Page 64 of The Street Disciples
“Cops don’t love this block. Politicians don’t love this block. They come ‘round when they need numbers and votes, not when your mama crying ‘cause she can’t get no ambulance downCentral after midnight. But us? We still here. We the ones who bury our own. We the ones who feed our own. Don’t none of them care about this city the way we do.”
The words spilled smoothly, but in my chest, it felt like I was writing my own obituary. I caught two sheriffs whispering near the gate, one hand resting on his radio. Trigger’s shadow hadn’t moved. He didn’t need to. His control was all over this yard, stitched into every head nod and shift of stance.
Applause rippled, but it wasn’t loud enough to cover the whispers sliding through the yard. I clocked movement near the gate—Trigger’s men, passing nods like currency, scanning every face twice. I knew the setup smell now. It wasn’t paranoia; it was instinct.
I tightened my grip on the mic. “They think we weak ‘cause we love this place. They think we dumb ‘cause we still here. But loving this block? That ain’t weakness. That’s strength. Every last one of you standing here tonight is proof.”
Another cheer, but their noise couldn’t wash off the weight of eyes on me. I felt like I was already bleeding and nobody told me.
Another cheer, louder this time. But over their heads, I caught Trigger’s silhouette in the back corner, leaning casual against the fence like a shadow with a smirk. He didn’t move, didn’t wave, but his eyes? They were daggers, cutting through every word I spit. He didn’t need to speak to remind me this was his stage too.
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice stronger. “And let ‘em know—Sal’s blood still breathes! You hear me?!”
The crowd roared, clapping, some chanting my uncle’s name.
A flicker of pride hit me, but it was tainted—like celebrating at your own trial. I knew I was giving them ammunition, but I couldn’t stop. This was the only way I knew to fight: loud, raw, unhidden.
That was when Trigger moved his hand—just a twitch, but the yard shifted like a chessboard. A man near the front stepped back, another slid in closer. Jinx drifted along the side, whispering to two men I didn’t recognize, and their eyes never left me. It wasn’t chaos. It was control. Orchestration. Trigger was playing conductor, and I was the music.
“You ain’t gotta love me,” I went on, voice sharper now. “But you gon’ respect this block. You gon’ respect what we built, what we protect, and what we bleed for. I don’t care if you in a badge, a suit, or a mask. You step wrong, we check you. This Crest don’t kneel to nobody!”
Cheers exploded again. Fists in the air. Phones out. The crowd was with me. Or so I thought.
But I saw Trigger’s grin cut through the dark like a razor. He wasn’t clapping. He wasn’t nodding. He was watching the room like a man who already knew the ending. He gave one sharp nod, and a bike engine roared from the far side of the lot, drowning the noise for a moment. All eyes swung toward the sound, except his. He stayed locked on me.
My gut twisted. He wasn’t just letting me talk—he was framing me, sculpting me into something dangerous so the block would turn before I even stepped down. My words were gasoline. He was the match.
I could feel it now—this wasn’t about inspiring them. This was about making me loud enough to paint a target on my back.
And I was giving them every word they needed.
The cheers slammed into me like waves, but none of it felt like love—it felt like judgment dressed as applause. Phones flashed, bikes revved, voices echoed my name, and I knew half of ‘em weren’t cheering for me. They were cheering for the spectacle. Trigger was somewhere in that blur, pulling invisible strings, and I was dancing like I’d rehearsed for him.
I let the mic drop low, fingers tightening around it until my knuckles burned. The weight of every pair of eyes felt like a verdict. I stepped off the stage slow, every footstep heavy, like the boards were carrying all my mistakes. The roar of the crowd dulled to a hum in my head, a ringing reminder that every word I’d spoken just made me louder—and easier to aim at.
Saint’s shadow was close, his presence like a loaded gun without safety. Jinx leaned against a pole, whispering something to a stranger, his lips barely moving. And Trigger? He was gone from his corner. That was worse than seeing him. I could feel him though—like his smirk was stitched into the air.
The night smelled like sweat, smoke, and secrets. My jacket weighed a thousand pounds. I didn’t shake hands. I didn’t nod back. I just walked.
The Impala sat where I left her, paint catching dim yard light, raindrops beading like glass tears. I gripped the handle, eyes sweeping the lot one last time. The Crest was alive, buzzing like a nest that’d been kicked.
I slid inside, door slammed shut behind me. Silence. The kind that made your thoughts too loud. My keys rattled in the ignition, the big block V8 rumbling to life like a growl from the past.
I pulled off slow, letting the gravel crunch under the tires. My hands gripped the wheel tight, veins straining. My reflection in the rearview was a man I barely recognized—eyes red, jaw clenched, a ghost behind his own face. I hit Central, headlights cutting through mist, and the further I got from the yard, the heavier the guilt sat in my chest.
They’d set me up tonight. I’d played right into it. And I didn’t care about politics or power at that moment. All I saw was Nova. All I heard was Aaliyah’s laugh, soft and sweet in my memory. The thought of their faces kept my foot heavy on the gas.
The Crest blurred by; neon signs bleeding into the fog, old murals of men long gone watching me pass like judges. I rolled the window down halfway, letting the night air slap me awake. It smelled like wet concrete, fried food, and bad decisions. Home. Prison. Both.
Trigger’s face flashed in my head, his calm, smug stillness in the middle of chaos. He was a puppeteer, and I’d just proved I was still his favorite marionette. I banged the steering wheel once, a sharp crack in the quiet car. I hated him. I hated myself more for letting him write my story while I stood there holding the mic like a fool.
“Never again,” I muttered to myself, voice rough, low, and mean.
I gunned it down a side street, cutting sharp corners, the Impala’s tires spitting rainwater in my wake. My mind was clear on one thing: I had to see Nova. I had to see my daughter. No speeches, no politics, no shadows. Just them.
The streetlights flickered like warnings as I rolled past the old liquor store, past the boarded-up apartments I grew up in, past memories that smelled like gunpowder and poverty. My chest tightened with every block. By the time I hit the turn for her street, my hands were trembling—not from fear, but from the weight of everything I’d been running from.
I pressed harder on the gas. I needed them more than air.
