Mafioso [Part 2] Page 5

  Maxine fumed at the lack of respect this bitch had for anyone. She made up her mind there and then. She didn’t want Lucky dead, not soon anyway. She had something else planned for her. The little spoiled bitch needed to be stripped of everything. The sins of the mother would be passed down to the daughter. Maxine wanted the foul-mouthed, disrespectful little bitch to spend the rest of her life in prison with no family to visit, support, or protect her. She wanted Lucky to suffer greatly, receiving no commissary, pictures, or any communication from anyone she loved, because her family would be all dead. She wanted Lucky to rot away in prison and think about how her parents’ actions led her and her siblings to their demise.

  Maxine decided that her next target would be Bugsy.

  Before Layla could follow Lucky out of the aging home that smelled like mothballs and old people, Maxine pulled her aside and asked for the money and house promised to her.

  Layla felt disturbed by it and gave Maxine a look that could make someone’s blood freeze. “Everything’s mostly gone, Maxine,” she said gruffly.

  “Gone? You made promises to me, Layla. I gave up half my life to protect you.”

  “And I kept my promises by helping you survive inside. Most of the money went toward keeping you safe. Besides, things have changed, and the family has fallen on difficult times with the funerals, the properties in Florida, and this ongoing war. A lot of my money is tied up right now.”

  Maxine sighed. She was boiling with rage but kept her composure. She looked at Layla and just replied, “I understand.”

  “I do what I can, Maxine. You’re my best friend, but now is not the right time.”

  Maxine nodded.

  6

  Layla and Lucky climbed back into the Rolls-Royce Phantom. Lucky couldn’t wait to get back home and take a shower to erase the stench of the old home from her skin. The house probably had roaches and bugs. Their security detail jumped back into both SUVs, and the engines started.

  Once again, the neighbors were standing outside to watch the caravan leave. They took plenty of pictures of the Rolls-Royce, a car rarely seen in their part of town.

  As the vehicle pulled away from the curb, Lucky looked at her mother with inquiry and asked, “What did that bitch have to talk to you about privately?”

  Layla shot a brutal look at her daughter. “It’s none of your fuckin’ business! You never know when to shut the fuck up, and don’t know when to be seen and not fuckin’ heard!”

  Lucky wasn’t expecting the harsh reply. Layla and Maxine seemed to talk about something personal. She wondered why her mother didn’t curse out Maxine in the same fashion. Her mother didn’t have to show any respect to Maxine, and she owed that bitch nothing. Who was she to them? The bitch was no one. Why did they even waste their time going to Brooklyn? Maxine did her time; now she should be happy to be back home and with her aging mother.

  “I just asked a simple question, and you’re all in your throwback Thursday feelings right now. Wake up. It’s Friday.”

  Layla roared. “Didn’t I tell your ass to shut the fuck up! Please and thank you!”

  Lucky sat and pouted.

  With Lucky finally quiet, Layla sat in silence preoccupied with a thought. Why didn’t she throw Maxine some cash and the house she had promised her for years? She and Scott had more money than they could ever count.

  But there was something about Maxine being back in Brooklyn that didn’t sit well with Layla. It made her think about the past. She thought about how Maxine was with Scott and that she had stolen her life. She remembered Maxine and that white BMW she used to drive. It was a gift from Scottie. Maxine used to receive plenty of gifts from Scottie. She remembered the jewelry, the clothing, and how in love they seemed to be. Maxine was Scottie’s first love, and Layla used to be jealous of that. It made her competitive.

  Layla exhaled. She had done all she would do for Maxine. Now that she was back home, Layla felt Maxine was a definite threat to her relationship with Scott. Things were already distant between them. Though it had been over twenty years, how would Scott feel about seeing Maxine again? She didn’t look the same, but Layla would not chance it. Fuck the bitch!

  ***

  Layla downed a glass of Dom Pérignon as she lounged naked in a chaise on the large terrace, twenty-three floors up. She had a sweeping view of the illuminated city under a full moon. The top of the Empire State Building was lit up in multiple colors, glowing like a bright crayon in the sky. The view was breathtaking and picturesque, and one reason she and Scott had purchased the five-million-dollar penthouse suite on the Upper West Side.

  Layla loved being naked because she felt free and had nothing to be ashamed about. At forty-something years old, her body was still shapely and incredible, thanks to personal trainers and a healthy diet. She had the money to be fit and healthy, and the resources to stay looking good at her age. Her tits were perky because of cosmetic surgery, and her stomach showed off abs because of vigorous workouts.

  The sad news about her hard work to stay looking fit and healthy was, her husband took her for granted. He hadn’t touched her sexually in months. She wondered if he saw something different. Was he still attracted to her? She had changed for him, but his attention seemed to be elsewhere. How many more nights could she go without having sex? She had plenty of toys and pleased herself numerous times, but there was nothing like the real thing, feeling the flesh penetrate her, thrusting in and out. Layla craved some dick, and she wanted it from her husband, but he acted like he wanted nothing to do with her.

  She was too afraid to cheat because Scott was dangerous. He was a hypocrite, regularly out with his other whores, but wanting to keep her under his thumb. To Layla, it felt like Scott had thrown away the key to her pussy and wasn’t trying to reopen the gate.

  She poured more champagne into her glass and downed that too, and then she lit a cigarette and inhaled. She had a lot on her mind. She tried not to be stressed, but things were changing, and had changed. She removed herself from the chaise and walked toward the railing. She took another puff from the cigarette and blew smoke from her lips. Her eyes rested on the full moon above. It was such a spectacular view. The city was bustling with activity twenty-three stories below her, and the sky was clear and perfect.

  She heaved another deep sigh and finished the cigarette and flicked it over the railing, not caring where it landed. She had everything she wanted and could do whatever she wanted, so why did she feel so trapped? Her life seemed like she was in a collapsing room with no windows and no doors. There was no escape. Wherever she traveled, she had armed security with her for protection. Someone was out to get her and her family. She worried about her remaining children, and was on edge twenty-four/seven. She knew any day that call could come about another murder close to home; wickedness snatching away her children’s lives.

  Layla’s eyes stayed fixed on the full moon above. Tired of feeling trapped, she had the urge to do something about it.

  7

  Delaware was turning into a battlefield. Bodies were piling up in Wilmington from a spate of murders. Two known drug dealers were found with fatal shots to the head in the front seat of a blue Mercedes-Benz on N. Locust Street. They were linked to the West organization. A week after that, a couple had their throats slit in the bedroom of their Quaker Hill home. Once again, the man and woman were connected to the West organization. In Baynard Village, firemen extinguished a burning car on N. Washington Street, only to find a charred body behind the steering wheel.

  Deuce and his crew were coming back on their rivals. They were not only killing them off, but they were stealing kilos of cocaine and heroin from various stash houses with the help of informants, mixing it with their inferior product, and then reselling it as their own. DMC had come into the city like a thief in the night, and they were becoming angels of death and destruction. Payback was a bitch.

  The local police ha
d their hands full. Things went from quiet to chaotic in a few weeks’ time. The city morgue was picking up bodies left and right. The detectives were working cases with no sleep, and the mayor was receiving the backlash for the increasing murders and violence that was crippling businesses and taking over their city. His constituents were crying out loudly, not wanting their city to become another Chicago.

  Detective Jones, dressed in a wife-beater and jeans, sat on the bench in the police locker room, hunched over with his elbows pressed against his knees, his eyes glued to the floor. He was off duty and feeling despair. His holstered gun and his badge sat on the bench next to him. His locker was open with pictures of his wife and kids plastered on the inner door. He pondered as he sat still. His cell phone rang, but he ignored the call. He knew who was calling and why.

  Things had been disrupted in the streets. The dealers and criminals under his protection had been swept up in war and bloodshed, and they were filled with absolute worry and alarm. News of DMC being back in town spread like wildfire, and those who had betrayed Deuce were now feeling his full wrath. Everyone was feeling the heat. Some were running scared, afraid to do business in the city. Detective Jones knew he was on Deuce’s shit list. Deuce was pulling out all the stops, killing everything moving and fucking everything up.

  Jones looked to his left and to his right and saw no one around. He reached into his locker and removed a small clear package containing cocaine. He sprinkled a small line between the spaces of his thumb and index finger and quickly snorted “the white girl” into his nose. He did another line, and the blast hit him nicely. He shook it off and wiped his nose clean from any white residue. With so much to deal with on the streets, drugs became his comfort. He continued to sit for a moment, thinking about his mistakes, and thinking about Deuce and his crew. He had to be cautious and think ahead. First he needed to get his family out of town and take them somewhere safe.

  Jones got himself correct and put on civilian clothes. Today, he had worn his Class A’s for a cop’s funeral. One of theirs had been murdered last week while on duty, shot in the head by a fleeing suspect. Officer Richard Jenkins was a decent, honest cop. He was African American, had been married to his beautiful wife for fifteen years, and they had three kids together. Jones, a good friend of Jenkins’, was saddened by his death.

  Jones stood up and placed his holstered weapon on his right hip and tossed the badge around his neck. He closed his locker. He was ready to leave the station and head home. The station was swept up with sadness after the funeral. Officer Richard Jenkins would be missed. His killer was easily apprehended the same night, and a few boys in uniform put an ass-whipping on him that would haunt him for the rest of his life. No one killed a cop in Wilmington and got away with it.

  In no mood to socialize, Jones exited the station, dodging everyone inside. He needed to get home and get his family out of town. He already had a safe place for them to stay, a three-bedroom safe house near Fredericksburg, Virginia. Not knowing what was out there, he marched toward his truck and climbed inside, his hand close to his gun, ready for the wrong person to try him. He would not hesitate to shoot first.

  He started the ignition to his burgundy Cadillac Escalade and drove off. On his way home, his eyes were regularly in his mirrors, looking and observing, trying to make sure he wasn’t being followed home.

  Westover Hills was quiet and tranquil as usual. The affluent neighborhood was the perfect place for his family. His wife and kids deserved the best, so Jones did everything in his power to give them the best. He was affable with his children, and though he’d committed adultery on his wife with over a dozen women, he was still romantic with her.

  The sun was gradually giving way to dusk and a warm evening when Jones’ Escalade pulled into the driveway and he climbed out of his truck. The bedroom and living room lights were on as he approached the rear door to his nice home, indicative that his wife was probably upstairs, and the kids were most likely in the living room.

  Keys in hand, gun on his hip, his badge displayed around his neck, he quietly entered the residence to greet his family. But the moment he stepped foot into the kitchen, he knew something was wrong.

  They rushed him suddenly—three men from the shadows of his home. Before he could react, he felt 50 volts of electricity against the back of his neck, tightening all of his muscles at once. He instantly collapsed to the floor in intense pain. For good measure, they tasered him again and knocked him unconscious.

  ***

  Detective Jones woke up in complete darkness, his body still a little rigid from the attack. Tied up with duct tape and in a cramped space with his knees bent awkwardly and his frame hunched over on its side in the fetal position, he was unable to move.

  He deduced that he was in the trunk of a car. He could feel it moving. He had no idea where they were taking him. He figured it had to be Deuce and his men that attacked him in his home, though he hadn’t gotten a good look at their faces.

  Jones struggled and fidgeted with his restraints, but the duct tape would not loosen. They’d placed a lot of duct tape around his ankles and his wrists to keep him immobile. He thought about his family. Oh God! Where are they? No, no, not like this. He growled and scowled. “Fuuuuck!”

  Not once did he feel the car stop or slow down, indicating to him they were on the highway. Where were they taking him? What did Deuce have planned for him? Wherever he was going, Jones knew that it would not be pleasant.

  An hour or so later, he could feel the vehicle slowing down and making various turns. He was immensely concerned about his family. If they harmed his wife and kids, then he . . . Couldn’t do a damn thing about it right now. The thought of Deuce harming his family was overwhelmingly scary. He didn’t care what they did to him, but he wanted his family to be left alone.

  Finally, the car stopped. Jones lay firmly bound and filled with apprehension. He heard the doors opening and closing, followed by footsteps.

  The trunk opened, and several men stood over him. He glared up at them and shouted, “Y’all are fuckin’ dead! You hear me? Where’s my family? Where are they?”

  A voice spoke out swiftly and said, “Take his ass out that fuckin’ trunk.”

  Immediately, a pair of hands grabbed Jones and roughly pulled him out of the trunk and tossed him to the ground.

  His body crashed against the dirt. Thump!

  He looked up. The sky was dark and cluttered with stars, and the area was rural and isolated. He figured they weren’t in Delaware anymore.

  “You grimy muthafucka! You dare betray me,” he heard Deuce say to him. The hulking gangster appeared before him with a heavy scowl and looked more menacing than ever.

  Their eyes locked.

  Deuce marched closer to Jones. Dressed in a black tank top that accentuated his muscled physique, dark jeans, and combat boots, he crouched near Jones and grabbed a handful of his clothing. “You let them into my fuckin’ territory, when I was paying you good money to protect it. You fucked me over, huh, muthafucka!”

  Jones frowned at him. “Where’s my family? What did you do with them? I swear, Deuce, you touch one hair on their heads, and—”

  “You’ll what, nigga? Kill me? Nigga, do you look in the position to throw threats at me, muthafucka? Huh?” Deuce exclaimed.

  Jones could only glare at the man.

  The area, quiet and remote, was a sprawling piece of farmland in Pennsylvania, and there was no one around for miles. Two vehicles were parked nearby, and half dozen goons surrounded Jones.

  Jones then noticed the deep hole in the ground. His grave had already been dug. He knew this would be his end. His fate was sealed.

  “You gave her up . . . my fuckin’ sister,” Deuce said.

  Jones didn’t reply.

  “My sister was the only family I had, and you gave her up to those animals. You know what they did to her?” Deuce hollered.


  Jones remained silent. He was a cop, but these monsters didn’t care about the badge. Deuce was determined to get payback for his sister.

  “Pick him up,” Deuce ordered his goons.

  Two men grabbed Jones by his arms and lifted him to his feet. They dragged him to the hole in the ground. It would be his tomb.

  “You know what will happen to you if you kill me, Deuce,” Jones spoke aggressively.

  Deuce looked at him intensely and replied, “You care about your family, don’t you? You love them like I loved my sister.” He nodded to one of his henchmen, who pivoted and walked toward the black Lexus IS300. The trunk opened, and he removed something from it.

  When Jones swiveled his head in the direction and saw his beautiful wife in her panties and bra being removed from the trunk, he screamed out, “Get the fuck off her! Noooo!”

  Immediately, Jones attempted to help her. He didn’t care about his restraints or how many men surrounded him. But he wasn’t going anywhere, tied the way he was.

  Deuce quickly brandished a gun, aimed it at Jones’ legs, and fired.

  Bang! Bang!

  Both bullets slammed into Jones’ knees, immediately crippling him. He was then pushed into the hole, falling on his back, and the wind was knocked out of him. He could hear his wife crying. It was torture for him. She was in the hands of animals, and there wasn’t anything he could do. His legs were motionless, and he was bleeding profusely.

  Jones screamed out in anguish, “Please, leave her alone! Deuce, don’t do this! Let her go. It’s me you want, not her!”

  Deuce appeared at the edge of the hole and smirked down at Jones, enjoying the cop’s agony. “You did this!” he exclaimed. “You created this hell for yourself.”

  “While you die, we gonna have some fun with the pretty bitch. You hear me, pig? We gonna rape that bitch, take turns with your whore”—Deuce unzipped his pants and pulled out his nine-inch cock—“knock teeth out her mouth while she’s suckin’ my dick. You see this, you fuckin’ pig? Think about this big dick goin’ into your wife as you lay there and die.”