Page 43 of The Street Disciples
I smiled thin. “If this was a stunt, you’d already be dead.”
Saint shifted his umbrella just enough to make a point. “Friday,” he announced again. “Don’t be late.”
Ro picked up his helmet and turned back to his bike, engine firing loud enough to rattle glass. He didn’t look back. Both Saint and I watched him as he burned rubber away from the yard. He just didn’t know the lion’s den he was about to step into. My phone buzzing in my pocket pulled me from my thoughtful trance. It was a text. My finger collided with the screen opening up the notification.
GRAMS: You the one calling Lani?
I stare at it long enough for the screen to ask if I died.
Me: No, ma’am. I’m the one making sure the men who are calling her hang up before they think they got brave.
Three dots. Then nothing. That’s Grams. She can bless you and bury you in one blink and you’ll thank her for either. She knows every one of our birthdays, the ones Ro recites like prayers. She knows the day I learned to shoot straight. She didn’t put a cake on the table for that one. She was the grandmother I needed when life started to catch up with me. But this time I couldn’t involve her. I needed to make my own moves and stop standing on the back of a good woman.
Ro
Storms on the Throne
Recommended Song: Nuthin’ But a ‘G’ Thang by Dr. Dre & Snoop Dogg
The rain had easedto a mist, but the streets still gleamed slick and treacherous, reflecting streaks of neon like a mirror laid over a grave. My R1 hummed beneath me, exhaust spitting short, sharp cracks that echoed off crumbling brick walls as I weaved through alleys. The visor sat half-open, letting in the wet night air that cut across my face sharp enough to sting. Lyon Crest breathed heavy tonight—damp oil baking off blacktop, smoke from pit grills clinging to corners where it didn’t belong, and that unmistakable tang of metal and burnt powder hanging over the block like a warning.
The city felt alive, not in a way that comforted you, but in that twitchy way a stray dog watches from the shadows. Storefronts crouched behind gates, flickering lights buzzed like they had secrets, and every gutter whispered with runoff carrying bits of the day’s grime to the bay.
I wasn’t headed anywhere worth naming. The throttle wasn’t pushing me forward—it was pulling me away. Away fromTrigger’s shadow stretched across every corner like the city itself had bent to his will. Sal was the one we buried, but Trigger? He’d made sure the whole Crest wore his fingerprints. Me? I was still the name folks used like a ghost story—Roman Zore, heir to a throne that’d been stripped down, pawned off, and bolted back together by men who didn’t bleed for it.
I banked left, tires sliding just enough to remind me of how slick the Crest stayed, even after the rain lighten up. Passed the old strip mall where boarded-up windows had been tagged so many times they looked like abstract murals, and a liquor store still lit by a single buzzing “OPEN” sign that leaned in the glass. Out here, businesses didn’t close; they just learned how to survive locked behind steel.
The closer I got to Grams’ block, the heavier the city felt. Streetlights flickered in rhythm with the hum of my engine, every shadow stretching long like it wanted to snatch my tires out from under me. I eased to a stop at the corner, engine purring low, eyes scanning the block. Same Crest I grew up in, but it felt different—like somebody rearranged all the danger while I was gone, hid it in plain sight.
I cut the throttle and let the bike idle, the smell of wet pavement mixing with gasoline and somebody’s barbecue smoke drifting heavy from a porch down the way. Kids’ laughter carried over from a yard, quick and sharp, disappearing behind the groan of a city bus dragging itself up a hill. I sat there for a minute, helmet half-off, letting the damp night air cling to my skin, feeling the Crest breathing back at me.
This wasn’t just a ride anymore. It was a reminder—of the ghosts buried in these streets, of Sal’s name etched into concrete and Trigger’s voice filling every alley. And me, Roman Zore, rolling through like I was just another rumor waiting to get told.
I killed the engine a block from Grams’ house. The Crest taught me long ago: roll quiet when it matters. The mist clungthick, softening the streetlights, turning every shadow into something breathing. My boots hit wet pavement, soles sticking on patches of oil baked into the concrete from years of parked cars that never moved unless cops started sniffing.
Grams’ porch light flickered, that same old bulb she swore she’d replace but never did, casting a weak gold halo over the steps. The chipped paint on the railing, the potted plants lined up like soldiers, and that screen door with the dent in the middle from when I kicked it open during a fight—none of it had changed. The smell of fried chicken, bleach, and incense drifted out the cracked window like time stood still on this block.
I stood at the bottom of those steps for a minute, helmet dangling from my hand, letting the familiar weight of this house settle over me. Felt like being back in a sanctuary and a warzone all at once. Memories here didn’t knock before they came in.
Every face I’d seen since I came back clawed at my chest now. Nova’s eyes cutting through me like I’d dragged the rain with me. Aaliyah’s laugh so innocent, it hurt worse than any bruise. Trigger’s shadow always moving, playing this city like chess pieces, daring me to flinch. Sal’s ghost still hovered around every corner, whispering I wasn’t built for this chair, but I took it anyway. And Saint—Saint’s silence was heavier than any bullet. Everybody had their role, and me? I was the mistake they all expected to repeat. Coming back here was like pulling the pin on a grenade I’d left sitting on the porch years ago.
The porch creaked when I stepped up, loud enough to announce me. Before I could raise a hand to knock, the door cracked open, chain still on.
“You gon’ stand out there in the wet all night, boy, or you gon’ come in? You ridin’ late, boy. Spirit on you feelin’ heavy as a jail gate. Come sit your behind down.” Grams’ voice was sharp, that mix of love and warning she wore better than any church hat.
I lowered my head. “Didn’t wanna wake you, Grams.”
“You didn’t,” she clipped back, sliding the chain and opening the door. “You think I sleep easy knowin’ you back in this city? You better get in here.”
The warmth from her house hit me like a body blow—smell of cornbread cooling on the counter, lavender from her Sunday candles, and the faint hum of the gospel station on her old radio. Her eyes scanned me up and down, sharp as ever.
“Still ridin’ that death trap,” she muttered, motioning me inside.
“Bike gets me where I need to go,” I replied, pulling off my gloves.
“And what’s that, Ro?” she challenged, hands on her hips. “Trouble? ‘Cause it sure seems to find you without tryin’.”
I smirked, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “Maybe I’m lookin’ for somethin’ else this time.”
