Page 52 of The Street Disciples
Loyalty is not earned; it’s inherited.
Never let an outsider carry your weight.
A Zore leads or the Crest bleeds.
The handwriting changed as the pages went on. You could see history in the pen strokes—Sal’s sharp, confident scrawl filling margins with notes, strategies, and names. Later entries had messier writing, other leaders adding their own edits like a war journal passed down.
Scattered through the book were symbols instead of names: a single bullet mark for a life taken, a triangle for a debt unpaid, a crown tipped sideways for betrayal. Each symbol was drawn with precision, like a language only the Disciples knew. Some pages had dark stains—blood? Whiskey? You couldn’t tell.
The last few pages were blank, except for a single line scrawled across the bottom of one sheet in Sal’s unmistakable hand:"Legacy: Roman Zore. Crown stays blood-bound. Don’t repeat me."
The words punched through me like bullets. It wasn’t just a warning; it was an admission. Sal had left Ro not just the club but its sins, its power, its curse. My hands shook as I closed the book, sliding it into my hoodie pocket. My reflection in the bike’schrome stared back at me, but it didn’t look like me. It looked like the next chapter of a story I didn’t know I was already in.
Holding the doctrine felt like holding the weight of Lyon Crest itself. The book hummed with ghosts. You could almost hear the sound of engines revving, gunshots in the distance, and whispered oaths sworn over this leather when it was still new. It wasn’t just paper—it was prophecy, waiting for Ro to either fulfill it or burn it.
“You found it, huh?” Grams’ voice drifted from behind me. I turned, saw her leaning on the doorframe, arms folded. Her face was calm, but her eyes burned with knowledge.
“You knew it was here?” I asked.
She nodded once. “I been knew. That book don’t belong to them streets. It belongs to this bloodline. You gon’ run from it or run with it, but either way, it’s gon’ catch you.”
I zipped the bag, the weight of it feeling like a gun I couldn’t unload. “Guess I don’t get to choose.”
Her lips curved into something between a smile and a warning. “You never did.” She turned on her heels and I heard her slippers sweeping the warn hardwood floors.
I headed to the back room—my old room, still smelling faintly of incense and leather from my teenage years. The cracked mirror over the dresser reflected a man I barely recognized. I peeled off the muddy hoodie, washed the dirt and rain from my hands, and started gearing up. Tonight wasn’t about peace. It was about survival.
The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a single candle Grams had tucked on the dresser. I laid everything out on the bed: black cargo pants, a fitted tee, and my leather cut still carrying Sal’s smell like ghosts clingin’ to it. I strapped on my holster, slid my Glock in tight, and checked the mag twice before snapping it back in place. I could feel the weight of the metal settle against my ribs—a reminder, not comfort.
I laced up my Timberlands slow, pulling each knot tight enough to bite into the leather. The smell of gun oil mixed with Grams’ incense filled the air, thick and steady, like armor for my head. I grabbed the chain Nova had given me from the dresser and looped it around my neck, fingers brushing the cross that hung heavy on my chest.
The duffel swallowed extra clips, a pair of gloves, and the black bandana I only wore when I knew shit could get ugly. I patted each pocket, running the mental checklist I’d had since I was sixteen—knife in the boot, spare mag at the hip, lighter in the jacket, phone charged.
The bathroom mirror was cracked, but I leaned into it anyway, dragging my palms down my face. The man staring back at me had too much history in his eyes. My jaw was clenched, a faint bruise coloring the side of my neck from hitting the floor during the shooting. The water from the sink was cold as it ran over my hands again, washing away the dirt but not the weight sitting on my shoulders.
Grams knocked softly on the door. “You prayed?”
“Not yet.”
She cracked it open, her silhouette framed by candlelight. “Then do it before you step into the dark. Don’t let that city take more from you than it already has.”
I nodded, head bowed for a brief second before I straightened up, slinging the duffel over my shoulder.
Stepping out of that room felt like stepping out of the past into a warzone I already knew too well. The candles in the front flickered low, shadows stretching across the walls like warning hands. Grams stood at the door, Bible in hand, whispering blessings as I walked past.
“Psalm 91, baby,” she said softly. “Walk like you know who’s covering you.”
