Chapter Thirteen
A few days BEFORE.
The cabin Crown pulled up to sat far enough outside Satin Hills that the noise from the city never reached it.
He killed the engine and took a moment to absorb the scene.
It had been a while since he’d driven out this way.
The place still appeared peaceful, but he knew better.
Everything about Prophet was calculated.
Calm on the surface, but dangerous beneath.
Anyone thinking they could catch him off guard out there would be sadly mistaken.
The property was filled with booby traps and weapons.
His Electra Glide parked out front gleamed in the moonlight, the blue-burst paint shimmering.
Inside the cabin, a fire crackled low in the stone fireplace, casting a warm glow.
Prophet had just returned from his long morning walk.
He stood in front of the refrigerator, a beer in hand, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt that clung to his rich dark skin, while his other hand rested lightly on his cane.
A leg injury from a gunshot wound slowed his stride, but it hadn’t dampened his spirit.
Riding remained second nature to him at seventy.
Long walks were the only time he needed extra support.
Otherwise, the old man was in good health.
He often joked, “Funny thing is, I can ride all day. Walking’s what fucks me up”.
“I didn’t know you were coming through, but I’m not surprised after that call you received.” Prophet said without turning around, having heard Crown’s approach long before he entered. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you too, old man. I’m certainly here on business.”
Setting his helmet down, Crown took a seat at the small wooden table, his eyes habitually scanning the room.
To this day, it contained no picture frames, decorations, or clutter, only the essentials.
That was Prophet’s way. He had never married or had children.
The Knights had been his life for so long, serving as his only memories.
“I’m listening.”
“What should I expect tomorrow?”
Prophet took a slow sip of his beer before finally turning around. “Heat. You didn’t break the truce first, but you responded without approval. You both must bleed, one more than the other.”
Crown nodded. Hearing that confirmed what his instincts had been telling him.
He lifted a duffel bag onto the table, the thud of it heavy.
Prophet shook his head, chuckling. The sound alone was enough.
The bag didn’t need to be unzipped for him to know the contents in it.
He was a street nigga through and through.
“You know damn well your money is no good here.”
Prophet spoke the truth. He considered Crown and Danger as his grandsons and wouldn’t dare take anything from them. If they were in need, he would give them the shirt off his back without hesitation.
“It’s not for you. I want you to give it to Grim.” Crown clarified.
Prophet’s eyes flicked to the bag and back to Crown. “For what exactly?”
“For order to be done correctly. I’m no fool, old man. There’s a reason Hem requested Vice Presidents to join this meeting.”
Crown had a hunch. The Council typically spoke only to Presidents.
The fact that they requested vice presidents to be present as well rubbed him the wrong way, and he hoped it wasn’t his vice president they were trying to prove a point with.
Crown was usually a man of order and respected his elders…
those who paved the way before him. But if anyone touched his brother, he would lose control.
There would be an all-out war in the Hills. He would die about his.
Prophet took another sip of his beer as he settled into his chair, letting out a deep exhale.
“Grim and I are close. I’ve learned quite a bit about him, and I’m pretty sure I don’t need to tell you he’s the type to take money if it makes sense. It’s clear you’ve done your research on him.”
Crown winked. He had certainly dug into Grim’s background.
He was the Council's muscle, their enforcer, and he had learned that he was once a Sergeant-at-Arms for the Deathcons.
A club known for being both powerful and grimy.
Most of their riders came from broken homes in the slums. Brotherhood and money were the answer to all their problems.
“You’ll be happy to hear your gut tells you right. There will be some serious pressure on the Ravens. I’m talking slow singing, flower bringing, and all.” Prophet added, confirming the gravity of the situation.
“Good, ‘cause I need this money I’m giving to be worthwhile.” Crown leaned in, his dark gaze narrowing.
“Tell Grim that if the Council wants to send a strong message about following orders, nothing is more effective than touching a president. Hit the big nigga first, and the rest will fall in line. Not just the Ravens, but every club that’s present that night will feel it. I want Nico erased, not his vice.”
Nico knew too much about Crown. About his firm.
About Nivéa. That couldn’t stand; Crown wasn’t going for it.
It was one thing to know Nivéa was his lady, but a whole other thing when his enemy knew where she worked and spoke on it.
Nico had sealed his fate the day he mentioned her shop.
In their world, family members who weren’t patched in were off-limits, especially significant others and children.
However, Crown understood Nico was desperate at this point.
Smiling proudly, Prophet set his beer down and studied Crown, recognizing the fire and weight of leadership in his gaze.
Crown reminded him so much of his best friend.
The Council had planned to kill Gunner and teach Nico a valuable lesson about disobedience, but even he had to admit that Crown’s vision was far more ruthless and powerful.
“I hear you. I’ll speak to Grim. But understand this, I can guide the current, but I will not stop it. Whatever happens to the Knights will hit hard, too. Grim and my suggestions will ensure that fate feels believable. If it smells off, the other two will question it, especially coming from me.”
Crown held his gaze, then nodded.
Prophet exhaled through his nose, something close to a sigh. He looked away for a moment, staring into the fireplace.
“That fate doesn’t change anything between us, though. Your grandfather was my brother. That doesn’t disappear just because I sit at a different table. The Knights will always be my family.”
Crown felt that settle in his chest as their fists collided.
They sat in silence, two generations bound by blood, loyalty, and choices that might never make the history books, yet their names would be whispered on the streets, their legacy living on forever.
Others might talk a good game, but the Knights lived this life, making powerful moves as true bosses.
So much so, that one of the members had earned a place on the Council.