Page 24

The sun was beginning to set, casting a deep orange glow over the city, but inside the warehouse there was no warmth. Just cold concrete, dim lighting, and the low hum of conversation between men who didn’t waste time on small talk.

Rico stood near the large metal desk, his presence calm but commanding, his expression unreadable as he flipped through a folder of paperwork. He always moved with patience, never rushing, never reacting emotionally. That was how he kept his grip tight in Southside Haven.

Controlled power.

Across from him, Trell leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Rico with that familiar smirk, one that always meant something was brewing.

“You gon’ handle this soft or hard?” Trell asked, already knowing the answer.

Rico let out a slow exhale, setting the folder down. “Nigga out here thinking shit sweet,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Like I forgot.”

Trell nodded. “So, what’s the move?”

Rico tapped his fingers against the desk, thinking. He wasn’t about to do anything messy.

Not yet.

This wasn’t about starting a war, it was about reminding Kenyatta where he always stood. Right now, Kenyatta had too much peace. That shit was about to change.

See, Rico wasn’t a loud or reckless man. He didn’t throw tantrums like some of these young niggas who let their emotions rule them. That was the difference between a boss and a soldier.

A nigga like Kenyatta had the potential to be something serious, but seven years inside had made him soft. He wasn’t moving with urgency. He was out here walking free, eating good, acting like a man with no weight on his back. In Rico’s eyes, that shit was disrespectful.

Rico had fronted Kenyatta a play before he got locked up, a play that should’ve made both of them a lot of money. But then Kenyatta got snatched, that money disappeared.

He let the seven years slide because he figured Kenyatta was out of the way, but now that he was back, there was no excuse. Seven years didn’t erase a debt. And Rico didn’t do forgiveness.

Rico pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts before landing on a name.

Bishop . A man who specialized in sending messages that couldn’t be ignored.

Rico shot off a quick text:

[Rico] 6:53PM— Need you to tap in. Location inbound.

Then, he looked up at Trell. “Bishop gon’ pay our boy a visit.”

Trell raised a brow. “Where at?”

Rico sneered. “His mama’s house.”

Trell let out a low whistle, nodding.

“Now that?” he said, laughing under his breath. “That’s gon’ get his attention.”

“You goddamn right.” Rico lifted the cigar to his lips, taking a slow drag, the ember flaring against the darkness. His dark eyes gleamed beneath the flickering industrial lights.

Rico wasn’t going to snatch Kenyatta off the streets.

Yet.

But he would remind him that this wasn’t just about him. Men like Kenyatta thought they could disappear, change, move differently. But Rico knew every man had something to lose. And if Kenyatta wasn’t worried about himself, then he’d make him worry about Traci.

Bishop wasn’t being sent there to put hands on her. Rico wasn’t stupid; hurting a man’s mother got the wrong kind of attention, but a visit…Or a quiet knock at the door followed by a polite but unsettling conversation?

That was pressure.

That was enough to make Kenyatta feel the walls closing in, because when the streets came knocking on your mama’s doorstep you had to answer.

The warehouse remained eerily quiet except for the occasional hum of voices outside and the faint echo of dripping water somewhere in the distance. The scent of motor oil and metal lingered in the air, but Rico wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

His focus was locked on the folder in his hands, flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for: a list of property records.

His eyes landed on one name in particular.

Krysta Davis.

Rico grimaced, tilting his head. “She own all that shit, huh?” he murmured.

Trell, who had been casually scrolling through his own phone, leaned over to look. “Mmhmm. Couple complexes, some high-end spots. Her name ring bells. Brooke said that’s who the nigga working for.”

That made Rico pause.

Kenyatta working for a bitch? And not just any bitch, but an ol’ bougie bitch. And one with a past and questionable connections.

Something was up with that; which meant the pressure needed to apply differently.

Rico exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb over his jawline as he pieced together the situation in his mind. He set the folder down, pressing his palms against the desk.

“A’ight. Here’s how we play it.”

Trell straightened up, watching him carefully.

“We got two angles now.” Rico held up two fingers. “First, Bishop gon’ pay a visit to Traci’s house. We keep it light; just enough to remind Kenyatta that I ain’t forgot about my money.”

Trell nodded. “And the second?”

Rico’s smirk deepened. “We start looking into this Davis bitch.”

Trell arched a brow. “You tryna say she in some shit?”

Rico exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I dunno yet. But either way, if she’s important to Kenyatta…” He tapped his temple. “Then she’s important to me.”

He reached for his phone again, this time dialing a number connected to the Mendez operation, the cartel that controlled Ghost Waters, the docks that served as the lifeline between Trinity Bay and the international drug trade. Nothing moved in or out without their say so. The Mendez family had been running the docks for decades, and while they played the role of businessmen in public, behind the scenes, they were the gatekeepers of the city’s illicit flow. Efficient. Ruthless. Untouchable. And one thing was certain; they hated K9’s power but respected that he kept things running smooth. If war ever popped off between K9 and Mendez the whole city would burn.

The line rang twice before someone answered. “Yeah.”

Rico recognized the voice immediately. Gallo. One of Mendez’s lieutenants. Cautious. Paranoid. The type of man who never said more than necessary.

“Who’s Krysta Davis?” Rico asked, voice smooth but firm.

There was a pause; just long enough for Rico to know Gallo was debating how much to give up.

“Ain’t much to say.” Gallo’s voice was measured, deliberate. “She got pull, though.”

“Yeah? What kind?”

Another pause. Then, “She one of K9’s.”

Rico’s brows furrowed slightly. One of K9’s?

That was interesting.

Kenyatta working for a woman tied to K9’s operation? That didn’t necessarily mean anything, but it could.

Rico had heard whispers; nothing solid, just rumors. Some said Kenyatta was just working for her, trying to keep his nose clean. Others implied something different. But Rico didn’t move on speculation. He moved on facts. And this definitely needed confirmation.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a thumb over his jaw. “You know if she and Kenyatta got something going on?”

Gallo let out a short breath. “Ain’t heard nothin’ like that.”

Rico smirked. “But you heard somethin’.”

Gallo didn’t respond immediately. “I heard he work for her. That’s it. But if you ask me? If she’s tied to K9, you don’t wanna go diggin’.”

Rico chuckled under his breath. “I appreciate the concern, Gallo. But I dig wherever the fuck I want.”

Gallo’s voice was cool. “Suit yourself.” Then, the line went dead.

Rico sat there for a moment, rolling the information over in his mind. Kenyatta was out here playing employee to a woman with connections to K9. That could mean nothing, or it could mean everything. Either way he was going to find out.

He tossed his phone onto the desk and looked at Trell, eyes sharp. “Now we know where to start.”

Because if Kenyatta wasn’t scared of a debt, then maybe it was time to put pressure on the one thing he didn’t see coming.