Page 49 of The Street Disciples
I sat back, pulled my hood lower, stared at the dirt like maybe he’d answer me through it. My mind drifted, uninvited, back to Nova. Her face the night I left. Hazel eyes glassy, chain glinting against her collarbone, voice hoarse from beggin’ me to stay. I thought leaving would save her. Now I see I just made her carry the whole damn weight alone.
“I should’ve been here. Oakland, Vegas, wherever the hell I was ridin’… at least I could breathe without feelin’ ghosts on my neck.” I muttered, jaw tightening. “Should’ve been here when she broke. Should’ve been here for him. For my son. I buried my boy from a distance, Sal. Ain’t a day goes by I don’t hate myself for that. And I know you’d curse me out if you could hear me right now. You’d tell me Zore’s don’t run. But I did. I ran like a coward.”
The wind whipped harder, shaking water off the oak tree, droplets smacking my shoulders like taps of judgment. My chest heaved once, breath ragged. “And Trigger… He walkin’ around like he holdin’ your ghost in his pocket, using your name to keep this block scared. I can’t even tell if I’m fightin’ him for the Crest or just fightin’ myself. I don’t know how to win anymore.”
I rubbed my face with both hands, the stubble scratching against my palms, the smell of wet dirt and gun oil filling mynose. The grave felt like it was breathing back at me, cold and alive.
“I’m tired, Sal,” I whispered, voice breaking low. “Tired of buryin’ homies, tired of duckin’ bullets, tired of lookin’ at Nova and seein’ every mistake I ever made. I don’t even know how to be her husband anymore. Don’t even know if I got the right to try.”
A twig cracked somewhere behind me. I froze, instinct twitching, hand slipping to the Glock under my hoodie. But there was no follow-up sound—just a soft shift of mist, the faintest whiff of something familiar. Vanilla and rain. My breath caught for half a second, but I shook it off. Probably nothin’. Paranoia was a Crest man’s shadow.
I leaned back on my heels, staring at Sal’s name one last time. “I’m tryna do better, big homie. I swear. For the Crest. For Nova. For Aaliyah. For you. But I’m losin’ myself out here, and I don’t know how many more nights I got left to get it right.”
The cemetery didn’t answer, just let the wind whistle through the iron gates, the tree above creaking like it was laughing at me. I placed a lighter on the grave—Sal’s old silver Zippo I kept in my pocket like a good luck charm I never believed in. It clicked soft as I set it down, gleaming under the dim light.
The mist thickened, dampening my hoodie, chilling my bones, but I stayed still. “They shot up my apartment this morning. Tarnesha screamin’, neighbors duckin’, whole block watchin’ like it’s entertainment. That’s what this Crest turned into. A damn stage.” I exhaled hard, breath fogging. “They don’t just want me, Sal. They want the Zore name gone. Trigger ain’t no second; he a king now. And me? I’m just a reminder he ain’t the first choice.”
I tilted my head back, staring up at the dark sky through that crooked oak. “You were supposed to teach me more, OG. Youwere supposed to prepare me for this. But you ain’t think you’d die, huh? None of us do.”
The smell of eucalyptus and wet soil filled my lungs, grounding me in this moment. I let my head drop forward, elbows digging into my knees. “I don’t even know what I’m doin’ anymore. I don’t know if I’m here to reclaim somethin’ or just die tryin’. But I do know this…” My voice dropped to a growl. “They spun my block. That means somebody think I’m scared. They gon’ regret that.”
A long silence followed, the kind that makes you feel like you’re being studied. I reached out and dusted off the gravestone with my sleeve, fingers lingering over Sal’s name. “Watch over me, big homie. I’m out here fightin’ ghosts, snakes, and my own damn reflection.”
I stood, mud clinging to my boots, hoodie clinging to my back. My shadow stretched over Sal’s grave, long and crooked like the tree above him. For a second, I thought about lighting a candle, saying a prayer like Grams would. But I didn’t. I just stood there, fists clenched, feeling the weight of the Crest on my shoulders.
A gust of wind cut through the lot, rattling the tree branches like bones clacking. I hunched my shoulders, scanned the graveyard out of instinct, like I’d feel safer if I saw something move. That’s when I felt it.
Eyes.
That prickling heat on the back of your neck, like a laser sight you can’t see but your gut knows. My pulse jumped. I turned slow, eyes narrowing through the mist.
And there she was.
Nova.
Hood pulled low, curls damp and clinging to her cheeks, standing just far enough for me to wonder how long she’d been there. Her posture was calm, still as stone, but I could see herhand clutching that chain at her neck, thumb rubbing over the cross like she was keeping score of my sins.
For a moment, I froze. Her silhouette was framed by the mist, backlit by the dim glow of a distant streetlight. The kind of image that burns into your head forever. She didn’t move. Didn’t wave. Just watched me, steady, unshaken.
My chest tightened. The words I’d spoken to Sal weren’t meant for anybody but him and the dirt he was buried under. Now she’d heard them. All of them.
“Nova…” Her name slipped out soft, almost reverent. It didn’t travel far; the fog swallowed it whole.
I took one cautious step forward, boots sinking into mud. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t back away. Her eyes glinted just enough to let me know she was locked in on me. Watching me bleed out in front of Sal’s grave without ever pulling a weapon.
“What you doin’ here?” My voice was rough, low, barely cutting through the air.
She didn’t answer. Just tilted her chin a fraction, chain tight in her fingers. Her silence was louder than a gunshot.
The oak creaked above us, rain dripping from its branches onto Sal’s grave. My hoodie clung to my back like a wet rag, but I didn’t move. “You heard me,” I muttered, voice heavy with shame. “You heard all that.”
She finally shifted, just enough for the lamplight to catch her face. Calm. Not angry. Not shocked. Calm in that way that felt holy and raw, like she was standing in judgment without saying a word.
My throat locked. “I ain’t proud of none of it.”
Her voice came soft, like the mist carried it to me. “You ain’t supposed to be.”
Those words hit like a punch.
