13. Ro #2
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.
The Impala roared beneath me, its engine humming like it knew every secret I’d buried in these streets.
My hands gripped the wheel tight, leather groaning under my palms. The Crest blurred outside the window—streetlights bleeding gold onto wet pavement, neon signs buzzing like dying fireflies.
Each block I passed felt heavier, like the city was weighing me down, daring me to stop running.
Trigger’s smirk haunted me in the reflection of the windshield. He’d orchestrated tonight like a maestro, and I’d played his note perfect. The speeches, the cameras, the whispers—he didn’t even have to speak to prove I was still a pawn on his board. And I hated myself for it.
My knuckles whitened. Memories clawed their way to the front of my mind.
Sal’s voice telling me to hold it together, his hand on my shoulder the night everything fell apart.
Nova’s tears the night I walked out. That hospital room.
The baby that never came home. The sound of her sobs when she thought I wasn’t listening.
I slammed my hand against the steering wheel, breath ragged.
That was the night I stopped believing I was built for anything but pain.
Rain streaked across the windshield, wipers squeaking like they were tired too.
The streets smelled like exhaust and fried food, that permanent Crest scent that clings to your skin.
Every turn I took brought me closer to Nova’s block, and with it, a fear I couldn’t shake.
Not fear of death. Fear of facing her. Fear of looking at Aaliyah and seeing my failure staring back.
“Pull it together,” I muttered to myself, jaw tight. My voice sounded foreign in the cabin, hoarse and hollow. “You gon’ protect ‘em or you gon’ fold again?”
I rolled past the old bodega, the same one I used to post up at when I was fourteen, pockets empty, heart full of ambition I ain’t earned.
Murals of dead men watched me from brick walls, faces frozen in time, names whispered like prayers and warnings.
I was next if I didn’t play this right. Trigger knew it.
The city knew it. Hell, maybe even Nova knew it.
I slowed at a red light that barely worked, the bulb flickering like it couldn’t decide if it cared.
For a second, I thought about turning around.
Hitting the freeway. Disappearing like I should’ve years ago.
But I couldn’t. Aaliyah’s face—her smile, her laugh, the little way she clung to Nova’s chain—dragged me back to reality.
That little girl didn’t ask for a father like me, but she had one anyway.
And I wasn’t about to let Trigger or anybody else write her story.
The Crest loomed quieter the closer I got to her street, but quiet didn’t mean safe.
Quiet meant plotting. I checked the mirrors, every shadow a threat, every set of headlights behind me a maybe.
My Glock sat heavy on the seat beside me, a silent reminder that I wasn’t just driving home.
I was driving into a warzone I couldn’t leave again.
I circled the block twice, engine low, eyes sharp.
Every parked car was a question mark, every alleyway an invitation I didn’t trust. Streetlights buzzed faint, throwing halos over cracked pavement that looked like it remembered everybody that ever fell on it.
A black Tahoe sat at the corner, windows tinted too dark, and I clocked it hard, slowing just enough to catch movement behind the glass.
Nothing. Still, my gut told me it was somebody’s ears.
Crest streets were loud even when nobody spoke.
I cut down an alley, tires splashing through puddles, checking my six.
Even the dogs weren’t barking tonight, and that silence clung to me worse than the rain.
This was the kind of night where Trigger’s name felt heavier, like he was breathing down every neck in the city, mine included.
The Crest didn’t forget, and it sure as hell didn’t forgive.
I eased back onto Central, passing the liquor store with its buzzing neon “OPEN” sign, the same one I used to post up at when I was a kid.
Ghosts lived here, staring at me from every corner—old friends who never made it out, enemies who got put under, and versions of me I couldn’t kill no matter how far I ran.
The block was mine once, but now it felt like I was trespassing in my own story.
I turned down a side street that ended at my old apartment.
The building stood tired, leaning like it had been carrying too many secrets for too long.
The paint had peeled worse, windows boarded up where glass used to be, but that smell—the mix of mildew, fried chicken grease, and cheap weed—hit me like a slap.
Home. The kind of home you don’t brag about, just survive.
I parked the Impala a few houses down, engine idling low.
My chest tightened as I sat there, staring at that door I used to walk through like I owned the world.
The memory of that night in ’99 bled in quick.
Sal’s voice yelling, Nova crying, me running.
I could still feel the weight of my cut on my shoulders, still smell the blood in the air.
That was the night I stopped calling this place home.
But here I was, back again, like I’d never left.
I killed the engine and let the rain fill the silence.
Every instinct screamed not to get out of the car, but I’d already made up my mind.
Trigger wanted me cornered. I wanted him to see I wasn’t scared.
This block didn’t own me no more, but I had ghosts to face, and they were all waiting inside that building.
I sat there, hands gripping the wheel, knuckles pale in the dim glow of the dashboard.
The Impala ticked as it cooled, each sound sharp in the heavy quiet.
My chest felt tight, like the walls of this car were pressing in, like Lyon Crest itself was leaning on the roof.
The air smelled like wet asphalt and memory—burnt rubber, gun oil, cheap weed smoke that lingered in hallways no matter how many times you scrubbed them clean.