9. Ro #5
Flip another page and there were rules— “The Code of the Crown” written in tight block letters, some lines underlined in red ink so dark it almost looked brown from age. Rules like scripture:
Bloodline is the highest currency.
Loyalty is not earned; it’s inherited.
Never let an outsider carry your weight.
A Zore leads or the Crest bleeds.
The handwriting changed as the pages went on. You could see history in the pen strokes—Sal’s sharp, confident scrawl filling margins with notes, strategies, and names. Later entries had messier writing, other leaders adding their own edits like a war journal passed down.
Scattered through the book were symbols instead of names: a single bullet mark for a life taken, a triangle for a debt unpaid, a crown tipped sideways for betrayal.
Each symbol was drawn with precision, like a language only the Disciples knew.
Some pages had dark stains—blood? Whiskey? You couldn’t tell.
The last few pages were blank, except for a single line scrawled across the bottom of one sheet in Sal’s unmistakable hand: "Legacy: Roman Zore. Crown stays blood-bound. Don’t repeat me."
The words punched through me like bullets.
It wasn’t just a warning; it was an admission.
Sal had left Ro not just the club but its sins, its power, its curse.
My hands shook as I closed the book, sliding it into my hoodie pocket.
My reflection in the bike’s chrome stared back at me, but it didn’t look like me.
It looked like the next chapter of a story I didn’t know I was already in.
Holding the doctrine felt like holding the weight of Lyon Crest itself.
The book hummed with ghosts. You could almost hear the sound of engines revving, gunshots in the distance, and whispered oaths sworn over this leather when it was still new.
It wasn’t just paper—it was prophecy, waiting for Ro to either fulfill it or burn it.
“You found it, huh?” Grams’ voice drifted from behind me. I turned, saw her leaning on the doorframe, arms folded. Her face was calm, but her eyes burned with knowledge.
“You knew it was here?” I asked.
She nodded once. “I been knew. That book don’t belong to them streets. It belongs to this bloodline. You gon’ run from it or run with it, but either way, it’s gon’ catch you.”
I zipped the bag, the weight of it feeling like a gun I couldn’t unload. “Guess I don’t get to choose.”
Her lips curved into something between a smile and a warning. “You never did.” She turned on her heels and I heard her slippers sweeping the warn hardwood floors.
I headed to the back room—my old room, still smelling faintly of incense and leather from my teenage years.
The cracked mirror over the dresser reflected a man I barely recognized.
I peeled off the muddy hoodie, washed the dirt and rain from my hands, and started gearing up.
Tonight wasn’t about peace. It was about survival.
The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a single candle Grams had tucked on the dresser.
I laid everything out on the bed: black cargo pants, a fitted tee, and my leather cut still carrying Sal’s smell like ghosts clingin’ to it.
I strapped on my holster, slid my Glock in tight, and checked the mag twice before snapping it back in place.
I could feel the weight of the metal settle against my ribs—a reminder, not comfort.
I laced up my Timberlands slow, pulling each knot tight enough to bite into the leather.
The smell of gun oil mixed with Grams’ incense filled the air, thick and steady, like armor for my head.
I grabbed the chain Nova had given me from the dresser and looped it around my neck, fingers brushing the cross that hung heavy on my chest.
The duffel swallowed extra clips, a pair of gloves, and the black bandana I only wore when I knew shit could get ugly. I patted each pocket, running the mental checklist I’d had since I was sixteen—knife in the boot, spare mag at the hip, lighter in the jacket, phone charged.
The bathroom mirror was cracked, but I leaned into it anyway, dragging my palms down my face.
The man staring back at me had too much history in his eyes.
My jaw was clenched, a faint bruise coloring the side of my neck from hitting the floor during the shooting.
The water from the sink was cold as it ran over my hands again, washing away the dirt but not the weight sitting on my shoulders.
Grams knocked softly on the door. “You prayed?”
“Not yet.”
She cracked it open, her silhouette framed by candlelight. “Then do it before you step into the dark. Don’t let that city take more from you than it already has.”
I nodded, head bowed for a brief second before I straightened up, slinging the duffel over my shoulder.
Stepping out of that room felt like stepping out of the past into a warzone I already knew too well. The candles in the front flickered low, shadows stretching across the walls like warning hands. Grams stood at the door, Bible in hand, whispering blessings as I walked past.
“Psalm 91, baby,” she said softly. “Walk like you know who’s covering you.”
I pushed open the door, mist rushing in, cool and heavy. The Impala waited at the curb like a loyal dog; windows still fogged from the ride over. I adjusted my jacket, scanned the street for movement, and slid behind the wheel.
The engine purred to life, deep and low. I pulled off slow, the Crest lights reflecting off the wet asphalt, and for a moment, I let my hand rest on the chain at my chest.
The Impala hummed low under me, a predator crawling through streets that felt like they were holding their breath.
Lyon Crest wasn’t quiet—it was plotting.
Every alley I passed looked like it had teeth, every streetlight blinked slow like an eye watching me.
My hand rested heavy on the wheel, my other on the piece in my lap. I wasn’t nervous. I was ready.
Trigger’s fingerprints were everywhere. The block party wasn’t no celebration; it was a stage. And I wasn’t pulling up as no guest. I was coming to read the room, clock every snake that thought I forgot how to smell venom.
The closer I got to the clubhouse, the more the past started creeping in like smoke through cracks.
I drove by slow, window cracked just enough to smell it.
Gasoline. Whiskey. Grease from late-night bike repairs.
The laughter and music that used to spill out of there—it was gone.
Now it was a tomb with chrome skeletons parked outside.
I gripped the wheel tighter. This used to be home. The memories hit before I could shove ‘em down. I kept my eyes scanning, heart beating slow but heavy, mind bouncing between the wet streets ahead and the ghosts behind me. And then… the night came back.
Rain came down sideways that night, cold enough to bite through my leather. I was nineteen, green but hungry, running with Dre, who thought he was bulletproof because Sal had blessed him. We had a drop at the tracks, simple work—or that’s what I thought.
“Yo, Ro, you strapped?” Dre asked, revving his Cbr, his grin flashing gold teeth in the streetlight.
“Always,” I muttered, patting the piece under my jacket. “Stop askin’ dumb shit.”
We cut down the back road, engines low, streetlights flickering like they couldn’t keep up with the rain. The air smelled like rust and wet asphalt, that pre-storm tension that makes dogs bark and drunks sober up. When we hit the tracks, I saw it.
Something in the shadows. A glint. A reflection that didn’t belong.
“Yo, Dre!” I yelled over the rain, slowing up.
He turned his head, confused. “What?”
That’s when the first shot cracked.
The bullet sparked off the guardrail, and everything went loud. Gunfire lit up the dark like fireworks gone wrong. Dre’s bike skidded sideways as he took a round to the shoulder, his body jerking.
“Move!” I screamed, dumping the clutch, tires screaming as I swerved behind a rusted freight car. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
Dre staggered, blood slicking his jacket. “They—They flanked us!”
“No shit!” I barked, shoving him behind cover. “Stay low!”
I peeked out, saw three silhouettes creeping up, muzzles flashing. My hands shook, but training from Sal kicked in. I squeezed off two shots, one hitting center mass. The man folded, screaming as he hit the wet gravel.
“Go, Ro!” Dre shouted, coughing up blood. “Get the bag!”
I hesitated. He was bleeding out, but his eyes were hard. Sal had drilled that look into us: Handle the mission or don’t come home.
I ducked low, sprinted toward Dre’s bike. Bullets zipped past my head, sparks flying off the rails. My boots slipped in the mud, my breath ragged, lungs burning. I grabbed the duffel and swung around just as another figure rushed me.
“Motherf—!” I snarled, pulling the trigger. The man crumpled before he could finish his thought.
“Go!” Dre roared, voice breaking. He was slumped, hand clutching his wound.
I wanted to grab him, drag him, anything.
But another volley of shots rained down, and instinct won over loyalty.
I hit the ditch, sliding down into mud and trash, clutching the bag like a lifeline.
My knees slammed against rocks, water soaking me through.
I crawled until my arms burned, ears ringing from gunfire.
When I finally pulled myself out near the bridge, my bike was gone. I was drenched, shivering, and shaking so bad my teeth rattled.
The wipers squeaked against the windshield, dragging me back to now. My breath fogged the glass, and I realized my jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. The streets blurred past, but I still saw Dre’s blood. I still heard his last words.
I remember the walk home more than anything.
Every step echoed. My boots left muddy prints up the porch. Nova was sitting there, belly round, eyes wide with fear when she saw me.
“Roman…” she whispered, standing slow, her hands instinctively on her stomach.
I couldn’t look her in the eyes. My jacket was heavy with Dre’s blood. I dropped the bag by the door like it weighed a hundred pounds.
“What happened?” she asked, voice trembling.
“Nothing you need to know,” I muttered, voice hollow.
“Don’t lie to me,” she snapped, her tears mixing with rain. “You—you’re scaring me, Ro.”
I grabbed her hands, cold and shaking. “I got you,” I whispered, though I didn’t believe it. “You and the baby, I got you. Always.”
But that night I knew. This life wasn’t just dangerous—it was poison. Dre was gone. The Crest wasn’t a family. It was a machine, chewing us up, spitting us out. And if I stayed, it would eat her too.
That’s the night I decided to disappear.
The Impala hummed steady, but my pulse didn’t. My fingers tapped the wheel like they were itching for a trigger. I wasn’t riding to this rally as a guest—I was going in as a ghost. Trigger wanted a show? He’d get one.
This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about redemption.
And if tonight went wrong, I was ready to bleed in front of the whole Crest to prove I wasn’t the boy who ran in ’99.
Tonight wasn’t just business. Tonight was a line being drawn.