Mafioso [Part 3] Page 12

  “You ungrateful little bitch!” Scott howled at Lucky.

  If Lucky thought her slap was sobering, or the face shot Scott had given Layla was embarrassing, then she wasn’t prepared for the ass kicking he was about to dole out. Scott was to be respected and feared, but his wife and daughter were treating him like he was Mickey Mouse. These two bitches were spoiled. He released his frustration on them both, tired of Layla’s bullshit—the fifty million she’d stolen from him, the stunt at the hospital, the disrespect she showed to him on the streets, and now at Maxine’s mom’s funeral.

  Something snapped inside of Scott, and an ugly and snarling beast manifested in front of everyone. He attacked Lucky too. She was no match for her father. He punched her and she folded over like a chair. His fist tightened around Lucky’s long and curly hair, and he yanked it so tight that pieces ripped away from her scalp. He hit his only living daughter like she was a punching bag in the gym. The violence that erupted at the burial service had all eyes on the fight. Layla jumped to her feet desperately and tried to attack Scott, but his men held her back.

  “Get off her like that, you muthafucka! You’re gonna kill her! You’re gonna kill your own child!” Layla yelled.

  “This bitch wanna be grown and come at me like a fuckin’ nigga!” Scott shouted. He gripped his daughter into a tight chokehold and could feel her gagging from lack of air.

  Maxine and others finally ran toward the conflict.

  Layla’s driver, Manny, emerged from the Maybach and charged toward the incident with his gun in hand. The driver aimed his gun at Scott, ready to shoot and kill the man to protect the two ladies. Scott’s goons pulled out too and aimed their guns back at the driver, and a Mexican standoff quickly ensued. Maxine ran toward Scott, and although she hated Layla and Lucky and wanted both bitches to suffer, she wanted no bloodshed or killing at her mother’s funeral.

  Scott still squeezed Lucky in a strong chokehold, and the light was gradually fading from her eyes. Her struggle against him was useless. He would kill her.

  Layla helplessly watched as she couldn’t free herself from the men that held her. Their strength was crippling her from charging and aiding Lucky. Her eyes shot over at Maxine and they pleaded—she pleaded, “Maxine, please stop him! He’s gonna kill her!”

  “Scott, please! Not here! Not at my mother’s funeral,” Maxine shouted at him.

  It seemed Maxine’s voice and words were pulling him away from the rage he felt. Maxine was right. Today wasn’t the day. He finally released Lucky from the chokehold and she fell forward, collapsing on her knees and gasping for air while clutching her neck.

  Scott was breathing hard. Where he’d come from, it was a very dark and ugly place. He’d almost killed Lucky. He could have snapped her neck like a twig, and it would have been another child of his dead—but by his own hands.

  Layla and Lucky stood near each other, breathing hard, their outfits and hair in complete disarray. They were traumatized. Scott had taken things too far. Layla locked eyes with him. She wanted to fuck him up real good. She growled, “You fuckin’ bastard!”

  He stood there in silence for a moment, collecting himself and collecting his sanity. Finally, he spoke. “Take my daughter to the hospital,” he told his men.

  Lucky looked terrible. Her hair was everywhere, and her lip was bleeding. It was a damn shame. Scott’s goons walked over to help her, but she resisted. She could kill her father right now. She wanted to so badly. She spit a mixture of blood and saliva at Scott and cursed, “Get the fuck away from me! Fuck you, nigga! I hate you! I fuckin’ hate you!”

  Scott didn’t flinch. He showed no regret for what he’d done to her. They wanted to test him, and he passed with flying colors.

  Layla was on fire like the pit of hell. “You do this to your daughter! You’re a damn coward, you fuckin’ bastard and woman beater! I hope you rot in hell, you bitch-ass nigga!”

  Layla helped her daughter back to the car with Manny’s help. They were soon long gone, and the burial resumed.

  24

  It felt like the longest drive of Whistler’s life. He was nervous, but he refused to show it. Deuce was behind the wheel of the Suburban and Whistler sat shotgun. Jimmy sat behind him with a gun aimed at the back of his head. Everything felt tense. Whistler didn’t know if he would live or die tonight. The counterfeit money had pissed them off, but he had nothing to do with it. He didn’t see that one coming.

  They were on I-95, going south toward Maryland. It was late and cold. Whistler couldn’t help but to think that at any moment, his brains and blood could be splattered all over the front seat. But they wouldn’t be so stupid to commit a murder in public like that, while driving. But they were taking him somewhere—maybe to be interrogated. Wherever it was, it would not be nice.

  An hour later, they were in a rural area in Maryland, about thirty-five minutes away from Baltimore. It was nothing but farmland, trees, and back roads. Whistler couldn’t help but to think that they’d brought him out there to be killed and buried where no one would find him. Anyway, who would even come looking? He had no one.

  There was a house on the property a half-mile from the main road. The place had history; it was a former plantation home built in the early 1800’s. It was haunted by the countless slaves who had lost their lives on the land. The two-story house was well maintained and had two floors and a wraparound porch, and it seemed vacant.

  Deuce brought the truck to a stop near the house and climbed out.

  Jimmy forced Whistler out of the vehicle by gunpoint. “Get the fuck out, muthafucka!”

  “Just take it easy, Jimmy,” Whistler replied calmly.

  “Nigga, I’ll shoot you dead right here. You’re lucky Deuce still wants you alive.”

  At Jimmy’s forceful behest, Whistler exited the Suburban and looked around. The darkness of the area surrounded them. For miles there was nothingness. The cold was crippling, but neither Deuce nor Jimmy looked chilly. The anger they felt had them heated.

  Deuce walked ahead. Jimmy pointed the gun at Whistler’s head and said, “Walk, nigga!”

  Whistler ambled toward the front entrance. He ascended the stairs one by one and stepped onto the large porch. He could hear every one of his footsteps loudly—like they were signaling that they would be his last.

  Inside, there was nothing—no furniture, no remnants of a cozy home. It was dark and even colder than outside. Whistler saw a folding chair in the middle of the room atop some clear tarp covering the floors. He already knew what it was. It was a killing zone. It was a place where people were brought to be questioned and tortured. Whistler knew his chances of leaving the place alive were zero. He turned back to look at Jimmy, and Jimmy had a smirk on his face. He had done this plenty of times. Like him, Jimmy was a calculated and cold-blooded killer. Whistler knew if the shoe were on the other foot, Jimmy wouldn’t survive either. But the shoe wasn’t on the other foot, and Whistler was in a sad predicament that seemed inescapable.

  The door closed, and Deuce turned and looked at him. “You know I bought this place five years ago? It used to be a plantation during slavery times. Imagine the stories this place could tell, from the slaves that died here to the people we killed,” Deuce said.

  Whistler stood there quietly. He wasn’t in the mood to hear stories, but Deuce didn’t care.

  “You know, my ancestors used to be slaves on this plantation. Imagine that—the shit they went through—what their masters did to them. My grandmother told me about this place, and I remember sayin’ to myself, ‘I could kill those white masters with my bare hands.’”

  Deuce paced around Whistler while Jimmy looked on.

  “A white family used to own this land—the land my family slaved over and were killed on. I offered to buy it from them, but they wouldn’t sell it to me. They looked at me like I had some audacity to make them an offer. The husband—I saw it in
his eyes—no matter how much money I had, I would always be a fuckin’ nigger to him! Here we are, a hundred and sumthin’ years after slavery, and this white muthafucka is still lookin’ at me like he’s better than me. So one night, I had my boys pay them a visit, and it wasn’t a friendly one. The husband, he had a beautiful family—three daughters and a pretty wife too. We beat the fuck out of him, and I made him sign over the deed to me. I mean, with a gun to his head and his family’s lives in danger, the muthafucka didn’t have a choice.”

  Deuce continued to pace around the barren room telling his story. Whistler wanted to know where this was going.

  Deuce moved closer to Whistler and continued with, “Oh, my goons had some fun that night. They raped all three of his daughters right there in front of him—tore those white snowflakes up with big, black dicks. And the sound that man made, seeing his daughters’ pussies being spread open and enjoyed by niggers and nothing he could do about it—that muthafucka cried like I never heard anyone cry before. I just stood there and watched it all play out. It was like watching Roots in reverse. And his wife? Oh, she was saved for last. My goons ran a train on her—beating and fucking her at the same time. You see, all night we fucked these white people up, and I remember thinking about the pain my ancestors felt from their family—the feeling of helplessness and not being able to protect their families—their wives. So I made this white muthafucka feel the same way. I took sumthin’ from him, and I enjoyed it. And when my men were done wit’ those white bitches, I cut their throats and watched them bleed out like gutted pigs. All night that man cried and begged. I watched his soul being ripped away, and it made him want to die. And I gave him his wish. The payback felt good.”

  Whistler didn’t care for the story. It wasn’t how he got down. It was an old slave house—who gave a fuck?

  “You see, this is a very special place to me, Whistler. And I only bring special people here. And you, muthafucka, are special,” Deuce said. “That family is buried right here on this sacred land as trophies, and you, nigga, are about to be added to my collection.”

  They forced Whistler to sit in the folding chair. Jimmy still held him at gunpoint. Deuce stood over him and removed his coat and shirt, showing off his large muscles in a wifebeater. Whistler frowned. He had nothing to say. Was this his fate—dying on some old farm with family history? Even if he could run, where would he go? It seemed like they were in the middle of nowhere.

  Before Deuce could get started with the interrogation, his cell phone rang. He answered the call. Jimmy stood on the side, frowning at Whistler. He couldn’t wait to kill this man.

  “What the fuck you talkin’ about!” they both heard Deuce scream into his cell phone.

  “How many?” Deuce yelled. “How the fuck they find it?”

  Deuce’s hand was clenched so tightly around the cell phone he nearly broke the thing into pieces. He curtailed the phone call and charged toward Whistler in a heated rage. He punched Whistler, knocking him off the chair and crashing onto the floor. Whistler spit out blood.

  “Hold that nigga down!” Deuce shouted.

  Jimmy didn’t miss a beat. He grabbed Whistler into a tight chokehold. “What the fuck going on, Deuce? What happened?”

  “Everyone’s dead!”

  “What the fuck you mean?”

  “There was surprise attack at the warehouse we just left. It’s a bloodbath over there.”

  It was shocking news to Jimmy. There was only one person to blame, and they had him right in their grasp. But Whistler was taken aback, too. He had nothing to do with it. But they wouldn’t believe him.

  Right away, Deuce hammered his fists into Whistler with head shots and body shots. His face bruised heavily, and he spit and coughed out more blood. His body felt like it had gone through a grinder.

  “You set us up, muthafucka!” Deuce howled at Whistler. “Jimmy, kill this fool!”

  Jimmy stepped toward Whistler with the gun and was ready to blast away.

  Whistler turned and looked defeated. This was it! But he wasn’t going out without pleading his case.

  “I didn’t set you up, Deuce. It wasn’t me!” he shouted.

  They didn’t believe him.

  “Look, you like trophies right? I can get you that bitch for your trophy case,” Whistler said.

  The words caught Deuce’s attention, and he halted Jimmy from executing Whistler. “What bitch you talkin’ about?”

  “Lucky West—and Layla. I can bring them both to you alive—mother and daughter,” Whistler said.

  “You lying to live. Why would they trust you?”

  “Look, I know everything about Lucky. You take her hostage, and then I can get you her mother, and you can have them both and hold them in exchange for Scott.”

  Deuce glared at him and said, “Why should I fuckin’ trust you?”

  “Because that wasn’t me at the warehouse. I didn’t kill your men. Scott and Bugsy set that up somehow—the fake cash. Just think . . . maybe we were followed. Tracked somehow? They knew you would come for it. Scott’s smart, and believe me, he’ll keep coming for you no matter what. You gonna need me to figure him out. I know him. I know his family.”

  Deuce was listening. Maybe Whistler was still better off alive than dead. Could he still be useful?

  Jimmy wanted to shoot him, but he could tell Deuce was changing his mind. “You gonna believe this muthafucka, Deuce? He can’t be trusted.”

  “We lost a lot of men tonight, Jimmy,” said Deuce.

  “And? I don’t fuckin’ trust this nigga!”

  “He’ll have his day, Jimmy, but for now, I need him alive. I want payback on that entire family. The rules have changed. We keep him on a tight leash. We lure in them bitches and take out the rest.”

  Deuce crouched near a beaten and defeated Whistler. “Look at you, nigga. You went from a king to a fuckin’ peasant. I did this to you! And don’t you forget it. You bring me those bitches. You make this right, and maybe we’ll kill you fast.”

  “You have my word. I’ll bring you Lucky and Layla,” Whistler said with assurance.

  “Punk muthafucka,” Jimmy uttered with contempt. “Your nine lives are running out fast, and I’m gonna be the one to skin the fuckin’ cat.”

  Whistler ignored him. He had been reprieved for now. His gift of gab had saved his life. Now, he had to get in contact with Lucky and get back into her life somehow. It was easier said than done.

  25

  Bugsy felt that his family was dysfunctional with a capital D. The drama was worse than a fuckin’ reality show on VH1. Word had gotten back to him about what’d happened at the funeral. The thought of his father beating Lucky and his mother was sickening. But why would those two show up, knowing what the outcome would be? If he were there, he would’ve stopped it.

  Bugsy knew that his mother was pushing her luck. She was stubborn—a fuckin’ bitch mostly, and Lucky was following right in her footsteps. Layla sent him pictures with a text saying: He’s a dead man! They were disturbing. Lucky was black and blue, bruised and swollen everywhere, eye puffy with her hair ripped out. Layla was beaten too, but not as bad as Lucky. The pictures were hard to look at. It was his family. Had the transgression been carried out by anyone else, they would already be dead. But how could he go against his father? And Layla was the one steadily provoking him. It was civil war inside the family, and it needed to end.

  The hit in Delaware succeeded, but it wasn’t a game changer. Deuce and Jimmy were still alive. The bloodshed they’d created, it was a bloody message—but Deuce would be too ignorant to get the hint. They’d killed over a dozen men at the warehouse, and Bugsy would lose no sleep over it. But he needed something comforting. He needed to be somewhere else at the moment, and that somewhere else was with Alicia.

  His black Beamer traveled up her driveway and into the garage, and he climbed out of the car holding
a bouquet of roses. The cold night made him look forward to a warm evening with his woman. It was a full moon and a quiet neighborhood. Westchester was a distant safe haven away from the madness in the city. Bugsy was the only one who knew about the house. After the last incident, where a sniper shot at him, he took extra precautions in securing the safety for his woman and her home. They had to move. There were security cameras and motion lights, and the house was purchased under an alias. Bugsy carried a 9mm for his protection.

  The garage was well lit, and there were no blind spots for anyone to catch him off guard. The door closed, each step he took was a careful one. Being shot made him wary of everything. Seeing that everything was okay, he went into the home to greet Alicia.

  Don’t bring it home with you; Alicia had told him. She didn’t want to hear about his lifestyle. She knew about it, but she didn’t want it brought into her new home. The attempt on his life at her old place had spooked her. She was a nurse, and she saw it all at the hospital where she worked.

  She was lounging on the couch in a pair of blue camisole pajamas, watching one of her favorite shows on Showtime, Shameless. He presented the bouquet of roses to her, and she loved them. He joined her on the couch, pressing close to her and wrapping his arms around her. It felt so right. They hugged and kissed.

  She didn’t ask him how his day was because it might have involved something disturbing. So, she asked him, “You okay?”

  He answered the same as always. “I’m fine now that I’m home with you.”

  Bugsy had fallen hard for her. The quiet evenings with Alicia were something he always looked forward to. They sat nestled on the couch, eating popcorn and watching TV. Bugsy laughed at Shameless, and said, “Damn, and I thought my family was dysfunctional and fucked up.”