2. Roman “Ro” Zore #2
She was it in the middle of all this cold.
Rain beading and sliding off her leather sleeves in silver streams, her curls pulled back slick, so every angle of her face hit harder.
No makeup, no soft edges — just those eyes, locked on me like she was trying to peel something back.
She hadn’t changed much in all these years.
Those curves only got finer with time. She still had her round chubby baby face that I love.
My chest began to constrict watching what I left behind all those years ago.
Those beautiful hazel eyes were covered with dark black shades.
Her leather trench coat kissed the ground.
The world dulled around her. Rain turned into background noise. The preacher’s words, the sniffles, even the murmur of engines cooling behind me — all of it faded until it was just her and the memories she carried like shrapnel.
I saw the red dress. Felt the press of her palms on my chest the night Dre died. Heard the slam of the door when I walked out and didn’t explain a damn thing.
The sound broke when a voice cut in — rough, gritted with years. “Look what the storm dragged back.”
Trigger…November 11th. Still wore his cut like skin.
More gray in his beard now, a jagged scar running across his nose that told a story only he’d care to tell.
Trigger was the loudest of the pack. His voice cut through rain like a busted muffler.
“Look what the storm dragged back,” he spat, eyes flashing under the brim of his soaked cap.
He stepped in too close, that scar on his nose glowing under the gray sky.
“Sal deserved better than you, Ro. Gone back where you came from, we been good without you, ya feel me?” He is voice low with menace laced in every word.
He stepped in close, bringing with him the burn of bourbon and the sour tang of wet leather. “Didn’t think you had the balls to come back after all this time.”
Jinx’s voice slipped in—smooth, flat, quiet, the kind of tone that makes everybody else shut up to catch it.
He leaned against a tent pole, cigarette cupped from the rain, smoke curling under the tarp like it belonged there.
“Fine? Nah. Streets been sloppy without him, fa sho.” His eyes slid from Trigger to me, then back again.
“Don’t matter how anybody feels, though.
Sal’s gone. Somebody’s gotta hold the weight. ”
The words didn’t land where he wanted. I let them hang between us, heavy in the wet air.
“I ain’t here for you,” I bit out, my voice low enough to make him lean in a little. “I’m here to bury my uncle.”
He didn’t back off right away. Tried to puff his chest like the eyes on us meant something. But my attention had already drifted.
Back to her.
Nova didn’t blink this time. Just turned — slow, deliberate — and stepped into the fog, letting it swallow her up like she’d never been standing there at all.
The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it came harder, driven by wind that slapped against the side of the tent like it was trying to rip the whole thing up and send it tumbling down the hill.
The sky was gunmetal gray, low and heavy, the kind of color that pressed down on your shoulders until you forgot what it felt like to stand tall.
I was still locked on the fog where Nova had disappeared when a shape moved at the far edge of the tent, pulling me back like a hook in the chest. At first all I caught was the shine of chrome at the handle of an umbrella, the fabric black but lined with something faint — almost navy when the light hit it through the rain.
Then the man holding it stepped just far enough into the opening for the rest of him to take shape.
Tall. Built like he spent more hours pushing steel than sleeping.
Suit jacket tailored close to the frame, black, the shoulders cut sharp enough to look like they could slice through someone.
Dark tie, no shine — matte, deliberate, like he didn’t want to flash too much.
Shoes that didn’t belong anywhere near this much mud but still managed to stay clean.
And under that umbrella, close enough that the rain couldn’t touch her, was Nova again.
She was angled toward him, head tilted slightly up to meet his height, lips moving low. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just speaking in that way she did when every word was measured, when she was building something out of silence before she let it drop.
In her arms, wrapped in a small, black wool coat with a hood trimmed in faux fur, was a little girl.
Couldn’t have been more than two or three.
The hood shadowed most of her face, but I caught the soft roundness of her cheek, the way her small hand gripped the edge of Nova’s sleeve like it was her lifeline.
He shifted the umbrella without breaking eye contact with her, angling it to cover more of the kid when the wind blew sideways. Smooth. Too smooth. The kind of smooth that came from knowing your place and owning it — or thinking you did.
This man’s face looked vaguely familiar. I couldn’t place him though. But one thing I did know was he didn’t come from anywhere. He has a purpose for Nova. I could feel it in my soul.
A laugh broke somewhere behind me — rough, too loud for a funeral — pulling eyes in its direction before they flicked back to the scene unfolding near the tent’s edge. Nobody spoke his name, but the MC boys were watching, too. Watching her. Watching him.
I stepped forward, slow, boots sinking deeper into the mud with every step.
The closer I got, the more details came into focus — the faint stubble along his jaw, trimmed neat like a man who didn’t let things get out of place.
The scar at the base of his neck, pale against brown skin, just visible above the collar.
The way his left hand stayed loose at his side, fingers tapping slow against his thigh like he was keeping time to a song only he could hear.
Nova’s eyes cut toward me for half a second before returning to him, but that half-second was enough. It was the same look she’d given me the night I left — calm on the outside, but inside… she was already closing doors.
He caught the glance, followed it, and landed on me. No surprise in his face. No curiosity, either. Just a slow scan, up from my boots to my eyes, and a faint nod that was more acknowledgment than greeting.
He didn’t move closer. Didn’t step back. Just adjusted the umbrella again as if the three of them — him, Nova, the kid — were in their own separate pocket of dry air that I wasn’t invited into.
The rain made a steady hiss against the nylon above their heads, louder when the wind angled it, softer when it straightened.
I could smell Nova’s perfume from here — not the sweet florals she used to wear, but something warmer, richer.
Amber, maybe. Woodier. The kind of scent that stayed in your clothes after one hug and followed you into every room.
Behind us, the preacher’s voice carried through the static of the storm, low and rolling, speaking about the measure of a man’s life.
I only caught pieces — “legacy,” “loyalty,” “burden” — words that meant different things in our world than they did in his.
God really wanted to wash away Sal’s dirty steps on this Earth.
Dude’s hand shifted just slightly, the tips of his fingers brushing the edge of Nova’s arm in a way that looked casual to anyone not watching for it. To me, it was deliberate. A signal. A stake in the ground without saying a word. I hadn’t seen either of them in years.
I stopped about six feet from them, close enough to feel the faint drift of dry warmth from under the umbrella, far enough that it wouldn’t cover me. My gloves were slick with rain, leather darker now than when I’d put them on, water dripping from my cuffs to my boots.
For a moment, none of us spoke. Just the sound of rain and the preacher’s voice, and somewhere in the distance, the low idle of more bikes lined along the gravel.
Finally, Nova turned her head toward me fully. Her eyes were sharp, unreadable, but there was a flicker — quick, buried — that told me she’d been expecting me, even if she didn’t want to admit it.
“Roman,” she stated. Not a question. Not a welcome. Just the fact of my name in her mouth, cutting through the rain.
“Nova,” I answered, keeping my voice low, steady.
Dude’s gaze stayed on me the whole time, like he was measuring not just my words but the space between them.
“And you are?” I asked finally, eyes flicking toward him but not away from her for long.
He let a beat pass before answering, his voice smooth but with a weight under it that said he was used to being heard.
“Ezra Calloway. Friends call me Saint, ya dig?”
The corner of my mouth twitched — not a smile, not quite. “Saint, huh? You looking casket sharp. Funny name, though, for a man standing with the devil’s favorite girl.”
Nova’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t speak. Saint did.
“Funny,” he chuckled, tilting his head just slightly, “I was thinking the same about you.”
The air between us tightened, pulled thin by the weight of what wasn’t being said. The rain kept falling, the preacher kept talking, but in that moment the whole damn graveyard felt like it was holding its breath.
The kid shifted in Nova’s arms, turning just enough for me to catch the faintest glimpse of her face. And in that glimpse — those eyes — my stomach tightened.
Before I could speak, before I could even process the thought forming in my head, ole boy Saint shifted the umbrella again, angling it to block my view.
“Enjoy the service,” he warned, and I caught the unwelcomed invitation.
I stood there another second, boots rooted in mud, before I stepped back, letting the rain close in around me again.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Cruz watching from near the tent’s other side, his expression unreadable, jaw set. Lani leaned in just slightly toward him, saying something I couldn’t hear over the rain.