9. Ro #3
The headstone was slick with mist. The rain misted light, but the ground was soaked, soft under my boots like it knew what I came here to do—bleed out my thoughts where nobody could use ‘em.
My fingertips traced the letters like they might spell out a different truth if I touched them enough times.
Salvatore Zore. Brother. Leader. Legend. Lies. All of it felt heavy now.
I leaned forward, knuckles pressed to the wet grass, breath fogging in the cold.
The eucalyptus trees rattled above like bones in a box, wind slicing through their branches, carrying the faint smell of earth and gasoline from the street beyond the gates.
Every sound felt close—the crunch of gravel under my boots, a distant dog barking two blocks over, the hum of a car engine creeping past on Central.
Lyon Crest was never quiet, even in a graveyard.
“Trigger movin’ like he own this whole city, Saint watchin’ me like I’m a suspect, and half the block don’t even remember who I am.” My jaw tightened. “You made me heir to somethin’ I don’t even know if I wanna lead no more. You feel me? You left me a name, Sal. Not a crown. A damn target.”
“And you know I never wanted this chair, Sal,” I muttered, voice barely carrying past my own chest. “You made it look like power was somethin’ solid, somethin’ a man could stand on.
Now I see it’s just a tightrope strung over a pit.
And I’m out here slippin’, tryin’ not to drag everyone I love down with me. ”
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 my nose. 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. You were 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 her hand 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.
“I’m tryna hold it together, Nova.” My voice cracked, rough as gravel. “Trigger’s runnin’ this city like he’s Sal 2.0. Folks lookin’ at me like I don’t even belong on this block no more. And you…” I swallowed, jaw tight. “You out here still prayin’ for me like I deserve it.”
Her eyes softened, but her stance didn’t. She took a step closer, enough for me to see the sheen of raindrops in her curls. “I pray ‘cause God don’t waste nothin’, Ro. Not even you leavin’.”
That cut deeper than I was ready for. My breath hitched, chest caving under words that weren’t meant to hurt but did anyway.
I stood there, rooted in mud, staring at her. The graveyard felt heavier now, like every name on every stone was watching me choke on my own regrets.
I turned my head, eyes drifting to the stone she stood beside. Smaller than Sal’s. The flowers laid there weren’t wilted yet. My gut twisted when I read the name etched deep—Baby Zore. My breath caught like I’d been sucker-punched. My baby. Our baby. Gone before I even got to see her face.
Nova’s hand rested on that headstone like she was guarding it, thumb rubbing the cross at her neck slow, steady. Her eyes flicked up at me, soft but unreadable.
“He would’ve been four,” she whispered, voice barely above the mist.
The words hit harder than bullets. My throat locked, chest caving as I stared at that grave, knees damn near buckling.
“Nova…” My voice cracked, rough and low.
She blinked slow, holding my gaze, cutting me off. “Aaliyah’s birthday’s tomorrow. She wants her daddy there.”
The sound of my daughter’s name broke something in me. I swallowed hard, trying to steady myself, but my voice shook. “She… she knows me?”