Page 54 of The Street Disciples
I couldn’t look her in the eyes. My jacket was heavy with Dre’s blood. I dropped the bag by the door like it weighed a hundred pounds.
“What happened?” she asked, voice trembling.
“Nothing you need to know,” I muttered, voice hollow.
“Don’t lie to me,” she snapped, her tears mixing with rain. “You—you’re scaring me, Ro.”
I grabbed her hands, cold and shaking. “I got you,” I whispered, though I didn’t believe it. “You and the baby, I got you. Always.”
But that night I knew. This life wasn’t just dangerous—it was poison. Dre was gone. The Crest wasn’t a family. It was a machine, chewing us up, spitting us out. And if I stayed, it would eat her too.
That’s the night I decided to disappear.
The Impala hummed steady, but my pulse didn’t. My fingers tapped the wheel like they were itching for a trigger. I wasn’t riding to this rally as a guest—I was going in as a ghost. Trigger wanted a show? He’d get one.
This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about redemption.
And if tonight went wrong, I was ready to bleed in front of the whole Crest to prove I wasn’t the boy who ran in ’99.
Tonight wasn’t just business. Tonight was a line being drawn.
Trigger
The Board Never Sleeps
Recommended Song: Ambitionz Az a Ridah By Tupac
“Check game, playboy. You gon’move or get moved.” I menaced. The night was mine. Not because I owned it—but because I had planned for every shadow that thought it could.
I sat in the back of the clubhouse office, lights dim, smoke curling in lazy spirals from an ashtray I hadn’t touched. My jacket hung on the chair like it was waiting to testify. The doctrine wasn’t here. That book was a crown, and Ro had his hands on it, but what good is a crown without a kingdom? I wasn’t worried. Crowns make necks heavy. I make necks bow.
The rally was an hour out. Tino’s yard was dressed like a carnival for folks too broke to leave town. Streamers, Dollar Tree lights, grills that burned cheap charcoal but smelled like loyalty. You give people ribs and music and the illusion of safety, and they’ll trade you everything. That’s the game. They get full; I get quiet.
I leaned back in Sal’s old chair. The leather squeaked like it remembered him. Some nights I swear I still hear his voice, giving orders I already followed. His ghost was stitched intothese walls, in the cracks of the wood floor, in the smell of spilled whiskey that never left. He built this house on fear and respect. I just made it profitable.
The window hummed with street noise. Bikes roared past, laughter echoing through the lot. Clubhouse chatter spilled from the main hall—men clowning over cards, a bottle of Henny passed hand to hand. I let them have their noise. Noise made men feel safe. Me? I liked the silence. Silence tells you when trouble’s close.
I spread tonight’s blueprint across the desk. A faded yard map, drawn with a mechanic’s precision. Arrows for choke points, little X’s for cameras I’d had Tony tape over so he could film his own footage without competition. I could picture every move before it happened. The sheriffs at the gate playing friendly, Whit pretending this was about community, Saint posted up like he wasn’t part of this chessboard. Everyone thinking they were calling shots.
A knock. Soft. Mouse stuck his head in. Kid looked jumpy, like he’d been drinking too much gas station coffee.
“Yo, big bro, you really think Ro gon’ show tonight?”
“He’ll show,” I rumbled, eyes still on the map. “Men like him? Pride’s a leash. You pull it, they bark.”
Mouse shifted, scratching his neck. “And if he don’t?”
I finally looked up, locking eyes with him. “Then I send someone to remind him what his daddy’s name means in this block. He’ll show. One way or another.”
The kid nodded quick and slipped out. I leaned back, the chair creaking again. The weight of Sal’s shadow felt heavier than the Glock under my arm. I tapped my fingers on the desk, slow and steady. This wasn’t about Ro dying. Not yet. It was about making him small, reminding him this city didn’t miss him, that this clubhouse wasn’t his home anymore. Tonight was about obedience. About setting the tone.
I stood, grabbing my kutte off the chair. The leather was worn, heavy from years of bad decisions. My reflection stared back at me from the dusty office window—cold eyes, harder jawline, a man carved out of survival and scheming.
“Tonight’s a performance,” I muttered to myself, pulling the kutte on, snapping the buttons with practiced ease. “They’ll all clap for the wrong reason.”
The hallway outside was alive. Music rattled the walls, men arguing over dice, the scent of weed and fried food seeping through every crack. I stepped out, boots heavy on the warped wood. Heads turned, voices dipped. Not because they feared me—not exactly. They feared what I saw when I looked at them.
I passed Jinx leaning against the jukebox, cigarette glowing faint in the dim. He gave me one slow nod. That was enough. Jinx didn’t need to ask what time to move. He was already moving. Men like him don’t wait for instructions. They breathe them.
