Page 128 of Heavy Is The Crown

The next moment,The Waterwas 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.”

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