14. Nova Rae #2
Across the yard, Saint leaned against a post, arms folded, scanning faces the way only a man who’s lived war can. Our eyes met for a split second. He didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. Just looked, then shifted his weight like he was ready for whatever the next hour held.
The room cheered as the first candle was blown out, but the sound hit my ears muted, distant, like I was underwater. I tightened my grip on faith and on my daughter. Something was circling this joy, and I could feel its breath on my neck.
Through the window, just past the porch lights, a blacked-out SUV idled too long. No plates on the front, windows tinted darker than legal. I clocked a flicker—phone screen light flashing once inside. A signal.
Someone slipped in through the side gate, hoodie pulled tight, face turned from the cameras Saint had posted. They kept their head down, phone pressed to their ear, eyes scanning the yard like they weren’t here for cake. My spirit didn’t just whisper now—it roared.
I shifted Aaliyah on my hip and reached for Ro’s arm, fingers pressing his jacket just firm enough for him to feel me say pay attention.
Saint moved. Not quick, not loud—just repositioned himself near the gate, body language stiff, hand hovering close to the piece he never flaunted. The way his eyes narrowed told me I wasn’t imagining it.
Someone laughed too loud by the food table. Someone else’s phone rang twice, no answer.
In the far corner, Trigger’s boy Mouse was watching everything from the fence line, jaw tight. His hand ghosted his pocket like he was waiting for a call that never came.
I smiled for another cousin’s photo, but my hand was already on Aaliyah’s back, praying over every breath she took.
The smell of barbecue and birthday cake felt like a mask over something sour. The vibe shifted—the way only the streets know how to warn you. I kissed my daughter’s curls and whispered to her spirit, “You covered, baby. You covered.”
Ro caught my eye from across the room. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Not the way he was a second ago. He gave me that slight chin tilt—barely there, but I knew him. He saw it too.
I moved on instinct, stepping between the SUV and my baby girl, heart slamming against my ribs so hard I could feel it in my throat. The laughter, the music, the chatter—it all vanished. The block felt like it stopped breathing. Even the air felt heavy, pressing against my skin.
The SUV door swung open with a groan that cut through the silence, and a masked man slid out, hood low over his face, gloved hands steady. His boots hit the asphalt—smack, smack, smack—a sound that made my stomach twist. He moved fast. Too fast.
“Yo!” Ro’s voice boomed behind me, deep and sharp, and chairs scraped hard against concrete. Red cups toppled, glass shattered somewhere. The sound of panic rose like thunder.
I clutched Aaliyah tight to my chest, her curls brushing my chin, her little giggle slicing me in half like she didn’t understand the danger. Another man came from the passenger side, moving like smoke, grabbing my wrist. “RO!” I screamed, twisting away, heart hammering.
Ro’s boots hit the ground hard, thud-thud-thud, the sound of him running toward us. A gun flashed in his hand, but they were too fast. One of them ripped Aaliyah from my arms, and the sight of her pink dress crumpled in his grip sent my soul screaming louder than my voice.
“DADDY!” she wailed, reaching for him.
“DROP HER!” Ro’s roar shook the air, and the crack of a warning shot split the night— CRACK! Smoke curled from the bullet’s mark in the pavement, but the men didn’t flinch.
Another door slammed. A third man stepped out, gun raised. Two shots cracked— BANG! BANG! Glass exploded behind me like falling stars. Screams erupted, kids crying, aunties cursing, neighbors scattering. The birthday party turned into a warzone in seconds.
“RO! PLEASE!” My own voice was raw, shredded, as I fell backward onto the pavement, scrambling.
Ro ducked behind a car, firing back, the smell of gunpowder thick and bitter in the air. My hands trembled as I reached for Aaliyah, but she was already gone, swallowed by that black SUV. The tires screeched loud enough to rattle windows as it fishtailed, speeding off.
“NO!” Ro’s roar ripped through me as he chased after them, gun in hand, his voice breaking under the weight of rage and fear.
The silence that followed was worse than the gunfire. Balloons popped underfoot— POP! POP! Sharp and mocking, and whispers spread like snakes slithering through grass. I was on my knees in the driveway, arms out, like I could still feel Aaliyah’s warmth if I reached far enough.
Ro slid down beside me, his chest heaving. My sobs were choking me. “They took her!” I cried, my voice cracking so hard it felt like my ribs were splitting.
His arm wrapped around me, solid but trembling, his other hand still locked around the Glock, knuckles white. I buried my face in his shirt, smelling gunpowder and sweat and fear.
The smell of barbecue and birthday candles clung to the air, taunting me, while streamers fluttered like caution tape. Aaliyah’s little pink sneaker lay in the driveway. Ro picked it up, his big hand trembling around something so small.
Sirens wailed in the distance, too slow, too late. The porch light flickered, casting everything in sharp flashes: shattered glass, blood smears I couldn’t even tell were his or mine, and that empty driveway where my baby should’ve been.
The SUV was gone. My baby was gone. And something inside me snapped clean in two.
Ro pressed his forehead to mine, voice low and raw. “I’m gettin’ her back. I don’t care who bleeds. I’m gettin’ her back.”
His words didn’t feel like a promise. They felt like judgment. Someone just lit a fuse, and he was the firestorm.
Engines rumbled low in the distance before they came into view—Street Disciples pulling up one by one, their bikes crawling onto the block like armored predators.
Headlights cut through the mist, chrome glinting under porch lights that flickered weakly, too scared to hold steady.
One by one, men parked, boots thudding on asphalt, leather cuts heavy with patches that carried decades of blood and reputation.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t ask. They stood in a loose circle around me and Ro, forming a wall between us and the neighbors still peeking through curtains.
The Crest had gone silent except for the soft growl of Harley engines cooling down, smoke curling up like incense at a wake.
Saint emerged from the darkness like a ghost with a mission.
He didn’t walk—he glided, slow, deliberate, umbrella in one hand like it was a sword, other hand buried deep in his coat.
His stare cut through the chaos, eyes sharp enough to gut a man without drawing a blade.
The street itself seemed to make room for him, neighbors ducking back behind curtains as if they knew this wasn’t a scene they were allowed to witness.
He crouched low next to us, his calm presence cutting through my shaking fury. “Ro,” he exhaled, voice steady as if this wasn’t the scene of a kidnapping but a chessboard. “Look at me.”
Ro did, jaw tight, vision swimming with rage.
Saint’s face was unreadable. “You’re breathin’,” he reminded him.
“That’s all that matters right now. You’re breathin’.
That means we can fix this.” He didn’t raise his voice, but his words owned the night.
The Disciples shifted, every man within earshot straightening as if Saint’s calm was an order, and his authority didn’t need a patch.
He didn’t just command respect; he harvested it.
Trigger wasn’t here, but his absence screamed louder than his presence ever could. Saint and the Disciples moved like a unit I didn’t control, but they wrapped us in a wall of leather and chrome that made one thing clear: this wasn’t just an attack. It was war.
He extended a hand, gripping Ro’s shoulder hard enough to ground him.
“Pick her up, Ro,” he said, nodding at me, shaking so bad I couldn’t stand.
“Pick her up, get her inside. This block ain’t safe.
” His eyes didn’t blink. They scanned everything—rooflines, alley mouths, cars that hadn’t left in days. Saint wasn’t just here. He was hunting.
Tino’s bike roared in next, pipes growling like thunder. His face was tight, controlled fury, and his commands came fast. “Lock it down,” he snapped. “Every alley, every rooftop, nobody moves till we find her.”
The Disciples scattered like wolves on a scent, bikes peeling off, engines echoing through Lyon Crest. I clung to Ro’s shirt, tears soaking through it, my hands shaking so hard I could barely hold on.
Saint straightened, eyes sharp and calculating. “They ain’t ghosts. They left a trail,” he said flatly. “And we’re gonna find ‘em.”
The block was quiet, but it wasn’t peace. It was a coffin lid closing.
The Street Disciples didn’t need to roar or threaten. Their silence said it all: snatching one of ours wasn’t just a crime—it was an invitation to war.
Lyon Crest was about to remember what happens when the wolves come hunting.
To Be Continued