Guard the Throne

  Guard

  the

  Throne

  Nisa Santiago

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Guard the Throne. Copyright © 2012 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Melodrama Publishing, P.O. Box 522, Bellport, NY 11713.

  www.melodramapublishing.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011946163

  ISBN-13: 978-1934157503

  ISBN-10: 1934157503

  First Edition: October 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Interior Design: Candace K. Cottrell

  Cover Design: Marion Designs

  Model: KAMERON DASH

  Also By Nisa Santiago

  Cartier Cartel

  Return of the Cartier Cartel

  Bad Apple: The Baddest Chick

  Coca Kola: The Baddest Chick

  Checkmate: The Baddest Chick

  Face Off: The Baddest Chick

  Dirty Money Honey

  Prologue

  The black Town Car came to a stop in front of Baisley Park Houses in Queens. It was a clear, warm Thursday afternoon in New York with blue skies. It had been a brutal winter, but the trees were starting to turn green again. Citi was ready to make it a terrific spring, starting today. It was her sixteenth birthday, and she was overwhelmed with anticipation and excitement. Today would be her special day.

  She had left school an hour early to rush home to see what gift her father had ready for her. In Citi’s mind, school wasn’t that important. She barely went, and on the days she did go, it was only to floss her cream-of-the-crop wardrobe and show off the new jewelry her father had bought for her. She was the center of attention—queen bee bitch in her school and among her peers in the Queens hood.

  Citi, short for Cynthia, was a beautiful young girl—a wet dream for many men. Her long, defined legs, ample hips, meaty thighs, and breasts that sprouted like a pair of balloons made her eye-candy in the hood. She had rich, brown skin and long, wavy hair.

  Most of the men in the neighborhood only stared silently, keeping their impure thoughts about young Citi to themselves. They feared that her father, Curtis, would cut out their tongues or gouge out their eyes if they said something rude or absurd, or looked at his daughter’s luscious figure for too long. Sometimes the men had to constantly remind themselves that she was only a teenage girl.

  Citi made it hard for them to ignore her, with her sometimes scanty attire and flirtatious attitude. Curtis was disturbed by his daughter’s antics and way of dress, but she was spoiled like left-out milk.

  Citi swung open the back door to the cab and handed the African driver his fee. She stepped out of the car dressed in super-tight jeans and a tight pink tube top that accentuated her breasts. Her hair flowed down to her back like a stream, and her fresh white pair of Nikes were the color of fresh snow. Diamond earrings dangled from her lobes with style and screamed money, and the tennis bracelet around her wrist sparkled like an ice sculpture in the sun. She topped off her outfit with the most recent gift from her father—a diamond necklace that hung around her neck with precision. She was styled perfectly for her birthday, from head to toe.

  Citi’s father had promised her a car for her birthday—a Honda Accord. She loved that type of car, and knew she would sit like a dream behind the steering wheel, cruising the hood with all eyes on her. It would make her friends praise her even more, and her enemies envious. Citi felt she was too good to ride the city bus like the regular kids, so on the days that she did go to school, it was by Town Car only—forty dollars round trip, which her father could easily afford.

  Curtis was a legend in South Jamaica, Queens. A natural-born hustler and once a part of the notorious Supreme Team back in the early ’90s, he would turn forty in a few years. Among other things, Curtis had survived the notorious crack epidemic, avoided a lengthy prison sentence, and beaten the RICO Act—which had swooped up most of his allies.

  He loved his kids greatly, but he loved his only daughter most. He treated her like a princess, giving her whatever she wanted. If any man dared to defile her, he had killers on standby to make them pay dearly.

  Citi looked around the block as the cab drove away, searching for her birthday gift on four wheels. She was trying to see if her father had parked it anywhere close by on the street, but only the same old tired cars on the block were there—no sparkling Accord with a bow on it.

  “He probably tryin’ to hide it from me,” she said to herself.

  She strutted toward the towering project building. Baisley Projects was where she’d grown up and all she knew. Queens was her domain, and South Side was her playground, where she fought bitches with her girls, ran with her crew, and shoplifted for the fun of it. It was the place where she’d fallen in love with Randy, who had taken her virginity when she was only fourteen.

  Citi walked into the building lobby with a bright smile. Her life was good, and she had no complaints or worries.

  “Happy birthday, Citi,” one of the young residents said as he passed by.

  “Thanks, C.”

  “Damn! You lookin’ nice.”

  “I know, right? You know a bitch gotta stay styling.”

  “Shit. I ain’t mad at you.”

  “Anyway, you gonna see me cruising soon, C.”

  “Oh, word? Pops gettin’ you that ride?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s what’s up. What he gettin’ you?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “I can get a ride someday, right?”

  “Nigga, why you beggin’ a bitch already? You know ya bitch might get jealous if she sees you cruising wit’ a fly bitch like me. I’m just sayin’ . . . ”

  “Yeah, a’ight. I feel you, Citi, but I’m sayin’, when you see a nigga around, stop by,” C said, his eyes focused on her ample breasts and tight body.

  “Stoppin’ lookin’ too hard, C. It ain’t cute to be thirsty.”

  C laughed. “A’ight.”

  Citi spun on her sneakers and strutted toward the elevators, leaving C daydreaming about being with her sometime in the future.

  Citi stepped into the smelly, pissy elevator and tried not to touch anything. She pressed her floor and it lifted slowly. The anticipation of receiving the keys to her new car and taking it for a spin around the neighborhood made her jovial. She stepped off the elevator and strutted to her apartment door with her keys in hand. From the hallway she could hear their high-end stereo system blaring.

  Citi wondered why her father was playing music so loud. She walked into the lavish apartment and immediately began searching for her gifts.

  “Daddy, I’m home,” she called out with a smile, but there was no response.

  She walked over to the stereo system that was blaring Hot 97 and turned it down. She then spotted a small box surrounded by birthday balloons and a card on the kitchen table. Her heart began to beat rapidly. This was the moment.

  Citi snatched the black velvet box off the table and quickly popped it open. Instead of the keys to her Honda Accord, she saw a gold and diamond locket with her mother’s picture inside.

  “What the fuck is this?” Citi didn’t care for another piece of jewelry at the moment, especially one w
ith her mother’s picture inside. She wished the bitch were dead. She tossed the locket aside and continued looking for more gifts.

  “Daddy, where are you?” She was ready for her real gift, believing the locket with her mother’s picture was only a gag. It had to be; her father never disappointed her, especially on her birthday.

  Citi walked to her father’s bedroom. Inside was silent. The door was ajar. Her brothers weren’t home yet, but she knew her father had to be home. She figured he was ready to jump out and surprise her once she entered his bedroom. She smiled.

  “Daddy, I’m comin’ in. You better be decent and have no bitch in there.”

  Citi pushed open the bedroom door and saw blood everywhere. Her eyes widened with shock, and she began to tremble. Her father was duct-taped and lying facedown in the bed. He’d been shot execution-style. The place had been ransacked. The killer or killers were obviously looking for something important.

  “Daddy!” she screamed. She rushed into the room and scooped her father’s body into her arms. His mouth, wrists, and legs were duct-taped tightly.

  “Daddy, Daddy, no, don’t do this to me. Please, Daddy!”

  Her father’s blood began to stain her birthday attire. His body was still warm, but he was dead.

  Citi ripped the duct tape from his mouth and stared into her father’s dead eyes. She cradled him in her arms and cried.

  Citi continued to grip her father tightly and comfort his dead body in her arms. She rocked back and forth. “It’s my fault, Daddy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  1

  Three months earlier

  Citi sat near her bedroom window and peered outside at the desolate neighborhood. The project courtyard and streets were empty for the moment. She could hear the wind blowing against the glass. The remnants of snow from the last winter storm lingered on the ground. Citi’s insignificant bedroom window was encircled by the towering project buildings that housed murderers, drug dealers, and drug users, alongside civilized working-class residents trying to live in peace in a place that could sometimes feel like Baghdad.

  She heard rap music blaring from the living room. The bass from her father’s high-end stereo system was making the walls shake. It was Biggie playing, one of her father’s favorite rappers. She could hear his raspy voice rapping about the hustle and streets of Brooklyn.

  Citi lit up a cigarette and continued to look outside. At fifteen years old she was already a veteran to the criminal and street life. Her father hid nothing from his little girl. She grew up in a house occupied by only men—her father, her brothers, and her father’s associates, who came through to cut work, talk business, and drink and play cards till the early hours of the morning. There were days when Citi would walk into the apartment and see triple-beam scales on the kitchen or living room table, cocaine lying around, and other drug paraphernalia in the place.

  It wasn’t unusual for her to walk into her home and see a strange woman on the couch or exiting her father’s bedroom. Curtis was a playboy, and he had bitches in and out of his place on a continuous basis. Citi had seen more pussy come and go from her place than the “Playboy Mansion.” She would always warn her father about the constant traffic, but he made it clear that he was the adult in the household and she was a child.

  From a tender age, she had been exposed to a lot of things, but the one thing Curtis never exposed her to was murder or any other violent crimes. With his two sons, Chris and Cane, it was different. He was grooming them to take over his business when he was gone. He wanted his sons to see the truth in the streets and have the respect in the game and on the streets like he did. So he showed them bloodshed and advised them to never be on the wrong end of a gun.

  Citi was blossoming like a spring flower. She had the image of a rose, but thorns were on her stem. Growing up in her environment, she adopted the rough, thuggish ways of her father and brothers, and she had the attitude of a pit bull from time to time. She began smoking at thirteen and fucking at fourteen. Curtis was so busy in the streets, he didn’t have time to chaperone his daughter, so Citi pretty much got to do whatever she wanted.

  Their project apartment was the nicest in the hood, furnished with all the amenities money could buy—flat-screens in every room, leather sofas, granite countertops, hardwood floors in the living room, and a stereo system that blared rap music. Stepping into their apartment was like walking into a lavish loft in SoHo. Security was like Fort Knox’s, with a steel front door and a high-end security system containing small cameras at the door, along with an alarm. Guns were situated throughout the apartment, in case the wolves came sniffing around.

  Citi continued to stare outside. She took a pull from the cigarette and became lost in her own thoughts for a moment. Hearing Biggie’s lyrics about the finer things made her think about her approaching birthday in three months. Citi turned and focused on her room. Her bedroom was furnished with everything she had asked for: a canopy bed, laptop, designer clothing spilling out her closet and drawers, shoes and sneakers of every kind, along with a 40-inch flat-screen, and a vanity covered with high-end beauty products.

  But the one thing Citi was missing was a car. She wanted a Honda Accord for her sixteenth birthday. Since last summer, when Citi saw Meeka pushing a sleek Accord with chrome rims and tinted windows, she wanted one too. She couldn’t let a low-class ho with no style outdo her. Citi wanted to floss this coming summer, and that was only happening by having her own car. She had made up her mind on what she wanted for her birthday—a better and more stylish car than Meeka’s.

  As Citi stood by the window, she suddenly heard shots ring out. They came from outside and echoed near her bedroom. It was common in the projects.

  Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!

  Citi didn’t flinch. Even in the heart of winter, niggas still had beef, and people were still dying. The projects were the same, no matter what season it was. Lifestyles didn’t change, people were still poor, and drug dealers still got their hustle on.

  Her bedroom door opened up. “You okay, princess?” Curtis asked.

  “I’m fine, Daddy.”

  Curtis smiled. The cigarette in his daughter’s hand didn’t disturb him. Everyone smoked. He nodded.

  Citi looked at her father with a bright glow in her face. Curtis was very handsome, and Citi was proud to have come from such good genes. He was tall, pushing six-two, with an athletic build. He had black, curly hair, a dark, well-trimmed goatee, and rich brown skin. Curtis’ piercing onyx eyes said that he was a man not to fuck with. His eyes exposed the dark, treacherous side of a killer. When he looked at his daughter, however, those same onyx eyes would illuminate with pride and joy toward his little angel.

  “What’s on your mind, princess? The shots didn’t frighten you, right?”

  Citi cut her eyes at her father and twisted up her face. “Daddy, we’re cut from the same cloth. Why you tryin’ to play me like that? That ain’t nothin’ new to me.”

  He laughed. “I know, but you know I gotta check up on you.”

  “I’m a big girl, Daddy.”

  “I know. That’s what’s scaring me.”

  “I’m okay.”

  Curtis nodded. “A’ight. You need anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “What you need, princess?”

  “It’s not something now, but something relevant for my sixteenth birthday.” Citi aimed a warm smile at her father.

  He sighed. “Here we go. You’re birthday is three months away, and already you’re starting to put together a list.”

  “I don’t need no list, Daddy, ’cuz I only want one thing.”

  “And what is that one thing?”

  “A car.”

  “A car?”

  “Yup. ’Cuz I need to upgrade.”

  “Upgrade?” Curtis walked farther in his daughter’s
bedroom and sat on her bed. “And how much is this car going to cost me?”

  “Don’t worry, Daddy. I’m not asking for a Lexus or a Benz.”

  “So what are you asking for?”

  Citi took a seat on her father’s lap and threw her arms around him lovingly with a beaming smile. “A Honda Accord.”

  “An Accord?”

  “Yes, and I already know what model and color I want. You already know I’m gonna get my permit, and by the time I’m sixteen, I’m gonna have my license.”

  “You got this all worked out already, huh?”

  “Yup. ’Cuz you know I get it from you.”

  “I see.”

  “So, we good on that, Daddy?”

  Curtis smiled. “I’ll think on it, princess.”

  “Okay.”

  Citi got off her father’s lap, and Curtis stood up.

  “Let me go back to my company, make sure these muthafuckas don’t cheat me out of five grand on this game.”

  “Daddy, you always win.”

  “That’s right. ’Cuz who the fuck remembers losers?”

  Citi beamed. She was always happy when her father was around. He was a leader— an authority figure among his peers. He commanded respect and attention. He would always look a man and a woman in their eyes when he was talking to them, and he didn’t take bullshit from anyone. He gave you respect if you deserved it, and demanded the same from everyone he surrounded himself with.

  Curtis was a businessman first, a father second, and a lady’s man last. Which meant he never put pussy over his business or his family. Bitches always come and go. The only woman he was still crushing over was Ashanti, the mother to his three kids, and the one woman who had his heart on lock.

  Ashanti was pretty and curvy like a Victoria’s Secret model, but rough around the edges. She was a bad girl with expensive taste. She lived in Harlem and grew up in the Alberto “Alpo” Martinez and Rich Porter era, while Curtis grew up under the Supreme Team. Ashanti refused to leave Harlem to live in Queens with her kids and Curtis. In her mind, Harlem was the place to live, where trends started and true hustlers got money. Queens was nothing but fabricated hustlers and confusing streets.