Page 31

In the makeshift parking, Kenyatta and Krys congregated amongst the city’s most seasoned and strategic players in the game. They weren’t just some young niggas trying to make a name; these were men who knew The Water like the back of their hands. They’d swam in it for years, some almost drowned, some learned how to make waves.

The War Lords hailed from the Deuce-Ace, most notorious part of Southside Haven, known for grimy street politics, abandoned buildings, and crews that never slept. They also had jurisdiction over Havenwood Heights, the housing projects stretched out like a forgotten promise, tucked away on the Southside of Trinity, past the last gas station and liquor store on Hamilton Blvd. The War Lords controlled street-level drug sales, chop shops, and underground gambling rings; a force to be feared.

Presently, they were discussing some unfamiliar boats trying to set sail in their ocean.

“Aye,” Tez, leaning against his all-black Charger, exhaled thick smoke. “Word is, some new niggas tryna play The Bay like it’s sweet.”

Nub, arm and a half crossed, expression unreadable, nodded slowly. “Yeah. Hush work comin’ in from over east, but it ain’t got K9’s stamp. And if it ain’t got K9’s stamp? That mean somebody playin’ dangerous.”

Duke, rocking a fresh gold chain, twisted his face in disapproval, while tugging at one of his locs. “They building sandcastles, bruh. Flashy now, but they gon’ crumble soon as the tide hit.”

Kenyatta, leaning against the hood of Krys’ Porsche, barely reacted, but he was listening. Watching, reading between the lines.

“What they moving?” he finally asked.

Tez flicked his cigarette. “It ain’t no nickel-and-dime hustle. This that bulk. High-grade. Some Midtown Money type shit, but they moving it through The Water without checking in with Mendez an’nem.”

Kenyatta let that sit for a second. Midtown Money? That meant political hands were probably in the mix. Corporate types who pretended to be clean but got their real money moving weight behind the scenes.

A slow nod from Nub confirmed what Kenyatta was thinking. He muttered, “That mean K9 got a problem on his hands.”

“And so do we,” Benzo added. “Because once them blue lights special hit? Ain’t nobody askin’ no questions. They gon’ scoop everybody.”

The men fell into silence, the weight of what they were discussing settling heavy in the air.

Krys, posted up in the cut, casually sipping on a drink, had been listening the whole time. She knew how this city worked, knew that every major shift started with conversations like this.

However, what had her attention the most was Kenyatta and how the way his jaw flexed, his grip on his drink tightening just slightly. Something was on his mind.

Duke leaned back in his seat, nursing his drink, but his eyes weren’t relaxed.

“Aye, we gotta talk about what happened to Jay-1,” he said, voice low.

Benzo scoffed. “Ain’t shit to talk about. That was a Trinity Trick if I ever seen one.”

A quiet settled amongst them with the sound of family, friends, and fun going on in the background.

Kenyatta, who had been playing it cool all evening, lifted his head slightly. “Jay-1 say that?”

Duke and Benzo shared a glance. Nub was the one who answered. “Nigga, Jay-1 barely saying anything. That’s how you know it’s bad.”

Kenyatta exhaled slow. Jay-1 never shut up so that told him everything he needed to know.

Benzo leaned forward. “Bruh, you know how this go. New niggas try to move in, think they can play the Bay like some tourists, and getting bold ‘cause they don’t respect the city like we do.”

Duke nodded, his expression unreadable. “Word is, they tested Jay-1 ‘cause they thought he was an easy mark.”

Kenyatta let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Ain’t shit ‘bout Jay-1 easy.”

“Exactly,” Nub muttered. “Which means they ain’t move on him solo. They got weight behind ‘em. Somebody with real Midtown Money.”

Kenyatta’s fingers tapped against his cup. “Y’all sound like y’all tryna solve a murder.”

Benzo smirked. “And you sound like a nigga tryna act like he ain’t got a horse in this race.”

Krys, still sipping her drink, glanced over. She wanted to see how Kenyatta would respond; would he step back into The Water or stay on the shore?

Kenyatta chuckled again, but this time there was no humor in it. “‘Cause I don’t.” His voice was low, even. “I love Jay-1, but I ain’t drownin’ for nobody.”

Duke nodded slow, understanding. “That’s fair. But you better believe this ain’t gon’ stay just Jay-1’s problem.”

Kenyatta already knew that. This was Bay shit now and The Water was getting deeper by the second.

Before Kenyatta could respond, the mood changed again. The kind of change that made people stop mid-drink, mid-convo, and casually check where they left their pieces.

Krys saw it before she even turned around. Musa felt it too. That deep, guttural growl, a warning straight from the gut of a predator. His ears perked, his massive frame tense.

A black Escalade, followed by a couple of other flashy vehicles, crawled up like a hearse moving slow on funeral grounds. Slick, polished, sitting high on Forgiatos, reflecting the late afternoon sun off its dark tint like a rolling omen.

Kenyatta’s shoulders squared.

Duke adjusted the grip on his belt.

Nub casually spat over his shoulder. “Ready for this bullshit.”

Even Tez, always playing, stopped running his mouth.

The driver killed the engine, and the passenger door opened.

Rico stepped out.