10. Trigger
Trigger
The Board Never Sleeps
Recommended Song: Ambitionz Az a Ridah By Tupac
“Check game, playboy. You gon’ move or get moved.” I menaced. The night was mine. Not because I owned it—but because I had planned for every shadow that thought it could.
I sat in the back of the clubhouse office, lights dim, smoke curling in lazy spirals from an ashtray I hadn’t touched.
My jacket hung on the chair like it was waiting to testify.
The doctrine wasn’t here. That book was a crown, and Ro had his hands on it, but what good is a crown without a kingdom?
I wasn’t worried. Crowns make necks heavy. I make necks bow.
The rally was an hour out. Tino’s yard was dressed like a carnival for folks too broke to leave town.
Streamers, Dollar Tree lights, grills that burned cheap charcoal but smelled like loyalty.
You give people ribs and music and the illusion of safety, and they’ll trade you everything.
That’s the game. They get full; I get quiet.
I leaned back in Sal’s old chair. The leather squeaked like it remembered him.
Some nights I swear I still hear his voice, giving orders I already followed.
His ghost was stitched into these walls, in the cracks of the wood floor, in the smell of spilled whiskey that never left.
He built this house on fear and respect. I just made it profitable.
The window hummed with street noise. Bikes roared past, laughter echoing through the lot.
Clubhouse chatter spilled from the main hall—men clowning over cards, a bottle of Henny passed hand to hand.
I let them have their noise. Noise made men feel safe.
Me? I liked the silence. Silence tells you when trouble’s close.
I spread tonight’s blueprint across the desk.
A faded yard map, drawn with a mechanic’s precision.
Arrows for choke points, little X’s for cameras I’d had Tony tape over so he could film his own footage without competition.
I could picture every move before it happened.
The sheriffs at the gate playing friendly, Whit pretending this was about community, Saint posted up like he wasn’t part of this chessboard.
Everyone thinking they were calling shots.
A knock. Soft. Mouse stuck his head in. Kid looked jumpy, like he’d been drinking too much gas station coffee.
“Yo, big bro, you really think Ro gon’ show tonight?”
“He’ll show,” I rumbled, eyes still on the map. “Men like him? Pride’s a leash. You pull it, they bark.”
Mouse shifted, scratching his neck. “And if he don’t?”
I finally looked up, locking eyes with him. “Then I send someone to remind him what his daddy’s name means in this block. He’ll show. One way or another.”
The kid nodded quick and slipped out. I leaned back, the chair creaking again.
The weight of Sal’s shadow felt heavier than the Glock under my arm.
I tapped my fingers on the desk, slow and steady.
This wasn’t about Ro dying. Not yet. It was about making him small, reminding him this city didn’t miss him, that this clubhouse wasn’t his home anymore.
Tonight was about obedience. About setting the tone.
I stood, grabbing my kutte off the chair. The leather was worn, heavy from years of bad decisions. My reflection stared back at me from the dusty office window—cold eyes, harder jawline, a man carved out of survival and scheming.
“Tonight’s a performance,” I muttered to myself, pulling the kutte on, snapping the buttons with practiced ease. “They’ll all clap for the wrong reason.”
The hallway outside was alive. Music rattled the walls, men arguing over dice, the scent of weed and fried food seeping through every crack.
I stepped out, boots heavy on the warped wood.
Heads turned, voices dipped. Not because they feared me—not exactly.
They feared what I saw when I looked at them.
I passed Jinx leaning against the jukebox, cigarette glowing faint in the dim. He gave me one slow nod. That was enough. Jinx didn’t need to ask what time to move. He was already moving. Men like him don’t wait for instructions. They breathe them.
Outside, the night greeted me with mist and motorcycle fumes.
I scanned the yard. Tino was checking sound equipment; Mouse was zipping back and forth, hauling cases of beer like it meant salvation.
Whit’s SUV had already pulled up, him sitting inside making calls he’d pretend were about politics.
Cameras were being set in corners, wires hidden under folding tables. A trap dressed up like a block party.
I took it all in, slow, calm. Every bike, every face, every shadow. The Crest wasn’t unpredictable—it was predictable chaos. That’s why I was still alive. Because I treated every laugh like a countdown and every handshake like a setup.
I lit a cigarette, even though I don’t smoke, and let the glow mark my face just enough for the boys to know: Trigger was watching everything tonight.
And when Ro walked in, crown or no crown, I’d remind him this kingdom don’t kneel easy.
He could bring that heir energy, the Zore blood in his chest, and the whispers folks been passing around like dice in an alley—but that wouldn’t change a thing. Tonight, the room bent to my will. And if he tried to grab a piece of it, he’d cut his hands on the edges I sharpened.
Phones buzzed in sequence on my desk. Messages stacked like dominoes:
JINX: Perimeter clean. Eyes in place
MOUSE: Tony in position, cam hot.
TINO: No badges yet. Gate’s ready.
WHIT: Politicians inbound. Don’t let them sweat.
Each one was a piece of the puzzle, and I could see the whole picture before I even blinked.
I read every word twice, let the information settle in my head like rounds chambered in a clip. The machine was running smooth—too smooth. That’s how you knew the streets were holding their breath. Lyon Crest ain’t never quiet without a reason.
I leaned back in my chair, listening to the hum of the neon sign outside. Every light flicker felt like a metronome. The city moved to my beat tonight.
The chair creaked under my weight, leather cracked and slick with history.
The smell of gun oil, sweat, and stale smoke clung to this office like wallpaper.
My boots tapped against the floorboards slow, a rhythm meant to calm me, but every creak echoed like a warning.
There were ghosts in this room, and all of ‘em wore cuts stitched with our colors. Sal’s spirit lingered the heaviest. If he was watching, I hoped he liked how I ran his empire.
I opened the blinds just enough to watch the lot.
The rain had left streaks down the glass, and every drop looked like a tear somebody didn’t earn.
I’d swept this clubhouse three times already today, checked every lock, every camera feed.
Still felt eyes where there shouldn’t be any.
That’s the thing about power—it makes you see ghosts even when they ain’t there.
Men were laughing outside, lining up bikes under streetlamps, their voices carrying through the night like clinking bottles.
A group of locals huddled under a tarp, passing around foil plates stacked with ribs.
Women kept glancing at the gates like they expected hell to roll in at any moment.
They weren’t wrong. The Crest didn’t know how to host a party without somebody bleeding by the end of it.
I stood, jacket slung over my shoulder, weight shifting slow as I paced the office.
My Glock rested on the desk, loaded, safety off—not because I expected a shootout, but because I always did.
My fingers brushed over the handle of Sal’s old gavel sitting on the shelf.
The wood was worn smooth, stained darker near the base.
I’d seen him slam it down during meetings to shut grown men up mid-rant.
Now it just collected dust, a relic of order in a room built for chaos.
I adjusted my cuffs, checked the burn mark on the corner of the desk, the one from the night Sal signed his last shipment papers with a cigarette dangling from his lip.
I traced that scar with my thumb every time I needed to remind myself what this seat cost. The weight of this patch on my chest wasn’t pride. It was a sentence I chose to carry.
Through the blinds, I spotted Saint leaning against a black SUV at the far end of the lot, his umbrella closed but in hand, posture calm like he could clear the block without raising his voice.
The man never wasted words, which made him dangerous.
And then there was Ro. I could almost feel him coming.
That heir energy was thick in the air already.
Every shadow out there seemed to shift, making space for him like the Crest remembered what Zore blood meant.
But memory don’t make you safe here. It just makes you a target with a legacy.
I reached for my burner, thumbs hovering over keys but sending nothing.
Messages were already moving fast enough.
What I needed was silence—the kind that made men nervous.
I flicked my lighter open and closed, the metal clicking steady.
One wrong look tonight and I’d light this whole block up in more ways than one.
Ro was a ghost I couldn’t bury. Not yet.
His name still rang out heavy in alleys, even after all these years.
Every OG that used to dap him up was startin’ to shift in their seats now that he was back, and with that doctrine in his jacket?
Yeah… that paper got weight. It’s a Bible to this life, and Ro walkin’ around with it was makin’ dudes remember Sal’s bloodline was royalty.
He thought that gave him a crown. It didn’t.
Crowns come with coffins if you ain’t careful. And I’m the one holdin’ the shovel.