Chapter Two — The House Lights

Chapter 2 to my first post. Read chapter 1 first before reading this. Thank you

The Saints never walk me all the way home.
That’s the rule.
Marlo always stops two blocks short, where the streetlights get thin and the houses start repeating themselves.
He pulls the collar of his jacket up, lights a cigarette, and says the same thing every time.
“Go the rest alone, Rio. You know why.”
I nod. I always do.
He means my mom.
She doesn’t trust men who wear leather jackets and carry stories instead of names.
To her, they’re the reason Loui didn’t come back.
And she’s not wrong.
I start walking. Every step feels heavier now that the adrenaline’s gone.
My lip’s split, ribs sore, knuckles burning.
The cold air makes everything sting worse.
By the time I reach the porch, the sky’s gone black and the rain’s slowed to a drizzle. The house looks small — smaller than I remember.
The kitchen light’s on.
That’s never a good sign.
I try to slip in quiet. Doesn’t work.
“Aurelio.”
Her voice hits before I even close the door.
Not angry yet — just sharp. The kind that freezes you mid-step.
She’s standing at the sink, arms crossed, still wearing her work clothes.
The smell of laundry detergent and coffee fills the room.
When she turns, her eyes land straight on the blood on my sleeve.
“What happened?”
I shrug. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
She walks closer, grabs my chin, tilts my face toward the light. Her thumb brushes a bruise under my eye.
“You call this nothing?”
I pull away. “It’s just school stuff. I’m fine.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I know what ‘school stuff’ means around here,” she says. “It means somebody’s trying to drag you where your father already went.”
The words land heavy.
I don’t say anything.
She sighs, quieter now. “You think I don’t see it, Aurelio? The way you walk, the way you keep your head on a swivel? You’re not hiding from bullies. You’re hiding from what’s calling you.”
I want to tell her she’s wrong — that it’s not like that — but I can’t.
Because she’s right.
She wipes her hands on a towel and looks at me again, softer this time.
“I already buried one man from this house. I’m not burying another.”
“I’m not him, Ma.”
She studies me for a long second. “No. You’re not. But I see him in you every day. And that scares me more than anything.”
The room goes quiet. The only sound is the old clock ticking above the stove.
I can feel her eyes on me, waiting for a promise I don’t know if I can make.
“I’ll be careful,” I say finally.
“That’s not what I asked.”
But she lets it drop. She knows pressing too hard only pushes me further.
She goes to the cabinet, grabs the first aid kit, and sets it on the table.
“Sit down,” she says. “Let me see your hands.”
I sit. She cleans the cuts, dabs peroxide on my knuckles.
It burns, but I don’t flinch.
She wraps them in gauze and shakes her head. “You got your father’s hands. Always bleeding from something.”
I smile a little. “Guess it runs in the family.”
She doesn’t smile back. “Then break the pattern.”
When she’s done, she puts the kit away and leaves the room without another word.
I sit there for a while, staring at the table, at the faint blood stain on the towel she used.
Outside, a car engine hums low down the block — probably Marlo’s.
He never drives off until he knows I made it inside.
I don’t wave. I just sit in the half-dark, ribs aching, hands wrapped, my mother’s words echoing against the silence.
She thinks she saved me tonight.
But the truth is, I’m already too far in to walk away.
I don’t sleep much that night.
Every time I close my eyes, I see flashes — fists, water splashing against my face, Jayden’s grin twisting when he thought I was done. Then I see my mother’s face over all of it.
Her fear hits harder than any punch.
I lie there listening to the house breathe — pipes clicking, wind sneaking through the cracked window frame, the faint hum of a car idling somewhere out front.
That’ll be Marlo, keeping watch the way he always does.
I used to think it meant protection. Now I’m not sure if it means ownership.
By the time morning shows up, the rain’s gone. The air smells cleaner, but that’s a lie — this city just hides its dirt better in daylight.
Mom’s already gone for her shift at the diner. She left a note on the counter, written in her quick, slanted handwriting:
Eggs in the pan. Don’t be late for school. Please.
That last word’s doing all the heavy lifting.
I heat up the eggs, eat two bites, and stop. My ribs still ache when I move wrong.
The mirror by the door catches me on my way out — split lip, dark mark under one eye. Looks like someone else’s face wearing mine.
The walk to school feels longer than usual. People look, then look away.
That’s how they say they know something happened but they’re not gonna ask.
When I turn onto Clay Street, I see a black car idling near the corner.
Windows tinted, engine too quiet to be innocent.
It’s Marlo.
He leans out the driver’s side window, cigarette in hand.
“Morning, soldier,” he says. “You limpin’ or swaggerin’?”
“Both,” I answer.
He grins. “That’s balance. You learn that from your old man.”
I stop on the curb, arms crossed. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Relax. I’m just checkin’ in. Your mom around?”
“She’s at work.”
“Good. Then hop in. I got somethin’ to show you before class.”
I glance at the car, then at the empty street.
He knows what he’s doing — waiting for the right mix of guilt and curiosity.
“I can’t,” I say.
He shrugs. “Suit yourself. But when you’re done playin’ student, swing by the shop. We got work that needs a young set of legs.”
He flicks his cigarette out the window, drives off slow enough for me to watch the smoke trail.
I stand there till the sound fades, then head to school like I’m walking through fog.

School’s just noise. Teachers talking through walls of static, friends asking questions I don’t answer.
By lunch, Jayden and his crew are nowhere to be seen. Word travels fast when men in black jackets show up on your street.
But that’s the problem — word travels.
By the time I get home, someone’s told my mom.
She’s waiting on the porch, arms crossed, apron still on from work.
“Who were they, Aurelio?”
I stop on the steps. “Who?”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Her voice cracks, but she doesn’t back down. “The ones who saved you last night. The ones in the jackets.”
My stomach drops. Someone saw.
“I don’t know them,” I lie.
She studies my face, the way only a mother can — like she’s trying to find the truth hiding under my skin.
“I see things, you know,” she says softly. “You come home late, you smell like motor oil. Like smoke. Same smell your father used to carry.”
“It’s just the shop,” I say. “I walk by it every day.”
She shakes her head. “You think I don’t know what that place is? What it meant to him? What it took from us?”
Her eyes shine, but no tears fall. She’s too tired for tears now.
“You keep chasing his ghost, Aurelio, it’s gonna drag you down with it.”
She turns and goes inside.
I stay on the steps a long time, staring at the street.
When the sun starts dipping, a familiar hum rolls down the block — Marlo’s car again.
He doesn’t stop this time.
Just slows down enough for me to see him tap the roof twice before turning the corner.
A signal.
A reminder.
I don’t wave, but I know I’ll follow. Maybe not tonight. But soon.
Because no matter how many warnings my mother gives me, I’ve already chosen the road.
And like my father used to say — once you hear the street call your name, it’s already too late to pretend you didn’t answer.

Sneak peak Chapter 3 %#$%#$

The bell rings, and half the class disappears before the sound fades.
I take my time. Stuff my books in my bag, pull my hoodie up, keep my head down.
The teachers don’t ask questions anymore. They just watch me leave like I’m a storm cloud they’re praying passes over.
Outside, the air smells like burnt rubber and cafeteria fries.
The sky’s that weird mix of orange and gray — not quite sunset, not quite safe.
I start the walk toward Rico’s old shop.
Two years since the feds left it alone, and it’s been breathing again — louder than ever.
The Saints took it over right after Lonzo and his people dipped. Rico didn’t fight it. He owed Loui too much to say no.
Now it’s half garage, half front, all business.
The sound of tools and bass spills out the closer I get.
I step through the side door, same one I used to sneak through as a kid.
The air’s thick with smoke and oil, and the floor’s slick with that shine only hard work and bad choices make.
“Yo, Rio!”
It’s Tank, wiping grease off his hands, leaning over the hood of some busted Buick.
He nods toward the stairs. “Marlo’s up in the office waitin’ on you.”
“Yeah?” I say. “That bad?”
Tank just grins. “You’ll see.”
I take the metal steps slow, each one groaning under my weight.
Up top, the office hasn’t changed much — same cracked blinds, same dusty desk, same smell of cheap cigars.
Marlo’s sitting behind it, flipping through a stack of bills like it’s morning paper.
He looks up. “You late.”
“Bell just rang.”
He shrugs. “Then school’s too long.”
I drop my bag onto the chair across from him. “What’s the move?”
Marlo leans back, the old chair squeaking under him.
“We got a small run tonight. Simple handoff.”
I frown. “Didn’t you just have me drop envelopes last week?”
“This one’s different.” He reaches into a drawer, pulls out a baggie — thicker than usual, rolled tight with a rubber band.