Page 27

The sun had barely begun its descent, casting long shadows over the quiet street, when the first knock came.

Sharp. Firm. Unfamiliar.

Not a polite tap. Not a neighbor dropping by. This was intentional.

Traci, in the middle of folding laundry, froze. The faint laughter from the old sitcom playing in the background suddenly felt distant, insignificant. Her hands stilled over a fresh pile of towels, muscles tensing as a second knock landed, harder this time, more impatient.

Her brows pulled together. She wasn’t expecting anybody. And the last time someone came to her house unannounced…Yeah, it wasn’t for anything good.

She inhaled deeply, wiping her hands on her leggings before making her way to the front door. The second she cracked it open, she knew. The man on her porch wasn’t some lost delivery driver.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black from the bomber jacket to the heavy boots planted firm on her welcome mat. Attire all wrong for the June heat. His skin was deep brown, his expression unreadable, but there was something about him.

Something that made her stomach twist. Not out of fear, but because this wasn’t random. This was about Kenyatta.

His eyes moved over her, slow, deliberate, taking her in before he tipped his chin slightly. “You Traci?”

The casual tone did nothing to soften the weight behind the question.

Traci’s fingers tightened around the doorframe. She already knew. But she asked anyway.

“Who’s askin’?”

The man smirked slightly, a small, amused chuckle slipping from his lips as he shook his head.

“Ain’t even gotta do all that,” he said. “Just need you to pass somethin’ along to your boy.”

Traci’s jaw tightened. “My boy?”

He nodded once, shifting his stance just a little. “Yeah. Yatta. Kenyatta.”

The name rolled off his tongue smoothly, like it wasn’t the reason he was standing on her damn porch at dusk, bringing this to her front door.

Traci exhaled deeply, arms crossing over her chest. “What kinda message?”

That’s when he stepped forward. Not enough to invade her space; just enough to let her know he could.

“Tell him Rico still waiting on his money,” he said evenly. “And if he got time to be out, flossin’ with some new chick, then he got time to take care of what’s owed.”

That made her stomach twist. Not because she didn’t already know Kenyatta was mixed up in some shit, but because now it was on her damn doorstep.

Her voice came out cool but edged with warning. “You bringin’ this to my house? That’s what we doin’ now?”

The man—Bishop—smirked, lifting his hands slightly, as if to say relax.

“Look, Miss Traci…this ain’t even about you.”

Then his expression shifted, that casual edge fading as his tone dropped lower, sharper. “But if he don’t handle this? It will be.”

The unspoken threat settled between them like thick smoke.

Traci didn’t flinch. She stood there, eyes locked on his, making sure he saw what the hell she was made of.

Bishop must’ve seen enough, because a second later, he adjusted his jacket and took a slow step back.

“No disrespect. Just a message.”

And with that he turned, moving back toward the blacked-out SUV parked at the curb.

Traci watched him the entire way, her hands clenched into fists, rage simmering just beneath her skin.

The second he disappeared inside the vehicle and the tires rolled off the curb, she stepped back inside, the screen door creaking as she locked it twice.

She wasn’t shaken.

She was pissed.

And when Kenyatta walked his ass through that door later, he was going to have to answer for this shit. She told both her sons not to have that street mess come to her door.

Because one thing about Traci, she wasn’t about to let her son’s past become her present problem.

**********

The drive back to Bayfront Heights was quieter than usual.

No teasing. No quick remarks. No playful banter.

Just the steady hum of the tires against the pavement, the soft glow of streetlights flickering through the windshield, and the occasional sound of Kaliyah shifting in the backseat as she dozed off, worn out from the long night.

Krys gripped the wheel a little tighter, sneaking a glance at Kenyatta from the corner of her eye. He was staring out the passenger window, his jaw tight, his fingers lightly tapping against his knee. He wasn’t tense, but he was somewhere else; not here with her. She hated that she even noticed.

Krys let out a slow breath, focusing back on the road. Something was bothering him.

He had been himself at her mother’s house; laughing, eating, chopping it up with Panda, Stevie and Jared. He had even loosened up enough to tease her about her high-maintenance ways when she barely touched her plate because Pam had cooked smothered turkey wings instead of something “clean” like grilled salmon. But as the night wore on, something shifted. Kenyatta had gotten quiet again. Withdrawn.

Like something had settled back onto his shoulders. Something heavy.

One thing was for sure, Krys wasn’t used to caring this much about what was on a man’s mind. However, with Kenyatta, she cared.

By the time they pulled into her long, curved driveway, Krys could already feel the difference between this time and last. The night of the graduation, Kenyatta and Kaliyah had stayed. It had felt natural, easy. Everything made sense.

Tonight, he was leaving. It shouldn’t have made her feel like something was missing, but it did.

She put the car in park and turned off the engine. Kenyatta let out a small sigh and rubbed his hands together before turning to wake Kaliyah gently. She stirred, rubbing her eyes before mumbling sleepily, “We home?”

“Nah, baby, we at Ms. Krys’ house,” Kenyatta said softly, unbuckling her seatbelt.

Krys sat there for a second, gripping the wheel, ignoring the tightness in her chest as she realized he didn’t consider this home.

Wait.

Why would he?

Krys turned toward them, watching as Kenyatta lifted Kaliyah from the seat with the same care she had witnessed before; the kind of care that told her that, no matter what demons he battled, no matter what weight he carried, this little girl was the only thing that truly grounded him. That made her feel something even worse than disappointment.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out.

Instead, Kenyatta cut his eyes at her, already reading her before she could get a word in. “What?”

Krys hesitated. “Y’all not staying?”

Kenyatta didn’t answer immediately. He just held her gaze, like he was debating how much to say. Finally, he exhaled. “Not tonight.”

She nodded, playing it off like that didn’t affect her. “Is there a reason why?”

Kenyatta smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You must enjoy having me around?”

Krys rolled her eyes, but even that felt like a weak defense. “You wish.”

Kenyatta chuckled under his breath, adjusting Kaliyah’s weight in his arms. “Nah, I just think we both know…last time?” He let the thought hang before shaking his head. “Can’t have too many close calls.”

Krys’ stomach dipped. So that was it.

She challenged him, arms crossing. “Scared?”

Kenyatta scoffed, shifting Kaliyah’s sleepy head against his shoulder. “Nah. Just cautious.”

Krys’ lips parted slightly, the weight of those words pressing against something she wasn’t ready to name.

Cautious .

That meant he knew something was there; that also meant he felt it too.

But instead of pushing, instead of prying, Krys just gave him a slow nod. “Fair enough.”

And that was it. No long goodbye. No lingering moment. Just Kenyatta walking off with Kaliyah in his arms, moving like a man who knew he couldn’t let himself get too comfortable.

Krys sat in that driver’s seat a little longer than she should have; not ready to admit that it bothered her, and it hurt more than it should have.

Suddenly, being in her big home, alone, didn’t bring her the same comfort as it had before.

**********

Kenyatta drove through the dimly lit streets of Trinity, his grip on the wheel tighter than usual.

The city pulsed around him, neon lights flickering, sidewalks still busy with people moving through the night. Laughter spilled from late-night lounges, streetlights glowed against wet pavement, and the faint bass of a car rolling past shook the air. But he wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

His mind was stuck elsewhere.

Every time he blinked, he saw Krys standing in her driveway, arms crossed, eyes holding something unspoken. That shit sat heavy in his spirit.

And it wasn’t because she had pressed him, or because she had said anything to make him stay; but because she hadn’t.

She had just looked at him like she knew something was wrong. For a split second, he had almost told her. Almost let the words slip about Jay-1, about Rico. About how no matter how hard he tried to leave the past where it was, it still had its grip on his neck.

But something stopped him, and now he was just sitting with it.

By the time he pulled up to his mama’s house, Kaliyah was still knocked out cold in the backseat. He sat there for a minute, watching her sleep. Her small fingers curled around the fabric of her dress, her lips slightly parted, her little chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She looked so damn peaceful.

His stomach twisted with guilt because what if he didn’t figure this shit out in time? What if the past caught up to him before he could give her the life she deserved? What if he wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, strong enough to keep her safe?

He swallowed hard, shaking the thought off.

Can’t think like that.

Carefully, he unbuckled her seatbelt and lifted her out of the car. She barely stirred, as he lifted her into his arms, her small frame curling into his chest. He carried her inside, shoulders tensing the moment he stepped over the threshold.

Something was off.

When he looked up, Traci was right there.

Waiting.

Traci sat in the living room, arms folded, knee bouncing slightly, the way it always did when she was holding something in.

The TV was on, but the volume was low.

The moment he shut the door, she cut her eyes at him. She instructed, “Put her in the back. Then sit down.”

Kenyatta clenched his jaw. He hated when she talked to him like that, like he was still that hard-headed nigga she used to cuss out for running the streets. But he didn’t argue.

Not yet.

He walked Kaliyah to his mama’s bedroom, laying her down gently, tucking the blanket around her small shoulders. She stirred but didn’t wake, exhaustion keeping her still.

When he came back out, Traci was already waiting, perched on the edge of the couch, arms still crossed tight.

As soon as he dropped onto the couch across from her, she let it fly.

“You mind tellin’ me why the fuck some man named Bishop was on my porch earlier?”

Kenyatta stiffened slightly, his jaw clenching before he forced himself to relax.

Bishop.

He should’ve known Rico wasn’t playing. Still, he exhaled, rubbing his hand down his beard before answering.

“What he say?”

Traci’s nostrils flared. “Nigga, don’t play with me.”

Kenyatta grimaced slightly, shaking his head. “I ain’t playing, I’m asking.”

Traci leaned back, arms crossing tighter.

“He came talkin’ ‘bout you got unfinished business with Rico.”

Silence.

“You wanna tell me what the mothafucka talkin’ ‘bout? What unfinished business?”

Kenyatta sat there for a long moment, fingers tapping against his knee. He wasn’t surprised. He knew this shit was coming eventually. But showing up at his mama’s house was a bold ass move; a move that meant Rico was done waiting.

Still, he couldn’t let Traci see how much this shit actually bothered him. He didn’t want to alarm her.

He leaned back, his tone calm, but firm. “Ain’t nothing you need to be worried about.”

Traci’s face twisted into something sharp. “Oh, so now I just let random mothafuckas show up at my goddamn house asking about my fuckin’ son and I’m just supposed to ignore it?”

Kenyatta exhaled through his nose. “Man, chill…I’ll handle it.”

Traci shook her head, voice dropping lower. “Nah, see…that’s the problem.” She sat forward, eyes locked on his. “You keep actin’ like you can just handle shit, Yatta. Like you don’t bring this bullshit right back to my front door every time.”

Kenyatta gritted his teeth. “Mama, I got it.”

Traci chuckled, cold. “No, the fuck you don’t.”

Kenyatta’s jaw flexed, but Traci wasn’t done.

She pointed at him, voice low, sharp enough to cut. “You wanna fuck around and pretend like you somethin’ you not?”

Her eyes darkened.

“Then you better make sure your bullshit don’t end up in my house again.”

Silence.

Kenyatta’s hands curled into loose fists, his frustration clear, but his face remained calm.

“Bet.” He stood up. “Then you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me being here no more.”

He turned to head back to the bedroom for Kaliyah, but Traci was already shaking her head.

“Nah.”

Kenyatta paused, looking back at her, brows furrowed. “What?”

Traci’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You not takin’ her with you.”

Kenyatta’s stomach dropped. “Mama, what the f—”

“You heard me,” she snapped, standing up now, facing him head-on. “It’s too dangerous. I’m not lettin’ you drag her around while you got niggas out there looking for your dumb ass.”

Kenyatta’s jaw tensed. “She my daughter, Mama. She coming with me.”

Traci stepped forward, voice dangerous now. “She my granddaughter, and if you think for one second I’m about to let her get caught up in whatever the fuck you got goin’ on out there,” her nostrils flared, “you got me fucked up.”

Kenyatta and Traci stood toe-to-toe, the weight of the moment pressing down hard between them. Silence, dangerous and charged.

Kenyatta knew he wasn’t going to win this. Not tonight. Not with Bishop already sending messages and Rico tightening the grip. Especially not with Traci standing between him and his daughter, daring him to try her.

His fists clenched at his sides, his breathing heavy. Finally, he nodded once, jaw still locked. His voice was low, edged in something sharp. “Fine. I’ll be back for her.”

Traci’s expression didn’t change. “Make sure you still around to do that.”

Kenyatta didn’t say another word. He just turned, yanked the door open, and stepped into the night, anger and pressure weighing on him heavier than ever.

As Traci locked the door behind him, she closed her eyes and let out a slow, shaky breath, because deep down she was terrified he wouldn’t make it back.

**********

The old warehouse Rico operated out of was quiet. The low bass of a speaker rattled somewhere in the back, its deep hum vibrating through the metal walls like an unspoken warning.

Kenyatta pulled up, cutting the engine, rolling his shoulders once before cracking his neck. His mind was clear now. No distractions. Just business. Right now, that business was Rico. Kenyatta wasn’t the type to let a nigga test him, and Rico was pushing it.

Inside, Rico was already posted up, leaning back in his chair, waiting like he had all the time in the world. Trell stood nearby, arms crossed, watching like a damn referee, clearly enjoying the show before it even started.

Kenyatta walked in, movements slow, deliberate, taking in the space with a practiced eye.

Rico sneered as he sat forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “Well, well, well,” he drawled. “Look who finally decided to pop out.”

Kenyatta didn’t react. Didn’t blink. Didn’t acknowledge the bait. He just stared, slow blinking, like he was already over the conversation before it even started.

He began, voice too calm. “Look here, nigga…Why you sending muhfuckas to my mama’s house like I’m some regular ass nigga off the street? We ain’t on that, my nigga. I know I owe you; I’ma get you yo’ bread when I get it, but that other shit, my nigga…” his head tilted slightly, “ain’t no none of that happening no mo’.”

Trell let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn, somebody’s nerve was touched, huh?”

Kenyatta didn’t even acknowledge him; his eyes stayed locked on Rico.

Rico smirked, rubbing his chin. “Nah. You are some regular ass nigga off the street now.”

Silence.

Kenyatta leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Ain’t shit regular ‘bout me, muhfucka. And you know that.”

Rico’s smug smile didn’t drop, but his eyes darkened just slightly. As much as he liked to downplay it; he knew exactly who Kenyatta was. And the fact that he pulled up alone, unbothered, and standing ten toes down was a reminder.

Rico leaned back, exhaling smoothly.

“Ain’t nobody disrespectin’ you, Yatta,” he said easily. “Just lettin’ you know; it’s been seven years. That shit ain’t disappear just ‘cause you went on a little vacation.”

Kenyatta snarled, tilting his head. “You think I don’t know that?”

Rico shrugged. “Then act like it.”

Kenyatta stared him down. “I’ma handle my shit. But I ain’t never been no nigga you gotta put pressure on.”

Rico chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, maybe not, but you needed a nudge.”

Kenyatta held Rico’s stare a second longer, his expression unreadable. His hands stayed loose at his sides, jaw tight, posture steady. Calm. Controlled. Calculating.

Then, he turned to leave. But before he could step out…

“Oh, and Yatta?”

Trell’s voice slithered through the air, oozing arrogance, laced with the kind of smugness that made a nigga wanna swing first and ask questions later.

Kenyatta stopped, head tilting slightly, waiting.

Trell leaned against the desk, posture relaxed, grinning like the devil himself.

“All that shit you used to say about your baby mama? Yeah…” He chuckled, low and slow, shaking his head. “I see what you meant now. That throat? Never lets me down.”

A slow, deafening pause.

Rico’s obnoxious grin stretched wider, watching the energy shift like a predator watching prey twitch before the kill.

Kenyatta didn’t move. Didn’t react; not at first. His face remained unreadable, inside a storm was brewing.

Trell, standing there with that shit eating grin, tilted his head. “What, nigga? You mad?”

Kenyatta exhaled slowly through his nose, rolling his tongue over his teeth. Then, finally, he glanced over his shoulder. A slow, deliberate look.

“Nah.”

The smirk he gave them was damn near chilling. Just slight enough to let them know he wasn’t rattled; he was processing. Memorizing this moment. Adding names to a list.

The air in the room was thick, suffocating, and laced with an unspoken promise.

Rico let out a slow, dark chuckle. “Good. I’d hate for you to get distracted when we still got unfinished business.”

Kenyatta nodded once. “Yeah. We do.”

Then, without another word, he walked out.

Make no mistake, that shit with Trell was personal; but Rico was a different beast, and before anything else he had to be handled.