp, still ringing from snapping at Tony.
“You hear what they’re sayin’, Lani? Saint this, Saint that. Like I asked that man to stand next to me. Like I picked him out the lineup.” Her jaw flexed hard, voice cracking through the air. “I didn’t ask for none of it. And now everybody think they know what shade I stand under.”
I set the rag down, leaned forward across the counter. My voice was rough, but not unkind. “Baby girl, people gon’ talk whether you breathing or not. That’s the tax on being tied to men with crowns and cuts. Sal left a mess, and mess don’t just vanish ‘cause he in the ground.”
Her eyes flared, tired but fierce. “So what—they expect Cruz to clean it? Expect me to wear it on my back? The Street Disciples going toe to toe?”
I held her stare. “If Sal owed the mayor’s boy like folks’ whisper, that debt looking for a new address. And it don’t knock soft. You feel me?”
Nova sucked her teeth, shaking her head, curls sticking to her damp cheek. “Saint ain’t my cover. He ain’t my protector. He ain’t—” she caught herself, chest rising heavy, “he ain’t Ro.”
