Guard the Throne Read online

  Despite their differences, she was Curtis’ heart, and he loved her. But that same love didn’t carry over to her three children, who all despised her for abandoning them and not trying to have a relationship with them. They didn’t want anything to do with Ashanti. She was dead to them.

  Unbeknownst to the kids, Curtis made it his mission to drive to Harlem on a regular to be with Ashanti. He paid her bills, updated her about their kids and their well being, and shared intimate moments and secrets with his wife. He trusted her. Even though Ashanti and Curtis had their affairs, they both pretended that their relationship was exclusive; that they were faithful to each other.

  Curtis exited his daughter’s bedroom and went back to his poker game. Citi knew the Accord was already hers; it was just a matter of time.

  She heard the men chattering in the living room and decided to be nosy. She peeked in on her father playing high-stakes poker with his associates. Curtis gambled big, and he won and lost big. The table was cluttered with poker chips, beer cans, burning cigarettes, cards, and money. Cash was spread out across the table like a bank vault had exploded.

  Citi smiled when she noticed Maino seated at the table clad in a wife-beater with a hulking gold chain around his neck. Maino was Curtis’ partner and right-hand man. He was from Brooklyn, and was another man you didn’t want to fuck with. Curtis and Maino had known each other for years—well before Citi was born. Maino was savvy and ruthless like Curtis. The two men had Queens and Brooklyn on semi-lock, and their names rang out like a Hot 97 party horn. Having been through war and hell together, and having seen the evil each other could do, their friendship was cemented. In fact, they called each other brothers.

  There were stories about Maino easily beating a man to death with his bare knuckles for the slightest infraction, and hunting and killing three men after they attempted to murder Curtis a few years earlier.

  Maino was stocky and fit. He had a bald head, black beard, and beady eyes that intimidated any man with his intense stare. When he stood up, he was just as tall as Curtis, and he tipped the scales at 255 pounds. He was a bear.

  Maino was temperamental, easily triggered, and always ready to act. He regularly carried a Ruger P95 and a sharp blade in his back pocket. Maino was a beast. It took a lot to gain his trust and respect. Curtis was one of the few men he respected and trusted.

  Maino was one of Citi’s favorite people in the world. He always talked kindly to her, and, like her father, he was always bearing gifts. Citi knew that with men like her father and Maino having her back, nobody in Queens or Brooklyn had the courage to disrespect her, because the word was out that if anyone did, it would be some biblical shit storming down on them.

  “Yeah, muthafucka!” Maino threw his cards across the table, revealing his winning hand. “Straight flush, niggas!” He was ready to collect the pile of cash.

  Tito tossed his hand on the table in frustration. “Muthafucka!”

  Curtis shook his head, laughing. He puffed on a cigar, and the smoke lingered around the table. It was a masculine evening of shit talking and beer drinking. It was the one time Curtis got to relax and chill with his people.

  Maino was all smiles. He took a pull from the burning cigarette between his fingers and leaned across the table to pull his winnings in.

  “You cheatin’-ass nigga,” Dre unexpectedly uttered, clearly upset.

  Maino stopped collecting the cash and glared at Dre. “What the fuck you say to me?”

  “Nah, I ain’t say nuthin’,” Dre replied calmly. “Go ahead and collect.”

  “You callin’ me a fuckin’ cheater?”

  “I ain’t callin’ you a damn thing, Maino.”

  “Nah, you called me a fuckin’ cheater, nigga.”

  Dre sighed. “You buggin’ right now, Maino.”

  “So I’m a fuckin’ liar now, huh? I’m hearing things come out your fuckin’ mouth.”

  Dre didn’t respond. He took a sip from his beer and locked eyes with the terror that sat opposite him. One of Curtis’ street lieutenants and best hustlers, Dre was always quick to talk shit without thinking first, so his mouth constantly got him into trouble.

  “Dre, repeat yourself, nigga,” Maino said through clench teeth. He stood erect over the table and glared at Dre.

  “Why you buggin’, Maino? I was just jokin’ wit’ you.”

  “Nigga, you think I’m fuckin’ joking?”

  “Maino, just chill,” Curtis chimed.

  “Nah, fuck that! Curtis, you know this nigga talk too fuckin’ much and think everything is fuckin’ funny. I’m tired of that bitch-ass nigga!”

  “Fuck you, Maino! Fo’ real, you think everybody scared of you. Nigga, I pack my gun too.”

  “What? That’s a threat, Dre?”

  With the blink of an eye, Maino snatched the Ruger from his waistband and pointed it at Dre.

  Curtis and Tito jumped up from the table, shocked.

  “Nigga, what the fuck you doin’? Put that shit away, Maino,” Curtis screamed.

  “Maino, it ain’t that fuckin’ serious,” Tito shouted.

  “It is that serious.”

  Dre could only sit still at the card table and stare down the barrel of the gun that was trained on him. He tried to keep his cool as he locked eyes with Maino.

  “You got somethin’ smart to say now, nigga?”

  “We cool, Maino,” Dre said. “Ain’t no disrespect to you.”

  “I know it ain’t gonna be.”

  “Maino, my fuckin’ daughter is in the next room. Chill the fuck out.”

  The room had become tense. Maino, his outstretched arm clutching the Ruger and his finger slightly on the trigger, glanced at Curtis. Maino was unpredictable. Dre knew there was a possibility that his life could end in a second.

  “Put it away, Maino,” Curtis said sternly. “I don’t want my daughter around this shit.”

  All the while, Citi was behind the corner watching the entire incident silently. She felt her heart race.

  “Yeah, you right, C,” Maino said. “I’m wilding right now.” He lowered the gun and smiled. “I was just fuckin’ wit’ you, Dre.”

  Dre exhaled, somewhat relieved. “You fuckin’ crazy, Maino,” said Dre.

  “I know.”

  Then, abruptly, Maino raised the gun at Dre and fired.

  Bam!

  The bullet ripped through Dre’s shoulder and pushed him back and out of the chair. He tumbled to the floor and cried out in pain. “Ah, shit! This nigga shot me!”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, Maino?” Curtis screamed.

  “I just gave that nigga a flesh wound,” Maino said coolly. “He gonna be a’ight.”

  “Yo, what the fuck!” Tito shouted.

  Dre squirmed around on the floor, grasping his shoulder. He couldn’t believe Maino had shot him.

  Curtis screamed, “Maino, I got fuckin’ neighbors, and you do this shit? I don’t need cops comin’ to my place.”

  “My bad, Curtis. I just needed to teach this young nigga a fuckin’ lesson.”

  “By doin’ this?”

  “He got the message, right?” Maino said, stuffing the Ruger in his waistband.

  Curtis shook his head and looked down at Dre. “Tito, take him to the hospital. Y’all know the routine.”

  “A’ight.”

  Maino was a twisted fuck, and Curtis knew it. His evening with the fellows was put to an abrupt end. He needed to clean the blood off his floor and get rid of any evidence, just in case the cops were called and came knocking on his door.

  Curtis shot Maino an unpleasant look. “I don’t need this shit right now, Maino.”

  Maino shrugged.

  Curtis turned and saw Citi staring at them. He sighed. “Citi, get back in your room,” he
shouted. “You don’t need to see this shit.”

  “I already saw it.”

  “You okay?” he asked her.

  Citi nodded.

  Curtis looked at his princess, and she didn’t seem disturbed at all. He knew, no matter how hard he tried to hide any violence and murder from his daughter, it was inevitable that she would witness it. His world was hard, ugly, and cruel.

  2

  Citi woke up on a Saturday morning to her brothers arguing in the next room. She heard Cane scream, “Yo, fuck those niggas! I don’t give a fuck!”

  Citi sighed. Cane was always the loudest one in the room. She glanced over at the time, and it was almost noon. She’d wanted to sleep in late. She didn’t like mornings, especially during the winter months. Snug under her covers, clad in her panties and bra, she couldn’t help overhearing the conversation.

  “Yo, why you trippin?” Chris said.

  “’Cuz them niggas is fuckin’ faggots, yo. I’m ready to fuck ’em up.”

  “You need to chill, Cane. Don’t be trippin’ over that bullshit.”

  “What? You need to stop actin’ like a fuckin’ bitch.”

  “I’m a bitch?”

  Cane said, “Yeah, nigga, we come from the same blood, and you actin’ like you scared to put in work out there.”

  “Fuck you, Cane. Who you think you talkin’ to like that? I’m the nigga out there tryin’ to get shit done and make it happen.”

  “Yeah, whatever, nigga. All I know is, you need to act like you a fuckin’ Byrne sometimes.”

  Citi couldn’t take their yelling anymore. She jumped out of her bed and hurried to her bedroom door. She swung it open and shouted, glaring at them, “Can y’all two just fuckin’ chill and shut the fuck up? Dammit! Y’all actin’ like a bunch of babies.”

  Chris and Cane turned to look at their sister.

  “What? We woke you or somethin’?” Cane asked. “Wake ya ass up then!”

  “Where’s Daddy?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Cane replied.

  Citi sighed heavily and slammed the door.

  “Sorry, sis,” Chris shouted.

  “What you apologizing for?”

  “Shut up, Cane!”

  ****

  Cane was sixteen and the hothead in the family, quick to react without thinking. He loved the streets and took full advantage of the perks of being a Byrne. He grew up idolizing men like Maino and his father, having heard stories about his father and the Supreme Team. Cane walked around the hood feeling like he was untouchable. If you pulled a knife, he was ready to pull a gun. And if you pulled a gun, he was ready to shoot first. And if you shot first, you better hope he was dead, because he wasn’t the type to forgive. He thought he knew it all.

  At seventeen, Chris was the eldest of the three siblings. He was the business-minded one, the one to think things through and analyze a situation. He wanted his father to go legit with their drug money. He kept his ears to the streets and was well informed, reading The Wall Street Journal and staying focused on the news.

  But the two were both flashy in their jewels and attire. They both had nice cars, Cane, a BMW, and Chris, a convertible Benz. Curtis indulged his sons to whatever they wanted and needed. He had schooled his sons on the streets and the business continuously since they were toddlers, so they knew their father’s life and his trade like they knew the latest rap song.

  ****

  Citi could no longer sleep after her brothers’ racket. She looked out the window. It was another cold day in January. She sighed when she heard the strong winter wind blow against her window. She turned on her stereo and listened to Mary J. Blige sing her heart out.

  She locked her bedroom door and stripped down naked, admiring herself in the mirror. Citi was so proud of her body, a grade-A figure she’d inherited from her mother. It was the only thing she was grateful to receive from her mother, and the only thing her mother had passed on to her.

  Citi spent her Saturday afternoons in the Korean nail shop in Rochdale Village or Kandi’s Beauty Salon on Linden Boulevard. Then on Sundays, she would go shopping in the malls or in the city, splurging hundreds of dollars on outfits, shoes, and makeup. She loved getting dolled up and pretty for her nights out. Like clockwork, her Saturday nights were spent in the clubs or hanging with her girlfriends, where she showed off her new attire and gleaming jewels. She loved the attention, especially the attention she got from men, both young and older. Everyone knew who she was, and she flaunted her status like she was the daughter to the president of the United States.

  It was one in the afternoon when she decided to get dressed and make some phone calls. Her day didn’t start until three, but her brothers had disturbed her beauty sleep. She picked up her phone and decided to call Dana, her best friend. It wasn’t fun going to get her hair and nails done alone. She needed a friend to accompany her; someone to talk to and gossip with.

  Dana lived in the project building across Guy R. Brewer Boulevard, and was one of the few teens in the projects with her parents married and living in the same home. The girls had been friends since the sixth grade and were willing and ready to do anything for each other. They had similar tastes—fashion, dick, and attention. Dana’s parents were both city workers and could afford to provide their only child with almost the same luxuries that Citi had, but Citi was able to afford more than her friend because her father had a lot more bank than Dana’s parents’ combined income. But Dana was a booster, shoplifting from department stores like it was an art, and whatever she didn’t want for herself, she passed on to Citi.

  Citi dialed Dana, and it rang a few times before she picked up.

  “What, bitch?”

  “Get dressed,” Citi said. “I’m ready to go get our nails and hair done.”

  “You treatin’?”

  “Of course.”

  “A’ight. Knock on my door when you ready to leave,” Dana said.

  “One hour.”

  “Where we goin’?”

  “The Koreans in Rochdale. They always do me right.”

  “Yeah, they be on point.”

  “One hour, Dana.”

  After Citi hung up, she walked over to her closet and opened the door, and clothes spilled out like the closet had thrown up, leaving mountains of name-brand attire scattered everywhere. She started to pick through her clothes, trying to put together the perfect outfit to sport for the day. She couldn’t look too cute because of the cold, but she was ready to show off her winter attire something fierce. She had outfits for every season and every occasion, and she always made sure her coordination was precise, from her underwear to the coat matching her boots or shoes.

  She glanced at the time. It was going to take her more than an hour to get ready, at least two hours minimum. She took a nice, long shower, shaved her valuable parts, and styled her hair into a long ponytail until she could get it done professionally later in the evening.

  Citi stepped out of her bedroom looking genuine in her Seven jeans and parchment-colored faux-wrap top underneath a Moncler winter coat. She sported a pair of beige winter boots and platinum hoop earrings. She walked into the living room to see both her brothers watching TV and smoking weed. They paid her no mind and stayed focused on the college football game.

  “Where Daddy at?” she asked.

  Cane shrugged. “I don’t know. Go look for him.”

  She sucked her teeth. “Fuck you, Cane! Well, can I get a ride to Rochdale from one of y’all?”

  “Take the bus.”

  “You know I don’t do buses, Cane, so stop playin’ yourself.”

  “Walk then.”

  Chris laughed at his brother’s remark.

  “Fuck y’all! Y’all both ain’t shit!” Citi screwed up her face and turned to walk away. “I can’t w
ait till my birthday.”

  “Why’s that?” Chris asked.

  “’Cuz I’m gonna get Daddy to buy me my own damn car.”

  The brothers laughed.

  Chris told her, “You ain’t even got your license yet.”

  “So you think that’s gonna stop me?”

  Chris looked at his sister and saw the determination in her eyes. He took a pull from the burning haze between his fingers and exhaled.

  “Let me get some of that,” Citi said, reaching for the blunt.

  “You put in for this, sis?” Cane asked.

  “No. You think that’s gonna fuckin’ stop me?” Citi sucked her teeth and snatched the blunt from her brother’s hand and took a few tokes. Then she asked them for a ride again.

  Chris told her, “A nigga tired, Citi. Shit, we been out all night, and I ain’t tryin’ to leave this pad unless it’s an emergency. You tryin’ to go outside to get all pretty for whatever. It ain’t that important right now.”

  Citi sighed. “Fuck it! I’ll get a cab.”

  “See? Problem solved,” Cane chimed.

  Citi exited the apartment and strutted down the narrow corridor toward the elevator. When she approached, the elevator doors opened on cue, and out stepped a leggy brunette dressed in a short skirt and short leather jacket.

  She eyed the woman and knew exactly where she was headed. Before the woman could pass, she uttered, “He ain’t home.”

  “Excuse me?” the leggy woman replied.

  “If you’re lookin’ for my father, he ain’t home.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I’m his daughter,” she replied sassily.

  “Oh.”

  Citi instantly pegged her as a gold digger. It bothered her greatly that Curtis always had a string of women in and out of the apartment. In fact, she hated most of them. Bitches were always trying to be in her father’s pockets. Citi was the main girl in her father’s life, and knew none of those hoes could come between her and her daddy. She would argue with them and was quick to put them in their place, making it very clear to them that they were only temporary. The ladies weren’t with her father because they were trying to find love and warmth—they all had an agenda, and she would pick them apart little by little until they became frustrated.