Mafioso [Part 3] Read online

  Meyer felt like she was ready to wave the white flag. Was it because of Bugsy being hurt? Did the bitch finally have a conscience about something?

  When she said to him, “He’ll kill us all,” Meyer burst open with rage and screamed, “I’m not scared of that muthafucka! He can suck my dick! Fuck him! Fuck everybody!”

  Both his parents had pissed him off—and without Luna, he felt alone. He was ready to erupt like a volcano and raise hell.

  39

  He had to think, would Scott kill his own flesh and blood? It was on Meyer’s mind. He hated to admit it, but he felt a little trepidation. The foundation had been rocked and shaken, and a few pieces crumbled. Bugsy would wake up from his coma, and if he had a hunch Meyer was behind the robbery and attack, it would get ugly. There would be war and bloodshed. Bugsy was always Scott’s favorite son, so where did that leave Meyer? Most likely, it would leave him dead.

  Meyer had nightmares. He could vividly see his murder happening. Shot in the back of his head multiple times, his body hacked to pieces and tossed into the Hudson River like he was bird food—discarded like yesterday’s trash with no remorse from his father and his brother. It would be revenge. They considered Meyer the black sheep of the family anyway.

  Meyer felt if Scott had him killed, he would make it look like he was on vacation somewhere chasing pussy. Meanwhile, his body would be rotting in an unmarked grave somewhere. Would his brother be forgiving? Bugsy was unpredictable—or maybe he wouldn’t want to see anything bad happen to his twin brother.

  Meyer knew that his trifling mother and manipulative sister would somehow be able to weasel their way out of danger, and he would be the one left holding the bag. His family didn’t care about each other; they only cared about themselves.

  Meyer stood on the terrace of his building shirtless in the cold. His entire body felt numb; he felt nothing. He smoked a cigarette and looked at a wintry and snow covered neighborhood. Six inches of snow had fallen on the city. It was late, and it was a ghost town. The storm made everyone stay inside.

  Meyer thought about Zoe, missing her greatly. She was out of town on business, and he couldn’t wait until she got back. Until then, he had business of his own.

  He turned around to see the curve of her back lying against his bed. Not long ago he had her legs vertically in the air, thrusting his hard dick in and out of her. Everything about Lollipop was delicious—and the hour-long blowjob she gave him was memorable. Zoe was wifey, but Lollipop was his freaky side-piece. He needed to release some stress, and Lollipop didn’t hesitate to help him relieve it with her mouth and her pussy.

  “You comin’ back to bed, baby?” Lollipop asked him.

  “Yeah, in a minute. I’m just thinkin’ about something.”

  “Shit, you’re not cold out there?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Well, damn, can you close the door a little? I’m starting to feel a draft,” she said.

  He closed the door and continued to stand outside in the cold. The snow against his bare skin felt exhilarating. He was crazy and he wasn’t afraid to show it. Meyer knew that he would never die from pneumonia—nah, that would be the easy way out. He believed that if you lived by the gun, then you would die by the gun. He was ready to die by the gun, but he’d give the triggerman a run for his money. Everywhere he went, he remained armed and dangerous. He moved with caution. Shit, if he couldn’t trust his own parents, then who could he trust?

  After a minute more in the cold, gazing at the city, he stepped back into the bedroom. Lollipop smiled at him.

  “It’s about time,” she said. “You ready to fuck again?”

  “Give me a minute,” he said.

  He needed to make a phone call. He picked up his cell phone from the dresser and dialed the one person he felt he could still trust. Lucky’s phone rang several times before she finally answered.

  “Hello?”

  “I need to talk to you, sis,” Meyer said with urgency in his voice.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You know, not over the phone. We need to meet.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow’s cool with you?”

  “Yeah, I’m cool.”

  “I’ll text you.” She hung up.

  He released a deep sigh. He stood still for a moment, his eyes distant. Meyer had a lot going on, and it was difficult to adjust to living without his friend.

  “Come back to bed, baby, and give me round two of that good-ass dick,” said Lollipop.

  Her sweet voice snapped him out of his trance, and he eyed his little freak spreading her legs and gently playing with her pussy. He loved the way she yearned for him.

  ***

  The following evening, Meyer came to a stop in front of his sister’s towering building near Central Park. The snow had ceased falling, but the evidence of yesterday’s snowfall covered the city for miles. Almost everything was covered in white—NYC was a winter wonderland. The sanitation department was clearing and cleaning the streets of the snow, and business owners and residents trekked outside to shovel the front of their properties and driveways.

  Meyer sat in his idling Beamer, his head swiveling every passing minute, gun on his lap and his eyes watching everything moving. There wasn’t much to see besides a few passing cars and pedestrians. It was a day to stay inside, drink hot chocolate, cuddle, have sex, and watch movies. Meyer would be doing none of that. He had to make moves to survive.

  A cigarette was lit, and the nicotine became a minor alleviator of paranoia. It felt like everyone was out to get him. He watched cars and people from his rearview and side mirrors. Though the neighborhood was affluent, killers didn’t care about zip codes.

  Finally, he observed Lucky leaving her building and approaching his ride. She was warm and snug in a white North Face coat, the hood pulled over her head, hands in her pockets. Meyer unlocked the door and she slid into the passenger seat.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  Where should he start? Meyer took a pull from his cigarette and glanced at his sister, tentative to her question.

  “Let me get some of that,” she said about his cigarette.

  He handed her the Newport. She took a few drags and waited for her brother to say something. She noticed the gun on his lap. He was solemn about something.

  “Talk to me, Meyer. What’s going on?”

  He stared at his sister and released things—speaking to her like he was in some confession room.

  “I fucked up, Lucky,” he uttered vaguely.

  “With who? Scott?”

  “We put Bugsy in the hospital,” he admitted.

  “What?”

  Meyer explained everything—the robbery, the beat down by Luna, and the reason. He then explained what had happened with Luna’s body and that Layla was flipping the script on him.

  Layla was hell to deal with, and she wasn’t sharing the wealth. Meyer felt he was doing all the hard work and not being compensated for anything. She was feeding him crumbs, and he wanted more. Everything was becoming complicated. He didn’t have Luna’s body to offer as a peace treaty—but why would she want a peace treaty with Scott? Meyer felt that his mother had a master plan but she wasn’t telling him everything.

  Lucky looked bewildered by it all too. Meyer had said a mouthful and it was a lot to process. Layla was fucking toying with her brother and it seemed that killing Luna wasn’t only because of Bugsy. Her mother wanted to wave a white flag to Scott. But why? Lucky agreed it made Layla look weak.

  Lucky agreeing with him made Meyer amped. Exactly! He knew that he wasn’t the dumb muthafucka Layla wanted him to believe he was. She was playing mind games with him, but Meyer wasn’t one to play games.

  “Maybe I can help you get what you need—money,” Lucky mentioned.

  “What you mean?”

  She stared at her brother.
She could see the torture, followed by eagerness in his eyes. He would do anything.

  “I know this guy. He got bank and he talks a lot,” she said. “The nigga can’t stop running his fuckin’ mouth.”

  “Bank—how much we talkin’ about?”

  “I overheard him talkin’ about this exchange happening in Philly. Maybe a few million,” she said.

  Meyer looked ready to go. At the mention of a few million dollars, he didn’t care if it was the cartel he was robbing.

  “I’m sayin, maybe we can get this money from this fool, throw some back at Scott, set it up in Luna’s apartment like he took it fo’ real, and keep plenty for ourselves. Maybe, you and me, we break away from the family—the organization—and start our own shit,” Lucky suggested.

  Meyer liked how she was thinking. They used to bump heads and argue constantly—but now, they were coming together as brother and sister.

  40

  Lucky fed the information she’d received from Carter to Meyer. There was possibly a twenty-million-dollar exchange happening in North Philadelphia. Carter was supposedly a heavyweight distributor for majority of the city. For Meyer, it was a damn good opportunity.

  Ogden Street in North Philly was cluttered with a few abandoned row houses, junk-filled lots, and dilapidated homes. Drugs and crime were rampant, and the old, shabby homes were inhabited by poor residents. It was a forgotten neighborhood in Philly. Meyer felt right at home.

  It was another snowy night—quiet and cold. The narrow block was mostly empty of vehicles, and the people—shit—it was too cold to look out the window. Meyer sat shotgun in the black Tahoe, watching the entrance to the location Lucky had given him. It was a dilapidated row house in the middle of the block. Meyer and his small crew were laying low. They’d vetted the area—highways, main drags, side blocks, and alleys. It all looked to be in their favor. They figured this Carter character wouldn’t even see them coming. They only had to wait for the right moment.

  Meyer lit a cigarette and smoked. He was bundled up in a North Face coat and black ski hat. He carried a Desert Eagle and a 9mm. He was prepared for the worst—and the worst always came. He exhaled the nicotine, his eyes fixed on the entrance. Funny thing, though, the place didn’t look like it would carry almost twenty million dollars in cash. But Meyer knew that in this line of business, appearances could be deceiving.

  “How much did your sister say was inside again?” the driver asked.

  “Enough to go around,” Meyer said.

  The driver’s name was Bedrock. It was a name given to him because of his massive frame. He stood 6’3 and weighed close to three hundred pounds. He was a convict fresh home from Clinton after doing eight years for armed robbery and assault. Seated behind them in the truck were Pilo, Kron, and Gallow. Each man was a serious threat to society, and they were eager for a huge payday.

  Missing from the crew was Luna. For Meyer, it felt strange not to have him around. In situations like these, he always depended on Luna to have his back. The nigga was a shrewd killer like himself, and he also knew how to watch out for booby traps and setups. Now, Meyer had to depend on these men to execute.

  After an hour of laying low and watching, the door to the row house opened and a single figure in a black winter coat exited the premises and walked away from the place. The cold and wind made him walk briskly with his head down.

  “Showtime,” Meyer uttered as he slyly exited the Tahoe, threw the hood over his head, and approached the man. Nearing his target, he asked, “Yo, you got a cigarette?”

  The man looked at Meyer then exclaimed, “Step off, nigga!”

  “It’s like that?” Meyer returned.

  Before the man could answer, Meyer charged at him and thrust the Desert Eagle in his face. The bigger the gun, the greater the fear.

  “You know what this is, nigga. We goin’ back to where you just came from,” Meyer said.

  At gunpoint, he had nothing else to say. Quickly, Meyer’s crew hopped out of the truck and headed across the street. Meyer shoved the man toward the row house.

  “Move, nigga. Let’s do this!”

  The snow was falling silently, and a thin layer covered the sidewalk. Each man took his position outside the house, their guns drawn and their adrenaline pumping. This was it! If things went as planned, they were looking at a sizeable payday.

  “Knock, nigga! Tell ’em you forgot something,” Meyer told his hostage.

  The man looked reluctant, but he had no choice. Meyer had the huge cannon aimed directly at his face, and if he moved wrong, he wouldn’t have a face anymore.

  The men hid from the view of the doorway, and they were camouflaged by the falling snow. Visibility outside was bleak. The weather was to their advantage. The cold was bone-chilling, but they were all heated with greed.

  Their hostage knocked on the door several times and shouted, “Yo, it’s me. Open up. I forgot something.”

  Everyone waited in anticipation for that steel door to open. A closer look at the place showed how fortified it was. From the high-security steel door, the barred windows, and the security camera pointed directly at the entrance, Meyer knew a goldmine was inside.

  They waited and then they heard movement.

  “Yo Mick, you always forgetting shit! Fuck is wrong wit’ you, nigga?” a voice said as the door was opening up.

  The moment the door was opened, Meyer and his goons lunged at the man and rushed inside, and immediately chaos ensued. A gunshot went off—pop—someone shot the first hostage in the face. His body crumpled against the snow-covered sidewalk, turning the white snow into crimson. More shots exploded—Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Another body dropped and intense gunfire ignited inside the row-house. There was yelling and shouting and more gunfire. It sounded like war inside the Philly stash house.

  There were casualties on both sides. When the gunfire stopped and the smoke finally cleared, Meyer and Bedrock were the only two running away from the place, carrying two duffle bags of cash. They hurried into the Tahoe and sped away—tires slipping on snow and the vehicle fishtailing as Bedrock mashed his foot against the accelerator.

  “Go, nigga, go!” Meyer shouted.

  Bedrock sped toward Lancaster Ave, and from there, he sped east toward the nearest highway. The snow made the streets empty and slippery, and Bedrock flew through a few red lights and even slid out of control a few times. Being on parole made him edgy, which made him sloppy with his driving. Meyer had to yell at him to slow it down. The last thing they needed was a cop pulling them over.

  Immediately, Meyer knew what they took from the place wasn’t in the millions. He was pissed. “What the fuck is this!” he shouted.

  Each duffle bag had ten-thousand-dollar stacks inside—totaling close to half a million dollars. The robbery didn’t even produce even a quarter of what they thought it would. It was a bust!

  Meyer right away called Lucky to tell her about the disappointment. She gave him bad information, he assumed. They still had a long road to seventeen million dollars, and it had to be acquired before Bugsy woke up from his coma.

  Lucky was pissed off. Carter had more than exaggerated his wealth and his position in the drug game. He was all talk and no show.

  41

  Alicia sat by Bugsy’s bedside with a sad face. Seeing her man in such terrible condition—his face swollen, jaw broken, eyes puffy and bruised—was disheartening. The only thing she could do for him was pray for a full recovery. Then there was the gunshot wound she knew about but he failed to tell her about. It was all becoming too much for her. She was sick and tired, and more than afraid for her thug boyfriend. Yeah, he wore the nice suits and nice shoes and was very polished, but he was still a gangster.

  First her home had been shot up and now all this. Her simple life was becoming more complicated and dangerous. She didn’t know when a bullet would have her name on it.
What if they went after her to get to him? His risky life was eating away at her well-being.

  Sure, Bugsy helped her sell the house, allowed her to keep the profit, and bought her a much better place without a mortgage to worry about. It was more than enough to make up for her troubles. Then there were the nice cars, stylish clothing, and expensive jewelry he showered her with. But they were all material things, which wouldn’t mean shit to her if she was dead.

  Alicia wiped the tears that trickled down her face. Looking at Bugsy with his swollen face like the Elephant Man broke her heart into tiny pieces. She let out a big heavy sigh and closed her eyes, trying to hold back more of her tears, but the floodgates were already open.

  “Damn it, Bugsy,” she muttered.

  It was a hard decision to make, but she had to make it. Her mind was made up. It would take a lot of courage, but she needed to leave him. Her heart could take no more worries and troubles. She loved him deeply—more than she’d ever loved anyone—but she couldn’t do this. She would nurse him back to good health, but that was as far as she could go with him. She worked hard and had a good heart. She didn’t deserve to be tethered to someone whose clock was counting down. In her profession, Alicia had seen men like Bugsy come into the hospital beat up, shot up, and stabbed, and it was always a tragic sight to see. Whether they lived or died, they would forever be changed, as would the people who loved them.

  She strongly felt that Bugsy had an expiration date, and she couldn’t sit by and wait for it to approach.

  ***

  The day Bugsy opened his eyes and woke up from his coma, the first person he expected to see by his side was Alicia. He wasn’t disappointed. There his angel was, standing right there by his bedside looking heavenly. He smiled, but it was harder than he thought. His jaw had been wired shut.