4. Marisol Lani Cruz #3
I blew out a breath through my nose, leaned on the counter with both elbows.
The rag hung loose from my hand now, grease stains like battle scars.
“Alright. You want it raw; I’ll give it raw.
Sal wasn’t just runnin’ bikes and bluster.
He owed. Heavy. Word is, he cut deals with the mayor’s golden boy—contracts, cash washed through Cruz’s other diner on the boardwalk, and Saint playin’ middleman so nothing left a paper trail. ”
Nova’s jaw clenched; her fingers twisted the chain at her neck like she was wringing it. “So, Saint wasn’t there for me… he was there for Sal’s ghost.”
I nodded slow. “Exactly. Saint ain’t just a shadow—he a ledger with legs.
He makes sure what’s owed gets paid, and he don’t care if the man who owed it is six feet down.
Debts outlive the dead, baby girl. And right now?
They lookin’ at Cruz, at me, at you… hell, even at that little one holdin’ your hand every day, like somebody gotta pay up. ”
Her breath hitched, hazel eyes sharp but wet. “That baby don’t owe nobody nothin’. I won’t let her wear no man’s sins.”
I reached over, tapped her wrist where her chain rested. My voice dropped, blunt but soft. “Then you better stand taller than you ever have, Nova. ‘Cause peace don’t come free out here. Not in Lyon Crest. Saint’s presence might feel calm, but calm is just another kind of pressure. You hear me?”
She swallowed hard, nodding, lips tight like she was tasting metal. “I hear you. But I swear, if they think they can use me, or her, as leverage—” she cut herself off, shaking her head, curls sticking to her cheeks, “they gon’ learn I ain’t the scared little girl Ro left behind.”
I smirked, leaned back, voice carrying that mix of pride and warning. “Good. ‘Cause being scared don’t keep you alive out here. Being ready does.”
The chatter picked back up at the tables—forks scraping, old heads slurping coffee like nothing was said. But me and Nova? We were in our own bubble, both of us knowing the block’s whispers weren’t just noise anymore. They were directions.
The bell over the door cut through our quiet. Not the regular ding of neighbors drifting in—this one snapped the room like a switchblade. Every fork paused midair, every laugh choked short.
Three cats walked in, dripping rain off leather jackets too clean to be locals. Not patched Disciples, not Sunday folk either—Mayor’s boy’s crew. I knew it by the smug way they carried themselves, like the whole block was theirs to audit.
One of ‘em—light-skinned, thin goatee sharp as a pencil—slapped wet bills on the counter without looking at me. “Three plates. Quick.” His eyes weren’t hungry for food. They were hungry for attention.
The old heads at the counter muttered low, shifted their cups. Kids in the booth shrank quiet. I kept my rag moving, like always, but my ears sharpened.
The tallest one leaned back against the jukebox, tapping it like he owned the rhythm. He scanned the room slow, then landed on Nova. “Funny. Don’t the widow eat alone no more?”
Nova stiffened beside me, her hand curling on the counter like she was holding herself back from breaking something. “Don’t call me that.” Her voice cut like glass, low and dangerous.
I slid in between them with my own voice. “This ain’t no place for y’all to stir nothin’. You want food, you sit. You want trouble, take it to the street.”
He smirked, eyes flicking to my ring, then back up. “We just here to collect what’s owed.”
The spot went so quiet I could hear the rain tick against the windows.
The one at the counter leaned closer, palm flattening on the register like he owned it. “Cruz got tabs open all over this block. Sal ain’t here no more, which means somebody’s payin’.”
“Not here you don’t,” I fired back, voice iron.
He smiled, slow and mean. “Cute.”
Before I could blink, one of his boys reached out and hooked a finger in Nova’s sleeve. “What about you, pretty thing? You holdin’ it down for your old man?”
Nova’s hazel eyes snapped fire. She yanked her arm free and slammed her palm down on the counter so hard, silverware rattled. “Don’t touch me.”
The shop went dead quiet.
The goon grinned, leaning in close. “You’re real bold for someone sittin’ in debt she didn’t even rack up.”
Nova’s breath hissed beside me. “Try me if you want. You won’t collect shit here.”
I touched her arm—steady but firm—eyes never leaving the man. My voice came out raw, tired, but still carrying weight. “Not today. You got the wrong room if you think you walkin’ in here with threats. This place got rules older than your daddy’s handshake.”
I moved fast. Rag down. Knife from under the counter in my hand, blade glinting under the weak neon glow. “Touch her again, and you’ll leave without a few fingers.”
The tall one laughed low, pulling his boy back with one hand. “We’ll be back,” he muttered. He tipped his chin at Nova. “Hope your man’s around next time. We collecting from somebody, sweetheart.”
He stared a beat too long, then finally whistled low, jerking his chin at his boys.
They filed out, door slamming hard enough to shake the front window. The smell of exhaust followed them. But the tension…the tension stayed.
Nova’s hand shook where it still gripped the counter. I covered it with mine. “See?” I told her, my voice unwavering. “Debts don’t stay buried, I told you… but neither do women like us.”
She breathed sharp, like she wanted to believe me, but her chest didn’t know how. Her hazel eyes slipped past me, past the gossiping men nursing their coffees, past the steam lifting off collards in the back kitchen.
And then she froze.
My eyes trailed to where hers stalled. Out front, through the wide glass window streaked with yesterday’s rain, a Yamaha’s pipes growled low before cutting off.
Ro swung a leg off, shoulders broad, chain catching a slice of sun—and there she was, some girl climbing off the back of his bike.
Too young to have scars, too smug to hide her laugh.
She leaned in like she owned a piece of him, arms curling tight around his neck before she slid down.
Nova’s whole body went rigid. Fire raced through her veins so hot I swear I felt the air shift.
The shop’s noise blurred—old heads arguing spades, the fryer popping grease, even my own breath—all drowned under the sight of Nova locked on her man with another woman’s hands still on him.
Her jaw clenched, pulse kicking wild at her temple. She pushed off the counter, chair legs scraping back like the sound of something breaking.
“Nova—” I started.
But she was already moving. Hazel eyes blazing, lips set hard, she stormed toward the door like a woman ready to drag truth out into the street and leave it bleeding.
The bell above the door never stood a chance.