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One moment, the Juneteenth celebration was all good vibes with grills sizzling, bass-heavy music weaving through the air, kids sprinting across the grass with sticky fingers and loud laughter.

The next moment, The Water was watching.

It wasn’t dramatic, but those who knew the ways of the Water felt it. Rico wasn’t just anybody. He was part of the Eastside 7 Disciples. And the East 7 didn’t move unless it meant something.

The old heads, perched under their shaded tents, never stopped eating, but their eyes tracked his every step. The younger hustlers were damn near in awe. They weren’t used to seeing Rico outside of Southside Haven, let alone at an event this deep in K9’s influence.

Yet here he was.

He didn’t rush, didn’t act out of place; because he wasn’t. He walked slow, with a type of purpose only niggas who never rushed for anything had. Each step calculated and deliberate.

Not needing to announce himself; his presence did that for him. He scanned the area, nodding at OGs he had known for years, dapping up familiar faces. Even his acknowledgment had weight; some got a head nod, some got a grip, but not everyone was worth his time.

The fit he wore was simple: dark denim, crisp white tee, chains that caught the sun but weren’t excessive. It wasn’t loud money, it was real money. The type you don’t have to prove. The type that lingers in rooms long after you leave.

Rico stood at five-eleven, lean but compact, built like a nigga who had survived some shit. And he had. The faint scars lining his jaw, knuckles, the healed wound near his temple; they weren’t badges. They were warnings.

His face was all sharp angles, all cold calculation. Eyes dark, narrow, watching, and measuring. Never looking at someone without sizing them up first.

Krys had seen men like him before. Powerful, dangerous men who spoke more with presence than words. But Rico wasn’t in a rush to prove himself, which made him different from most. He already knew who he was.

Musa had already been standing, already alert. Now, his presence expanded. His ears perked, his massive paws rooted firm to the ground, his chest rising with slow, steady inhales.

Krys reached down, her hand sliding comfortably along the top of Musa’s head.

“He got it,” she murmured, voice low.

Musa didn’t move. Didn’t sit, but he settled slightly.

The War Lords were already tracking Rico’s every move. But then came the engines. Loud, thunderous roars, tearing through the air like a storm rolling in from the Gulf.

People turned, some squinting, some already shifting uneasily because Dem Boyz was pulling up.

A brigade of chrome and muscle; their motorcycles lined up deep, one after another, coasting in slow, the heat from their engines making the air ripple.

Dem Boyz wasn’t a crew you started shit with if you could avoid it. They ran the west side, kept order where the cops didn’t dare patrol, and if you crossed them, you probably wouldn’t make it home that night.

It was easy to mistake them for a racist ass, Confederate-flag waving crew; white roughnecks, beards thick, ink covering their arms and throats. But people who knew who they were knew better. They weren’t racist, they were just vicious. They held loyalty over everything and violence right under that. Today, they weren’t here for war.

Their leader, Steel, sat at the front, gripping his handlebars, his vest heavy with patches. His eyes scanned the crowd before landing on Nub and Kenyatta then back to Rico and his crew.

He gave a nod. “Ain’t mean to spook y’all. Just riding through, showing respect.”

A few people mumbled, still thrown off by their presence at a Juneteenth celebration. But they didn’t linger on that too long because Rico was still standing there; he had his own plans for the evening.

Rico smirked, watching the bikers settle, no bothered by their presence. His black Escalade still sat heavy on the grass, tinted windows reflecting the Bay sun. He barely even glanced at Dem Boyz before he continued his slow, taunting approach toward Kenyatta, Nub, and the War Lords posted up near the back.

Nub barely turned his head. Kenyatta didn’t move at all. He just sat there, watching, letting Rico play whatever game he thought he was about to win.

Rico finally stopped, a little too close. Smirk still in place. Eyes still holding that calculated amusement.

“Damn, Yatta,” he drawled. “I was startin’ to think you was tryna avoid me.”

A few East 7 boys chuckled under their breath. They were posted up within feet, ready, watching, waiting. They were deep that evening; a mix of old and young, some wild, some calculated. But all of them ready to back Rico if it came down to it.

Kenyatta exhaled slow, lazily looking him over. “Nah. I just don’t entertain your bullshit.”

Rico tilted his head like he half-believed it.

“A’ight,” he said, voice too calm. “You ain’t gotta entertain it, but I think it’s time we had another talk.”

Kenyatta’s jaw flexed. “This ain’t the place.”

That made Rico chuckle low, the kind of laugh that had nothing to do with humor.

“Seem like a perfect place to me.”

Nub sat back in his chair, beer in hand, legs stretched out, unmoved. Duke was the same, not flinching, not reacting.

This wasn’t a show for them. They’d seen worse and done worse. Rico was nothing new.

Rico’s gaze flicked toward Nub, a brief, silent acknowledgment. But Nub didn’t nod or blink; this was Kenyatta’s moment.

Rico wasn’t here to cause a scene, but he wasn’t leaving without a direct conversation.

“I dig that,” he mused. “But we both know the clock done ticked out. You drownin’, bruh.”

Kenyatta’s jaw flexed, but he kept his stance relaxed.

“I expect my bread,” Rico continued, voice light. “Matter fact, I expect it sooner than later. ‘Cause you know I don’t do charity cases.”

Then, just because he could, Rico’s gaze drifted left to Krys.

The way she sat in one of those foldable chairs, legs crossed, her whole body screaming unbothered, but her eyes sharp, untrusting, and ready.

Rico cocked his head. “Aw shiiid…What is this?”

He looked back at Kenyatta, grin widening. “So, the rumors must be true. Ain’t she the bitch that’s buying up everything over in Westview Terrace and Southside? Krysta Davis?”

Krys stilled. She had no reaction to that name. She didn’t react. Kenyatta, however, noticed the subtle tension in her shoulders.

Rico turned back to Krys, voice mocking. “That’s you, ain’t it?”

Musa’s growl rumbled low again.

Krys didn’t even turn her head to the dog, just gave the smallest flick of her fingers, and Musa stilled, but remained watching and ready.

Rico grinned. “Ohhh, I get it,” he mused. “Y’all really together, huh? That’s cute. Nigga got him a baddie.”

His tone said otherwise.

Krys took a slow sip of her drink before finally speaking, her voice calm, controlled. “You ask a lotta questions for somebody who ain’t got the range for the answers.”

The air was tense. No one expected for her to challenge him, but they would have her back regardless.

Rico licked his teeth. “That’s funny.”

His gaze flickered to Musa again, and his smirk turned colder.

Musa released a low, rumbling growl built deep in his chest, not aggressive; just informative. A warning to let Rico and anybody else know he wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t for play or looks. If Rico made the wrong move, he’d find out the hard way.

That was the message. Krys didn’t call him off. Didn’t touch him. If Rico was here to start some shit, he needed to know exactly what he was stepping into.

“That’s a big ass dog,” he mused. “Shame if somebody had to put him down.”

That intensified the moment.

Kenyatta stiffened. Nub barely tilted his head, already deciding how this would play out if it went south.

Musa’s growl deepened.

Krys stood up, smooth, unrushed, and deliberate. Her movements drew eyes. Not because she was small, standing in the middle of bigger, stronger men, but because her presence alone made the air crackle. Even Rico wasn’t expecting her to step up.

Krys tilted her head, brown eyes narrowing. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you talking to,” she said, voice low, deadly, “but if you ever put my dog in your mothafuckin’ mouth again, I’ll make sure the last thing you hear is that same growl right before he takes your fucking throat out.”

Thick unwavering silence lingered.

Rico exhaled sharply through his nose, amusement flickering in and out of his expression. He wiped a hand down his face, glancing around, like he was debating how much further he wanted to push this.

He grinned again. But this time, it was thinner. Sharper.

“That’s cute, but you need’ta cool it lil mama,” he muttered, looking Krys up and down, then nodding toward Kenyatta. “You must be the reason this nigga feeling hisself and ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout what he owe.”

Krys didn’t blink. “If you tryna get in your feelings about another man’s situation, just say that.”

A few War Lords chuckled under their breath. Even Nub cracked a smirk.

“That’s cool, but I don’t argue with bitches.” Rico licked his teeth, turning back to Kenyatta. “Get’cho bitch, my nigga.”

Krys didn’t wait for Kenyatta to motion for her to chill. She yielded and took her place between him and Nub.

Keeping his eyes on Kenyatta, Rico sneered, “I guess you tryna pillow-talk your way out the hole you in? Is that what it is? Figured you’d be man enough to handle your own debt, but I guess that blue-collar shit got you feeling too comfortable.”

That was the thing about players like Rico; they only respected aggression.

Kenyatta let out a slow chuckle, dark and humorless, tapping his fingers against his thigh. His stance shifted, loose, reckless, like a nigga who wasn’t scared to let shit fly.

“You real loud for a nigga who been eating off another man’s plate,” Kenyatta said finally, voice low, lethal, dripping with venom. “Talking like you top dog, but we both know you just a runner, a middleman with a mouth too big for his position.”

Rico’s grin froze.

Kenyatta stepped forward slightly, just enough to make Rico’s people clock the movement. Tension snapped in the air.

“See, I don’t gotta talk my way outta shit, nigga,” Kenyatta continued, eyes locked onto Rico’s. “But if you keep fuckin’ with me…you gon’ find out real quick that debt ain’t the only thing a nigga can lose.”

The War Lords chuckled again, nodding amongst themselves, but this time they were watching Rico.

Rico’s jaw clenched. His crew shifted slightly, that restless energy creeping in. “Talk yo’ shit, my nigga,” Rico said, voice still light but edged with something darker. “But all that talk don’t pay what you owe, nigga.”

Kenyatta exhaled through his nose, staring him down. “You want your bread so bad? Come get it in blood.”

That did it. The War Lords stood up. The East 7’s spread out. The whole atmosphere became smothering.

Hands hovered near waistbands. Chairs scraped. A few people started backing up, sensing the shift. Somebody was about to get dropped.

Engines roared, louder than before snatching everyone’s attention.

Steel and a handful of Dem Boyz peeled their bikes in tighter, trying to create a space between both groups.

Steel’s second-in-command, Fang, a massive, bearded roughneck with tattoos up to his jawline, let out a dry chuckle. “Ain’t nobody tryna die over some street math tonight.”

Steel let out a long breath, adjusting his gloves. “K9’s city don’t move like this. Not here. Not on a day like this.” His gaze cut to Rico. “You wanna make a play, do it somewhere else. But right now, you disrespecting The Water, and we can’t have that.”

Hesitation. Then Rico chuckled low, shaking his head. “Niggas talk like they got Midtown coins, but you out here fixing sinks for a bitch.” He glanced at Kenyatta. “I hope you got that bread ready, nigga.” He paused, a smirk creeping back. “‘Cause time’s up.”

Then Rico turned to Krys because he wasn’t done.

“I been hearing things ‘bout you though, shorty.” His eyes raked over her, a knowing gleam sparking behind them. “Real close to some powerful people in the Bay.”

Krys stayed still, gaze locked. She let the moment stretch, letting the weight of his words settle over the crowd.

People were listening now, and the speculation would begin.

Rico smirked. “What’s that about, huh? You tied in with K9 or somethin’ or are you fuckin’ him?”

The tension snapped so tight it was damn near suffocating.

Rico was enjoying this, waiting to see how Kenyatta would react. Because everybody in The Water knew you didn’t just say that name unless you were sure about what you were saying.

Rico let out a sharp laugh under his breath as his eyes shifted to Kenyatta whose lips had pressed into a thin line trying to contain himself, but the tension in his stance didn’t go unnoticed.

“Ohhhhh, that touched a nerve, huh?” He shook his head, his grin turning sharp. “Ain’t that some sht. The same nigga that fed you to the feds? And now you rockin’ with his old work?”

Krys tilted her head slightly. Then, finally, she spoke, her voice cut through the thick air low, steady, and entirely unimpressed.

“That’s what you brought to the table? A half-ass conspiracy and pillow talk? I expected better even from a dusty ass nigga like you.” She said it smooth. Steady. Letting him hear the confidence behind it.

Rico’s smirk faltered for half a second because he heard it.

Krys didn’t stop there. She took a step forward, slow, controlled, tilting her head like she was genuinely disappointed. “You running around with my name in your mouth like a jilted ex, but that don’t make you important. You must be a fan.”

Even Musa, still tense at Krys’ side, let out a low rumble like he knew exactly what she just did.

Rico’s jaw flexed, hands balling into fists at his sides. The smug amusement was gone, his patience thinning fast.

He took a slow step forward, closing that last bit of space between him and Krys, his voice dropping to something more dangerous. “Watch where you step, ma. You real bold wit’ that mouth. But these waters don’t give a fuck what you think you built or who the fuck you think you know.”

Musa’s growl rattled deep.

Krys took a step forward, but Kenyatta caught her wrist before she could move. She glanced back at his expression, understood, and conceded.

Rico smirked at the sight. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

He turned on his heels, nodding at his crew. The Eastside 7 Disciples fell back, drifting toward their cars, still eyeing The War Lords like a fight was still possible.

Steel and Fang didn’t move until Rico was good and gone.

Steel sighed, shaking his head. “Y’all got one more time to fuck up the vibes before I start collecting tax for K9 my damn self.”

Fang laughed. “For real.”

Then, he pointed a thick, inked-up finger at Kenyatta. “And Yatta? You gonna pay that man or not?”

Kenyatta exhaled hard, running a hand down his face. “Man, fuck Rico.”

Steel smirked, nodding slow. “That’s the spirit.”

Then, with a final glance around the crowd, Dem Boyz revved their engines, pulling off one by one.

But even as the tension settled, Kenyatta knew the war wasn’t over.

Kenyatta glanced at Krys, whose energy was still on a hundred.

His own lips quirked slightly. He knew what she did. She played that nigga like he wasn’t even a factor. But what stood out more was the moment when Rico asked about K9; when he questioned if she was tied in. Krys didn’t answer nor did she deny it.

And now he had questions.