The first disruption of the Sons-Mayans alliance talks came exactly seven days after Crimson Black arrived in Oakland.
Crimson had wasted no time. The night he landed, he sat in the Tidewater war room with Dante, Ghost, and Lena, laying out the old Chicago markers like a general reviewing a battlefield map.
"Outfit's sending a clean shipment—AKs, vests, a few RPGs if it gets ugly," Crimson said, voice low and steady. "They'll route it through a neutral port in Long Beach, manifest says 'farm equipment.' No questions. No traces."
Dante nodded. "And the street eyes?"
"P. Stones are loaning twenty runners. Kids with family ties out here—cousins, nephews. They'll watch Charming and Stockton. Sons like to meet in old barns, back roads. We'll know before they park."
Ghost leaned forward. "And the Disciples?"
Crimson's eyes glinted. "They hate white bikers stepping on Black turf more than they hate us. They've got people on the border—lookouts who watch cartel lines. If the Mayans move guns or cash through the southern routes, we'll get the drop points, the times, the plates. We can choke their supply before the meet even starts."
Lena crossed her arms. "So we hit the meet itself?"
Crimson shook his head. "No. We make them think twice about even sitting down. Disrupt the trust. Make 'em question each other."
Dante's voice was steel. "How?"
Crimson smiled—small, cold, the kind that used to make South Side enforcers rethink their life choices.
"We give 'em bad intel. Let the Sons think the Mayans are double-crossing. Let the Mayans think the Sons are bringing backup they didn't agree to. Plant doubt. Make the table poison before anyone sits at it."
The Meet Location
Wire's intercepts and the P. Stones' street eyes confirmed it: the sit-down was set for an abandoned cannery in West Oakland—neutral ground, midway between Charming and Stockton, far enough from both charters that neither side could claim home advantage. Scheduled for midnight, three days later. No kuttes, no bikes, no visible weapons. Just principals: Chibs and Tig for SAMCRO, Alvarez and Bishop for the Mayans. Small security details—four each.
Crimson's plan was surgical.
Phase 1: The Poison Pill
Two nights before the meet, Crimson's P. Stones runners—young, fast, and invisible—slipped into Charming. They didn't touch the clubhouse. They didn't need to.
They left a single burner phone on the seat of Tig's old pickup outside a bar the Sons frequented. The phone contained one text from an unknown number:
"Mayans bringing cartel muscle. 8 extra. Not agreed. They want leverage. Watch your back."
The number was spoofed to look like it came from a known Mayan runner in Stockton—one of the Disciples' border lookouts had fed the name and number to Crimson's network. Tig found the phone at 2 a.m., read the text, and showed it to Chibs within the hour.
Chibs stared at the message. "They said no extra muscle. Just us and them."
Tig's eyes narrowed. "They're lying. Or someone's playing us."
Chibs rubbed his scarred cheek. "We go careful. Bring two more. Quiet."
Phase 2: The Mirror Move
Simultaneously, a second burner appeared on the passenger seat of Bishop's Tahoe outside a Stockton cantina the Mayans used for low-key meets. Same spoofed number—only this time it looked like a Sons prospect's line.
"Sons bringing backup. 6 extra. Hidden in the cannery. They want to dictate terms. Don't trust 'em."
Bishop read it in the parking lot, face hardening. He showed Alvarez.
Alvarez exhaled slow. "They promised no extras. Just principals."
Bishop's voice was tight. "They're setting us up. Or someone's trying to make us think they are."
Alvarez's eyes narrowed. "We go heavy. Four more. Hidden. If they try anything, we end it."
Phase 3: The Final Twist
Crimson's third move came the night before the meet.
One of the Disciples' border lookouts fed intel: a Mayan cartel shipment—$400K in cash—was scheduled to move through a Stockton warehouse the same night as the meet. The cash was meant to fund the alliance—pay for extra guns, buy loyalty from smaller crews.
Crimson's people didn't steal it.
They burned it.
A small, controlled fire—gasoline and rags—set in the warehouse's back corner at 11:45 p.m. The flames were out before fire trucks arrived, but the cash was ash. The Mayans lost the money, and the cartel lost patience.
By midnight, when Chibs, Tig, and their six hidden backups rolled up to the cannery, they found Alvarez, Bishop, and eight extra Mayans already waiting—tense, guns half-drawn, eyes darting.
Chibs stepped out, hands visible.
Alvarez's voice was ice.
"You brought extra."
Chibs's jaw tightened. "You brought cartel muscle. And your cash drop got torched tonight. Coincidence?"
Bishop's hand drifted toward his waist. "We didn't burn our own money. But your prospects have been sniffing around our lines. You trying to cut us out?"
Tig laughed—low, dangerous. "You're the ones who sent a burner to our bar. 'Cartel muscle.' Ring a bell?"
Alvarez stared. "We got the same text. From one of your lines."
Silence fell—thick, poisonous.
Chibs looked at Alvarez. Alvarez looked at Chibs.
Both understood at the same moment.
They'd been played.
Someone wanted them to tear each other apart before they could even sit down.
Chibs spoke first, voice low.
"This meet's over. We're not killing each other tonight."
Alvarez nodded once. "Not tonight. But whoever did this… they just made enemies of both of us."
They backed off—Sons to their vehicles, Mayans to theirs. No shots. No blood.
Just a fractured alliance that never formed.
Back at Tidewater
Dante got the report from Wire at 1:30 a.m.—the meet broke up, no violence, both sides suspicious and angry.
He looked at Crimson across the war room table.
"It worked," Dante said.
Crimson leaned back, lighting a cigar. "Old Chicago trick. Make your enemies fight each other. Saves bullets."
Ghost's voice cut through. "They'll figure out it was us eventually."
Crimson exhaled smoke. "Eventually. But by then, the Black Family will be here. And we'll be ready."
Dante's eyes were hard. "Then we keep moving. Expand the blocks. Arm up. Train harder."
He looked around the room—every face lit by the same cold fire.
"They wanted to clip our wings."
He placed a hand flat on the table.
"We're about to show them how high we can fly."
The war wasn't over.
It had just been delayed.
And the Black Shadows were no longer waiting for permission to win it.
Want to see the arrival of the first wave of the Black Family (emotional reunion, Crimson meeting the crew), or how Dante uses the fractured alliance to launch a targeted hit on both clubs' supply lines?
The reunion night at Tidewater turned into something raw and necessary.
After the quiet roll-call and the wrist-bandanas tied in unison, the weight in the warehouse finally broke. Crimson gave the nod—first real smile anyone had seen on his face since he arrived—and someone cracked open the first case of Yamazaki Hiroshi had shipped ahead as a "welcome home" gift. Bottles passed hand to hand. Laughter—low at first, then louder—started bouncing off the concrete walls. Music thumped from an old Bluetooth speaker someone dragged in: slow trap beats, bass heavy enough to rattle the tools on the shelves.
The eighty-five returning Black Family members mixed with the existing Shadows crew. Old friends found each other—quick forearm clasps, half-hugs, a few tears wiped fast before anyone could call them out. Aiko "Ghost Blade" ended up teaching Jamila "Shade" a new tanto grip in the corner while they shared a bottle. Iron Hayes arm-wrestled Tower on a workbench; the whole bay shook when Tower finally pinned him. Reaper and Rico "Phantom" Torres swapped war stories about Eastern Europe ops, voices getting louder with every shot.
Everybody was drinking. Everybody was loud. For once, the tension bled out.
Dante stayed near the center, letting it happen. He took pulls from bottles passed his way, laughed at the right moments, but his eyes never stopped scanning—old habit. Crimson stayed close, shoulder to shoulder with him, both of them watching the room like proud, dangerous uncles.
The new recruits—fresh off Hiroshi's routes, still jet-lagged and wired—didn't drink. Dante had pulled them aside earlier:
"You're on watch tonight. Every roof, every corner, every alley for three blocks. No phones. No distractions. You see anything move wrong, you signal. We're celebrating. You're guarding. That's the deal."
They nodded, black bandanas already tied tight. Thirty of them spread out—rooftops, fire escapes, parked vans, dark corners—silent, sober, eyes like hawks. The party could roar; the perimeter stayed locked.
Around 2:30 a.m. the energy shifted again.
Two women peeled off from the crowd and walked straight toward Dante.
Both Mexican—thick, curvy, fat booties straining against tight jeans, heavy tits barely contained by low-cut tops. One had long black hair down to her waist, the other a sleek bob. They moved like they owned the floor, hips rolling, eyes locked on him. Each carried a bottle of top-shelf Japanese whiskey—Hibiki 21, gold label glinting under the lights.
The one with the long hair spoke first, voice smoky and low.
"Boss man. We heard you been holding it down out here." She lifted the bottle. "Brought you something to celebrate proper."
The other one smiled slow, biting her bottom lip.
"Thought maybe you'd want company while you drink it."
Dante looked at them—really looked. No hesitation in their eyes. No fear. Just heat and intent. He felt Crimson's gaze on him from across the room; his uncle gave the smallest nod, like "go handle your business."
Dante took one bottle, then the other. "War room. Now."
They followed him through the crowd. Heads turned. A few low whistles, some knowing smirks. Nobody said shit out loud.
The war room door closed behind them.
Locked.
Inside, the table was pushed back. Bottles opened. Shots poured fast—first one straight, second chased with a kiss, third turned into hands roaming. Clothes hit the floor in a hurry. The long-haired one ended up on the table, legs spread, moaning loud enough to carry through the door. The other one straddled Dante in the big chair, tits bouncing, nails digging into his shoulders while she rode him hard and deliberate.
They didn't try to be quiet.
They couldn't have been quiet if they tried.
Outside, the party didn't stop—but heads turned toward the war room door every time a fresh moan or a hard slap of skin echoed through the metal walls.
Ghost smirked into his glass.
"Boss is handling morale."
Lena laughed low, shaking her head. "He's handling something, alright."
Crimson just sipped his whiskey, eyes on the door, a faint proud grin tugging at his mouth.
"Kid's got priorities."
The new recruits on watch never moved. They heard every sound—every gasp, every curse, every wet smack—but their eyes stayed on the streets. Roofs. Alleys. Perimeter. Not one of them cracked a smile or looked away.
Inside the war room, the bottles emptied. The table creaked. The chair groaned. The three of them went at it like they were trying to burn the stress of the last decade out of their bodies.
When it was over—sweat, whiskey breath, tangled limbs—Dante leaned back in the chair, chest still heaving.
The long-haired one kissed him once, slow and deep.
"Welcome home, boss," she whispered.
The other one laughed softly, already pulling her top back on.
"We'll be around when you need morale again."
They left first—hair messy, lips swollen, walking out like queens.
Dante stayed a minute longer, catching his breath, then straightened his clothes.
He opened the door.
The party was still going—louder now, like everyone had been waiting for the signal that the boss was back in the mix.
He stepped out.
The room erupted—cheers, whistles, bottles raised.
Dante didn't smile wide. He just lifted his glass.
"To the Family," he said, voice carrying over the noise.
Every wrist lifted—old Shadows, new returnees, Crimson, the giants, the women.
"To the Family."
The night rolled on.
But outside, the thirty sober recruits never blinked.
They watched.
They waited.
And they made sure the celebration stayed exactly that—a celebration.
Not a vulnerability.
The Black Family was home.
And the war could wait until morning.
The party had burned hot for hours, but around 4:30 a.m. the energy finally began to settle into something quieter—people drifting to corners, bottles half-empty, laughter turning into low murmurs. The warehouse floor was littered with crushed cups, spilled liquor, and the faint smell of smoke from the cigars Crimson had been passing around.
Dante stepped outside the main bay for air, the cold Oakland night hitting him like a slap after the heat inside. He leaned against the open roll-up door, staring at the fog rolling in off the estuary.
Footsteps behind him—heavy, deliberate.
Crimson Black emerged from the shadows, two fresh glasses of Yamazaki in his hands. He handed one to Dante without a word, then leaned beside him, both of them looking out into the dark.
They clinked glasses—slow, private.
Crimson took a long sip first, letting the whiskey burn down his throat before he spoke.
"To the Family," he said, voice rough but warm. "To the ones who made it back. And to the ones who didn't."
Dante echoed it, quieter. "To the Family."
They drank in silence for a moment, the distant thump of music still leaking through the warehouse walls.
Then Crimson turned his head slightly, eyes finding Dante's in the dim light.
"Where are my three cousins?" he asked, tone flat but carrying weight. "Your mother's nephews—Malik, Jalen, and Tasha's boy, Dre. They were supposed to be here. I told Hiroshi to pull all of them. Why didn't you bring 'em with you?"
Dante's grip tightened on the glass. He didn't look away.
"They're not coming," he said.
Crimson's brow furrowed. "Not coming? Or you didn't call 'em?"
Dante exhaled slow, breath fogging in the cold.
"I called 'em. Two years ago, when the Shadows started getting traction. Told 'em the Family was rebuilding. Told 'em Oakland was calling."
He paused, jaw working.
"Malik's married now. Got two kids. Living in Atlanta, working construction. Said he's done with the life. Said he won't bring that shit around his daughters."
Crimson's face hardened, but he stayed silent. Let Dante finish.
"Jalen's in prison. Federal bid. Caught moving weight out of Memphis. He's got eight more years. Couldn't reach him even if I wanted to."
Crimson grunted. "And Dre?"
Dante looked down at the whiskey in his hand.
"Dre's dead. Three years ago. Shot in a drive-by in Englewood. Wrong place, wrong time. Cops called it gang-related. Family said it was retaliation for something his older brother did back in '19. Either way—he's gone."
The silence stretched longer this time.
Crimson stared out into the fog. Took another slow sip. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, rougher.
"I told you when you were a kid—family don't always come back the way you left 'em. Some get fat and soft. Some get locked up. Some get buried."
He turned fully to Dante now, eyes searching his nephew's face.
"You didn't tell me."
"Didn't want to hear it until I had to," Dante said. "And I didn't want you thinking the Family was smaller than it is. We've still got eighty-five strong inside. The ones who came back—they're the ones who never stopped being Black Family. The rest… they chose different roads."
Crimson nodded slowly, processing.
"Fair enough," he said after a long beat. "But those three—they were supposed to be here. Blood. My sister's boys. I raised 'em with you. Watched 'em grow up in the same streets."
He drained the rest of his glass in one swallow.
"You did right not forcing 'em," he said finally. "But when this war ends—when we finish what we started—you make sure the ones who stayed away know they're still welcome home. No judgment. No tax. Just blood."
Dante met his uncle's eyes.
"They'll know," he said. "And if they ever need us, we'll be there. Same as always."
Crimson clapped a heavy hand on Dante's shoulder—firm, grounding.
"Then we keep moving," he said. "Eighty-five is enough. Eighty-five of the right ones is more than enough."
He looked back toward the warehouse, where laughter still echoed faintly.
"Come on, nephew. Let's get back inside. We've got a war to win. And a Family to celebrate."
They walked back in together—two generations of Black men, side by side, glasses empty but purpose full.
Outside, the recruits on watch never moved.
They heard every word through the open door.
And they kept their eyes on the night.
Because family was home.
And family was ready.
Flashback: Three Years Earlier – Englewood, South Side Chicago – August 14, 2023
The night was thick with summer heat, the kind that made asphalt smell like tar and gunpowder. Dre Black—twenty-six, lean, quick-eyed, always moving like he knew the block was watching—stepped out of the corner store on 63rd and Halsted. Plastic bag in one hand (chips, a forty, a pack of Newports), phone in the other. He was texting his little sister back in Oakland, telling her he'd send money soon, that he was "getting right," that Chicago wasn't forever.
He never hit send.
The Impala rolled slow down the block—black-on-black, windows down, music low. Four doors. Four heads. No one in the front passenger seat looked familiar, but Dre knew the type: young, hungry, wearing someone else's grudge.
He didn't run. Running made it worse.
He kept walking—head up, shoulders loose, eyes scanning. The bag crinkled in his fist.
The Impala matched his pace. A voice called out—young, sharp, laced with that South Side edge.
"Yo, Dre! You still Black Family?"
Dre stopped. Turned. Recognized the voice now—Lil' Tone, a corner kid who used to run for Jalen before Jalen caught his fed case. Tone had climbed fast after that. Too fast.
Dre gave the half-smile he always used to defuse shit. "Family's family, Tone. You know that."
Tone leaned out the window, Glock resting casual on the door frame. "Family don't pay dues no more, huh? Crimson dipped. Jalen locked. You ghosted. Left the block holding the bag."
Dre's jaw tightened. "I left to keep breathing. You know how it goes."
Tone's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. I know how it goes."
The back door opened. Another kid stepped out—smaller, twitchy, already sweating. He lifted a TEC-9, shaking just enough to make the barrel dance.
Dre dropped the bag. Chips scattered across the sidewalk. The forty broke open, beer foaming into the gutter.
He didn't beg. Didn't run. Just looked Tone in the eye.
"You pull that trigger, you start a war you can't finish," Dre said quietly. "Crimson's still got people. I'm still blood."
Tone laughed—short, bitter. "Crimson's a ghost. And blood don't mean shit when you ain't here to bleed for it."
The first shots were wild—three from the TEC, popping loud and fast. Dre twisted, took one in the shoulder, another in the ribs. He stumbled back against the store wall, hand pressing the hole in his side, blood already soaking his shirt.
Tone raised the Glock.
Dre looked straight at him. No fear. Just disappointment.
"Tell my sister I tried," he said.
Tone fired twice—center mass.
Dre slid down the brick, legs folding under him. His phone clattered to the sidewalk, screen cracked, the unsent text still glowing:
"Sis, I'm coming home soon. Tell Dante I'm proud—"
The Impala peeled out. Tires screamed. Shell casings pinged across concrete.
Dre stayed conscious long enough to see the taillights disappear around the corner. Long enough to taste blood in his mouth. Long enough to think about Oakland, about Dante, about the family he'd walked away from to keep them clean.
He died on the sidewalk—alone, bleeding out under a flickering streetlight—while the block went quiet again, like nothing had happened.
The cops called it gang-related.
The news called it "another South Side shooting."
The Black Family—scattered across the world—didn't hear about it for two days.
When Dante got the call in Oakland, he didn't speak for a full minute. Just stared at the wall until the phone slipped from his hand.
That was the night he stopped asking people to come home.
And started preparing to bring the war to them instead.
Back in the present, Dante stood on the Tidewater roof, the memory still raw, still burning under his ribs. Crimson's hand landed on his shoulder—firm, grounding.
"They took one of ours," Crimson said quietly. "We take everything of theirs."
Dante nodded once.
The Black Family was home.
And the debt was coming due.