Page 58 of The Street Disciples
He glanced toward the gate, where the sheriffs stood looking bored but alert. “You think they’re here to protect you?” He chuckled low. “They’re here to take notes.”
“I ain’t worried about badges,” I told him.
“You should be worried about the ones without ‘em.” His gaze sharpened, voice dropping just enough for only me to catch. “Trigger’s building something bigger than block politics, Ro. This ain’t ‘99. You ain’t walkin’ into a party—you’re walkin’ into a documentary. Cameras, whispers, alliances…” He tilted his head. “You ready to play king on a board you didn’t build?”
I clenched my jaw. “You came all this way just to give me a pep talk?”
Whit’s smile was razor thin now. “No. I came to remind you…” He leaned closer, his cologne sharp in my nose. “…men like Trigger don’t lose. They… erase.”
For a beat, we just stared each other down. His eyes didn’t blink, but there was a flicker there—something calculating, maybe even a little afraid. He was in Trigger’s pocket, sure. But pockets ain’t vaults. Money don’t always buy loyalty. Sometimes it just rents it.
“Thanks for the concern,” I muttered.
He stepped back, hands sliding into his tailored coat. “You should thank me. I’m giving you a head start.” He pivoted smooth, walking back toward the gate like he owned the lot. People parted for him again, eyes on the floor.
I stayed rooted, hands still in my pockets, heartbeat steady but heavy.
The bass kicked back in, loud enough to shake the fence. Tony’s camera shifted toward me. I didn’t flinch.
Darius Whitmore Jr. had just drawn a map without even holding a pen.
And that’s when I felt another set of eyes.
That heat.
That weight.
Trigger.
He was leaned back near the far side of the yard, posture casual but calculated, like the block was his living room. Smoke curled from the cigarette hanging between his fingers, his other hand resting lazy on his belt like it wasn’t two inches from a Glock. His eyes? Locked dead on me. No blink. No nod. Just that cold, unbothered stare that made men tighten their holsters without even knowing why.
I didn’t move. Neither did he. The noise around us blurred, like the whole block knew better than to interrupt this silent conversation.
I stepped forward slow, boots heavy on the wet pavement, never breaking his gaze. He flicked his cigarette, ash hitting the ground like a countdown.
Trigger’s lips curled into the faintest smirk, like he already knew the ending to this story. He raised his chin a fraction, not a greeting—more like a warning. A reminder.
I stopped halfway, close enough to see the way the streetlights glinted off the chain around his neck, close enough to smell his cologne mixed with gunpowder.
“Zore,” he murmured when I got in earshot, voice gravel and calm.
“Trigger,” I replied, low, steady. My hands stayed buried in my jacket. I wasn’t here to posture. I was here to see how deep this chessboard went.
“You enjoying the show?” He asked, scanning the yard like all these people were pieces he’d placed himself.
“Depends,” I countered. “You setting the stage or digging a grave?”
His smirk widened just a hair. “Same thing, depending on who’s watchin’.”
That earned him a slow nod. The man wasn’t bluffing. He didn’t need to.
The music roared back up behind us, Tony’s camera red light blinking like a steady heartbeat. Trigger’s eyes flicked toward it for half a second before landing back on me.
“You brought that book back here, didn’t you?” he muttered, so low only I could hear.
I didn’t answer. That silence was enough.
Trigger’s smirk vanished. “Careful with crowns, Zore. They break necks quicker than bullets.”
