Mafioso [Part 2] Page 3

  As Max was ready to depart with her groceries in her shopping cart, someone quickly caught her attention. She noticed a woman staring at her from three lines over. Why is this bitch staring at me so intensely? She could feel the tension, knowing this bitch with four kids had something against her. She grabbed her things and made for the exit, refusing to turn around. She needed no trouble. She just wanted to go home.

  Max exited the store, and before she could step farther away from the supermarket, she heard someone shout out, “They fuckin’ let you out!”

  Max felt the drama coming her way. She didn’t want to turn around, but she did anyway. The woman with the four dusty-looking children came charging out of the supermarket like she was on a mission. She was in her late thirties and looked to be on hard times; she had “welfare mama” written all over her. Her oldest child was a boy of about twelve years old. The woman recognized Max immediately, but Max couldn’t figure out who she was.

  “I can’t believe this shit! How the fuck you outta jail?” she yelled again, creating unwanted attention outside of the supermarket.

  When the woman came closer, Max finally recognized her. Denise! Sandy’s little sister. She’d grown into a full adult now with a lot of tits and ass, and she looked more ghetto than her deceased sister ever did.

  Denise held a two-year-old boy with nappy hair to her hip and cursed Max up and down crazily.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Max replied softly.

  “Fuck that! How the fuck you get out? They ain’t tell us you were gettin’ the fuck out! You dat bitch dat killed my sister and you up in here buyin’ milk an’ shit?” Denise heatedly accosted Max. She was flanked by her children, who stared at Max confusedly.

  Max tried to ignore the escalating confrontation. The last thing she needed was trouble. It’d only been a week since she’d come home. She attempted to walk away. She put her eyes to the ground and wanted to skirt past the angry troublemaker, but it wasn’t happening so easily.

  Although twenty years had gone by, Denise still held on to resentment and hatred. She pushed Max.

  Max looked at her and said, “Look, I don’t want any trouble from you. I did my time. I just want to be left alone.”

  “Left alone?” Denise yelled. “Fuck you, bitch!”

  Denise thought Max was still Maxine; that soft, timid bitch that everyone used to fuck with and prey on, especially her sister. Denise got it into her mind she could take her sister’s place and continue bullying Max.

  Max clenched her fists. She saw a peaceful solution with Denise wasn’t happening.

  A small crowd eyed the quarrel between them.

  Denise put her baby down on the ground and swung at Max. It was a broad and sloppy attack, and Max easily sidestepped and countered with her tightened fist smashing into Denise’s face. It was a hard blow, which Denise didn’t see coming. It dazed her, but she didn’t go down.

  Max struck her again. This time her knuckles crashed into Denise’s nose. The two females took a huge handful of each other’s clothing and attempted to wrestle the other to the ground. Max hit her again in the chest and then her side. She then went for Denise’s long weave and grabbed it tightly, steering her in whatever direction she commanded. She swung Denise around by her hair and sent the ghetto mama crashing to the ground hard, some of her weave coming out in the process. Blood flowed from Denise’s broken nose.

  More of a crowd gathered to watch the fight between the two women.

  Max angled her knee into the air, and her foot went crashing down against Denise’s torso. She repeated the stomping action several times, preventing Denise from rising to her feet. She’d released that prison rage outside in public. “I told you, don’t fuck with me, bitch!” Max screamed out.

  Denise’s kids desperately tried to aid their mama. The twelve-year-old attacked Max with his small punches, shouting, “Get off my mama!”

  Max pushed him off, and he went tumbling to the ground and landed on his ass. Denise’s two younger children and the baby were crying.

  Some people in the crowd were filming the fight with their smartphones.

  One of them yelled out, “World Star! World Star!”

  It was entertainment for them. None of them had any idea that it was a twenty-year-old beef.

  Seeing Denise beaten and bloody beneath her, Max finally came back to her senses. Oh shit! The fight would put her in violation of her parole. She quickly collected her cart and hurried away from the scene.

  ***

  Max sat teary-eyed in the living room with deep worries. She didn’t want to go back to prison. How would she break the news to her mother? Her jeans and shirt were neatly pressed, her sneakers were tied, and her hair had been braided neatly. Max did this for four consecutive days until she was finally convinced that Denise didn’t go to the cops to press charges.

  No one came looking for her. There were no hard knocks at the door, and her parole officer didn’t mention the fight. Max knew she had to be more careful. She didn’t want to risk her freedom and go back to jail, especially over some bullshit.

  4

  It was a balmy August night with a full moon in the sky, and the streets of Wilmington, Delaware were bustling with people and traffic. It was a party night for some folks and a business night for others. The dealers were making money hand over fist. The fiends moved about the avenues and streets in search of their next high. The new product in the city was the talk of the town. The West organization had flooded the city with high-quality merchandise, and the people couldn’t get enough.

  It seemed like DMC (Deuces Money Crew) was old news, and the West organization was the new power in the city. Deuce had been MIA for weeks now. The streets were talking, saying Deuce and his crew went into hiding with their tails between their legs once the bigger, badder wolves came into town. Even Detective Jones switched sides. Whatever once belonged to Deuce was now part of the West organization.

  The dealers from Scott’s empire sold heroin and cocaine in the streets like brokers sold stocks and bonds on Wall Street. Through word-of-mouth marketing, their product moved quickly, and the money came in with little effort. Everyone was getting rich; it felt like the 1980s again. Corruption was thick in the city, so police turned their heads from the illicit drug activity, receiving a sizable piece of the profit. Everything was at the drug dealers’ and dirty cops’ beck and call—money, drugs, pussy, and power. Delaware became a haven for those in the game, turning Lucky’s vision into a goldmine.

  N. Spruce Street was a heavy drug area where the fiends paraded up and down the street like it was their right to do so. The young dealers frequented the corners and the drug houses with little to no harassment from law enforcement. As long as the violence was down and there were no murders, everyone could live happily ever after. The lieutenants in Scott’s organization moved around the city like they were kings. They had access to everything—VIP in the clubs, more money than they could count, beautiful women who would do anything for them, and the best clothes and cars.

  For weeks now, the business had been running smoothly with no interference from anyone or anything. With Deuce and his crew gone, there was no more drug war.

  Two young lieutenants, Martino and Crown, came to a stop in front of the row house on Spruce Street. Crown was behind the wheel of a black E-Class Benz sitting on 20-inch chrome rims. It was a beauty of a car, with tinted windows and leather seats. Martino exited the passenger seat. The man was tall and dressed in stylish jeans and a T-shirt, his jewelry gleaming like he was Mr. T. He walked toward the old row house with authority, the 9mm tucked snugly and subtly in his waistband. The block and the city were theirs.

  While Crown sat in the Benz, Martino stepped toward the stash house. He was there to collect money. At the door, he was greeted by two armed soldiers standing in the foyer, there to guard and protect the product and the money. There was a ve
rbal exchange, and Martino traveled farther into the row house to take care of business.

  Crown lit a cigarette and eyed the activity on the block. Everything appeared to be normal and routine. Neighbors talked and laughed in front of their homes, and addicts loomed from darkening corners of the block, looking for their high for the night. Crown kept his gun close on his lap as he inhaled the nicotine.

  Abruptly, Crown felt the barrel of a Glock 19 against his temple and the hammer cock. And the last thing he heard was, “You thought we forgot, muthafucka! Deuce is back!”

  Boom!

  The blast sent Crown’s brains flying all over the dashboard and the deluxe interior. His body slumped in the front seat, twisted from the bullet and the payback.

  The shooters weren’t finished. They fired more bullets into his dead body. Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The gunfire alerted the two soldiers standing in the foyer. They exploded from the building, guns drawn, but they were quickly met with death, as the gunfire from two Uzis riddled their bodies with bullets and sprayed their blood across the concrete.

  The intense racket sent neighbors and fiends fleeing for safety in the opposite direction.

  “What the fuck!” Martino exclaimed, as he pulled his pistol from his waistband. There was no doubt the stash house was under attack. He braced himself for a gunfight with the other remaining workers in the money room.

  The two young workers panicked. They weren’t shooters; they were just there to count money and handle the product.

  Martino crouched low with his gun in hand and cautiously peeked around the corner. He saw nothing. The hallway was long and dim. He looked at the workers and asked, “Y’all niggas carrying?”

  “No!” they replied, apprehension in their voices.

  Martino needed to think. They were coming for the money he’d come to pick up, and the little product they had in the room. The re-up was in a few days. Once again, he carefully looked around the corner, down the hallway leading to the exit. Still, he saw nothing. He couldn’t linger inside the room forever. He had to deal with the police coming and the shooters lying in wait for him to pop his head out of his hole like whack-a-mole. Time was critical.

  “Muthafuckas, come get some!” he yelled out. For good measure, he fired his gun crazily, letting bullets fly down the dim hallway, not knowing what he was shooting at.

  Waiting to be confronted by the enemy was the scary part. Martino didn’t know how many of them there were.

  Then it came rapidly. The shooters didn’t intend to infiltrate the building. In fact, they had something more sinister planned.

  Martino and the two workers were suddenly blinded by flames that burst from everywhere. The fire quickly grew heavier and heavier. They were trapped inside. Martino’s eyes widened with fear. He staggered backward as far as his legs could take him, and then he collapsed on his behind. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead as the fire spread and the temperature inside the room rose rapidly. It sounded like hot, crackling wind was erupting inside the chamber. Smoke engulfed the area, making it impossible to see and harder for them to breathe.

  For the three souls inside, there was no escape. Quickly, the fire consumed the room, and the black smoke crippled their lungs with soot. They were swallowed up by the bright orange flames until there was nothing left. Every last man was dead.

  Watching the building burn from a block away was Deuce, who sat in the passenger seat of a green Durango. He was smoking a cigarette and smiling. It was a direct attack on the West organization. Deuce didn’t care about the money or product inside the building. He cared about making a statement to those trying to take away what he’d built through hard work, intimidation, and murder. Wilmington was his city.

  “That’s a beautiful, thing, Jimmy,” Deuce said.

  “It is,” Jimmy replied.

  “Muthafuckas think they can come at me and it would be easy—like I was going to bow down and let them have it all without a fight. They must be fuckin’ crazy.”

  Their eyes were fixed on the row house being attacked by angry flames that wiped out its structure. The intense fire had devoured everything, and the billowing smoke stretched far into the dark sky and could be seen for miles. Sirens from fire trucks and police cars blared in the distance.

  “We’re done here,” Deuce said. “Let’s go.”

  Jimmy started the Durango and put it into drive. He did a quick U-turn on the block and drove off calmly, passing the first screaming fire truck arriving on the scene, followed by several police cars.

  ***

  Deuce took safety and residence at an old mechanic shop on Golden Avenue. The front yard was cluttered with old cars and junk. It was a sizable building, and it was low-key. It was unused and had been closed for three years. Deuce owned the property, but it couldn’t be traced back to him because of a straw buyer. The area was industrial, cluttered with a few scaffolding businesses, warehouses, junkyards, empty lots, and old buildings. The garage had a large backroom where he could conduct business and torture people.

  Deuce sat at the shaky table in the windowless backroom as Jimmy produced the information and pictures he’d asked for. Jimmy was the best for gathering information and doing surveillance. Displayed on the table were several glossy 8x10 pictures of Scott and his family, and several of his lieutenants in Delaware.

  Deuce took a pull from the cigarette between his lips. He picked up the photo of Scott and glared at it. “This old muthafucka still trying to run with the wolves, huh? He should have been retired from this game.”

  “He still wants the glory,” Jimmy said.

  “I’m gonna give him some glory, all right—I’m gonna put everything he loves into the fuckin’ ground.”

  The elusive Deuce had finally resurfaced stronger and meaner than ever. He was more than ready to rebuild his empire and exact revenge. He had a new crew of killers he’d handpicked himself. They considered themselves the best at murder for hire, and their pedigree spoke for itself. His killers had put in work, some of which had even made the front page and the evening news.

  Deuce had done his homework on the infamous drug kingpin who had taken over his territory. Word on the street was that Scott West was old-school, damn near fifty years old (which was exaggerated), and still in the drug game. He could have gone entirely legit a decade ago, but he kept getting his hands dirty. The man was controlling, and his children and his wife co-ran his organization. They had more money than anyone could count, and they had more legit companies than a black man could be expected to have. So why continue operating with the streets? Why come into Delaware and take over what Deuce had built with his bloody hands? This war with the Wests became personal for Deuce. They’d killed his sister and fucked with his livelihood.

  Deuce had the names he needed from Jimmy. The names were a list of a motley crew—Scott, Layla, Meyer, Bugsy, Lucky, Bonnie, Clyde, and Gotti. He saw the names of Scott’s children and shook his head in disbelief. “Is this nigga serious?” he uttered to his right-hand man. “He must be one dumb muthafucka.”

  Deuce, who was low-key, thought it was simple-minded for Scott to name all his kids after notorious gangsters. What message was he trying to send to people, to the authorities, neighbors, and the feds? “His infatuation with dead gangsters is intriguing.”

  “Well, I got more news for you, Deuce.” Jimmy picked up three pictures of Scott’s children and said, “These three are already dead.”

  “Say what?”

  “It seems our enemy has enemies everywhere, and they’re going after his family. His youngest boy was killed in Florida a few months ago in a hit-and-run. The driver was never caught. And his fraternal twins, Bonnie and Clyde, were gunned down in Harlem not too long ago.”

  “Wow! I see this nigga done stirred up a hornet’s nest somewhere, and now they’re coming out to sting his ass. Maybe all we have to do is sit back
and wait.”

  Jimmy laughed. “Maybe.”

  “If the nigga can’t even protect his own fuckin’ family, why the fuck is he comin’ after my shit? And this is the notorious muthafucka I’m supposed to watch out for? He won’t see me coming at all for his head. I’m gonna sting his ass too.”

  “I’m ready. Let’s play,” Jimmy declared.

  Deuce pondered his next move as he extinguished his cigarette. He was going after Scott and his organization with everything he had. The West team wouldn’t see him coming. He had nothing to lose and could hide in broad daylight and disappear in the blink of an eye. The reason he was so dangerous was because he had no attachments—no wife, no main bitch, and no kids. With the murder of his sister, Deuce’s enemies now had nothing to barter with. If the heat was around the corner, he could be gone in less than sixty seconds. He was always mobile and never stayed at one place for too long, and he didn’t invest in large homes or real estate. Whatever he owned, it was through straw purchases, so there was nothing in his name that could link back to him and lead to a federal investigation.

  Deuce felt he had no weakness, whereas Scott had too many. Scott had too many foundations—real estate in New York and in Florida, legit businesses, and most critical, he had a wife and kids. Deuce would see those foundations crumble. He wanted to see the man’s empire burn to the ground.

  5

  Mandarin Oriental was the Cadillac of spa treatment in Manhattan. It was a world-renowned spa inside the soaring five-star luxury hotel with a restaurant and a bird’s-eye view of the city. It was an oasis of relaxation and rejuvenation high above Manhattan. Mother and daughter, Layla and Lucky, both dressed in terrycloth robes, were receiving the best treatment that money could buy.

  Layla sat back in the luxury massage leather chair, thoroughly enjoying the spa treatment. The pampering was relaxing and therapeutic, and having Lucky by her side enjoying the same treatment was a needed blessing. Mother-and-daughter time was rare, especially after everything that had happened lately. Their treatment didn’t come cheap. At $1,200 per foot, the women received the total package from the Koreans, from soaking their feet in fresh spring water and emu oil, to letting little fish nibble away at their dead skin. Layla and Lucky sat back and sipped on champagne while the Koreans worked magic on their feet.