Page 56 of The Street Disciples
“Let’s see if you bleed like your uncle, Ro,” I muttered, holstering the gun.
That wasn’t no threat; that was prophecy. Sal spilled blood for this block. Ro gon’ find out what that cost. Tonight, ain’t for body counts; tonight’s for leverage. And me? I’m the only one keepin’ score.
The rally wasn’t about celebration. It was about control. And I was the hand on the switch.
I stood slow, slid the map back into the drawer, locked it with a key I’d never let out my sight. Threw my jacket on, heavy with steel and plays that could change the whole West Side in one night. Took one last look in the mirror—calm face, killer eyes. Calm dudes survive. Paranoid dudes run this city.
The hallway smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap pine cleaner. My boots echoed against old wood as I moved toward the front. The clubhouse was dim, buzzing with that pre-storm energy. Brothers posted at every doorway, heads on a swivel, hands loose but ready. I checked every corner, every face. No words needed. Men that really work don’t need pep talks; they need orders.
I pushed through the front door. Every rally I threw was a performance. A circus for folks who thought safety was a vibe you could buy with a plate of ribs and a DJ booth. Truth is, this block ain’t never been safe. It just knows how to smile while it bleeds. Tino’s voice barked orders from the gate, making sure every whip that rolled up got a second look. The air was thick—rain still hung low, mixing with barbecue smoke and exhaust fumes from bikes lined like a barricade. The bass from a parked Chevy rattled soda cans on a nearby porch. Little kids ran underfoot, chasing each other while their mamas kept an eye out from folding chairs. They ain’t scared. Crest kids get raised on gunshots and laughter the same night.
I nodded to Mouse, who was sitting in the Civic like a shadow, camera feed glowing on his phone. Tony stood acrossthe lot; camcorder cradled like a weapon. Every angle was covered. Nothing moved without me knowing. Not tonight.
“We good?” I asked, low, stepping up to Jinx. He didn’t answer right away, just lit a cigarette and scanned the block. “We good,” he finally muttered, smoke curling around his head like a halo. I trusted him more than most, but even Jinx couldn’t stop what I had planned if it went sideways.
I leaned against the railing, watching cars roll in. The hum of conversations and laughter couldn’t mask the tension in the air. Lyon Crest was awake tonight. It was breathing heavy, waiting to see who was king. I could feel Ro’s shadow long before his engine would growl its way down Central. And when he showed? This whole setup would turn into scripture. A lesson. One way or another.
Ro
The Rally Ain’t Neutral Grounds
The bass hitlike a body shot—low, mean, vibrating through the cracked pavement under my boots. I cut the engine a block out, coasting the R1 to a quiet stop under a busted streetlamp flickering like it was nervous. The night air tasted like rain, smoke, and somebody’s nerves. Lyon Crest always smelled like trouble blooming—barbecue smoke, radiator steam, and the faint copper tang of gun oil that stuck to your memory if you grew up here.
I swung a leg over the bike, leather creaking, gloves shoved into my jacket pocket. The lights from Tino’s yard glowed ahead—Dollar Tree strings sagging between poles, flashing red, green, and blue over grills that burned cheap charcoal but smelled like heaven. Folks were already crowded up, laughing loud, like they didn’t know they were breathing tension instead of air.
Sheriffs stood at the gate; posture stiff, hands resting on radios like they were petting pit bulls. Their faces wore that fake “community” smile that didn’t fool nobody. I clocked Whit near the gate, brown jacket like I told him to wear, but too damn clean for this block. Man looked like a fingerprint in a crime scene photo—obvious, out of place, and smug about it.
I took a breath, heavy and slow. My boots crunched gravel as I walked closer, hood low, chain tucked. Eyes followed me; they always do. Mamas nudged kids to the side, teens leaned against fence posts trying to look hard, and a group of OGs nodded slow like they were calculating my worth. The Crest don’t clap when you show up. It studies you.
Music thumped harder the closer I got—Bay Area slap, drums rattling the ribcage, voices rapping about loyalty and loss. The smell of ribs and tri-tip on the pit hit next, smoke swirling through the damp air like a promise and a threat.
“Who’s that?” A teen muttered by the gate, barely loud enough for me to catch.
“Ro Zore,” one of the OGs answered, voice low like my name carried weight he didn’t wanna test.
I kept walking, nodding once at the sheriff posted by the gate. He shifted, arms crossed, eyes narrowing like I’d already made his night harder. Good.
Inside, the yard felt like a setup dressed as a party. Streamers sagged over folding tables, little kids ran around with Dollar Tree balloons tied to their wrists, and grills popped grease like gunfire in the distance. Folks laughed, drank, but I saw it all—the tension tucked in their shoulders, the quick glances toward corners where Trigger’s men stood posted like furniture.
I scanned the crowd slow. Jinx leaned against the fence, quiet as always, his hands in his hoodie pocket. Tony had that old camcorder, red light taped over, standing exactly where someone told him to. Mouse darted through the crowd like a stray, passing plates and nodding to everyone like he belonged everywhere. And somewhere out there, I knew Trigger was watching, probably with a smirk.
“Look who finally showed,” a voice muttered from my left.Tino. He stepped out from behind the grill, flipping ribs with one hand, giving me a chin nod with the other. “Whole block was waitin’ on you, homie.”
“Hope they ain’t waitin’ on a speech.” I grumbled, hands in my jacket pockets, scanning everything.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, they just wanna see if you still bleed Crest red.”
My jaw tightened. “We all bleed Crest red.”
He smirked, flipped a rack of ribs. “Some of us bleed it faster.”
I stepped past him, boots heavy on cracked pavement, and headed toward the folding table near the stage. The mic sat crooked, taped to a stand that leaned like it was tired. A milk crate served as a podium. They didn’t bother dressing it up because they didn’t have to. The yard was already buzzing like a live wire.
Sheriffs circled outside the gate. Whit stood at a distance, laughing with someone in a suit that didn’t belong. I stopped at the edge of the crowd, hood low, hands buried in my pockets. Eyes burned holes in me from every direction. Some looked with respect, some with curiosity, some with hate.
And Trigger? Wherever he was posted, I could feel his sinister grin.
I slid deeper into the yard, hands still buried in my jacket pockets, chin low. The music hit harder here, bass rattling soda cans on folding tables, shaking the cheap lights strung across the lot. Laughter echoed too loud for a block that’s seen too many funerals—like everybody was trying to convince themselves this wasn’t what it was.
