Mafioso [Part 3] Read online

  Their exit from the warehouse was smooth. There was no surprise attack from the outside as Whistler had feared. No one was waiting to ambush them. The area was like a ghost town. Everyone got into the vehicles and drove off like bandits on horseback disappearing into the rugged terrain.

  ***

  Alicia pressed her lips to Bugsy’s chest and snuggled against him, slowly running her fingers across his chest, touching him tenderly and letting him touch back. The two had just made passionate love, and they were enjoying a quiet night together. Alicia’s soft, naked frame was like heaven against Bugsy’s skin as he held her in his arms lovingly. He relished moments like these. He looked into her eyes and saw an angel upon him. Alicia was everything he’d dreamed of. When she kissed him, it felt like she could wash away all his sins. What would he do without her? Their bodies touched beneath the sheets, and their kisses were passionate and lingering. He softly fondled her beautiful full breasts and ran his hands up and down her back and into her hair.

  “I love you,” Alicia whispered.

  “I love you too,” he said.

  Their adoring and intimate moment was then curtly interrupted by Bugsy’s cell phone ringing. At first, he didn’t want to answer it. Running back and forth between New York and Delaware ate away at his quality time with Alicia. But it rang again, and he worried it was an important call. With Alicia smiling at him, he reluctantly got up from the bed naked and picked up the phone.

  “What’s up?”

  The caller on the other end exclaimed, “Bugsy, the warehouse in Trenton got hit just now—four of our men dead! It was DMC. They left us a fuckin’ message on the muthafuckin’ wall!”

  The news wasn’t a shock to Bugsy. He was expecting it. He told the caller, “I’m on it.”

  He hung up. His intuition was right. Sooner or later their enemies would come for the money. He had a surprise for them, though. Though they had changed up everything in their organization, the one thing Bugsy kept the same was the warehouse in Trenton, New Jersey—one of their main hubs for money drop off and transport. He figured it would become one of their rivals’ primary targets.

  “Everything okay, baby?” Alicia asked him.

  “Yeah, everything’s cool. I’m just checking up on something,” he said.

  Bugsy went to his desk and logged on to his iPad. He went to a GPS tracking app and saw that the money was moving south on I-95. The trap had been set, and Deuce had taken the bait. Bugsy felt proud of what he had masterminded. Finally, they were one up, and when the money stopped moving, he would quickly pinpoint their location and send out the killing squad.

  He got on his cell phone and called his father. They had a window of opportunity to strike, and Bugsy would not lose it. This was critical.

  11

  The realtor showed Layla the 15,000 sq. ft. warehouse space with a smile, bragging about the property and the location. It was once a printing factory, closed two years ago, and had been on the market since then. Located in the Bronx near the Cross Bronx Expressway, it was in the heart of an industrial area.

  Layla walked around the large space nuzzled warmly in her long, brown mink coat and her Jimmy Choo leather boots, which echoed throughout the empty structure. Layla inspected the building, examining it from top to bottom. When she was satisfied, she turned to the female realtor and said with a blank look, “I’ll take it. You can start the paperwork.”

  “Congratulations,” the realtor said. Her commission this month would be large. “You’ve made a wise choice for the right price.”

  The warehouse was perfect for Layla. It was near the highway and nowhere near any residences. Her meeting with Angel Morales was several days ago, and she was expecting her first huge shipment of kilos from Miami within the month. Everything had to be on point, and Layla had to dot her i’s and cross her t’s. First off, she would sign nothing without her lawyer’s review of it first. It had to be legit, and the money couldn’t be dirty. The warehouse was for business, but it was also a personal gift to herself. Like her husband, or soon to be ex-husband, she saw investing into real estate a smart move and a way to wash money. On paper, she was a legit businesswoman, but behind closed doors, that location would become a hub for the tons of cocaine and heroin she would move throughout the Tri-State Area.

  Layla walked out of the property with the cold wind hitting her like a ton of bricks. The idling Bentley and her driver were parked near the front entrance with a few goons she had on standby. Layla climbed into the car while on the phone with her lawyer. She would not waste any time. She had a very busy day, and she also wanted to rattle some cages.

  “Where to?” her driver asked.

  “Take me to Brookdale Hospital. I need to see an old friend and catch up on some lost time. I owe her,” she said.

  The driver merged onto the highway and headed toward Brooklyn via the FDR to the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “I know she can’t wait to see me,” she added.

  ***

  Scott sat by Maxine’s bedside with his men posted outside the room and around the hospital. Seeing Maxine lying there in such a life-threatening condition brought Scott back to the time when Lucky was in the hospital. Unbeknownst to him, it was the same man, Wacka, who’d put both his loved ones in the hospital.

  Scott was frantic, but he was relieved. She was alive. He had refused to believe she was dead, but never thought he would see Maxine alive again. And he was angry too. His woman was kidnapped and had gotten into a bad car accident on the Belt Parkway, but she was alone when the emergency vehicles arrived on the scene. Witnesses said that they saw a black male fleeing the scene of the accident on foot. He appeared to be hurt. Cops searched everywhere, but there was no sign of the perpetrator. He was gone like the wind.

  “What’s the verdict on this nigga? He caught yet?” Scott asked Mason.

  “Nah, we haven’t heard shit yet. We got peoples everywhere, from Jersey to Long Island, but the muthafucka is gone.”

  “What the fuck you mean gone? He dead? He out in space somewhere? If I don’t see a body, he ain’t gone. He’s hiding, and I want him found!” Scott growled.

  Mason nodded. “We on him twenty-four seven, boss. I got you.”

  The man left, leaving Scott alone in the room with Maxine. He took Maxine’s hand into his. She was heavily medicated, and she was sleeping. Her mother was in the same hospital and she, too, was in bad shape. He had his men watching both rooms. Their safety wasn’t threatened, but Scott would take no chances.

  “You gonna be all right. I’m here, Maxine. I’m here,” he said.

  His cell phone rang. He didn’t want to answer it, but it was his son calling. He picked up, hearing Bugsy say, “Pop, we got a problem down here in the lobby. She’s here.”

  ***

  Bugsy sat in the lobby on his cell phone conducting business. His father was in a sad state—maybe distracted for a moment, but their business dealings had to go on. He was the man running everything, legitimate and illegitimate. He was already a busy man, and now with the murders in Trenton and DMC taking the bait, he was following the money. It wouldn’t be long until he sent a squad of killers to the location DMC was holding up at with the money. It was an executive decision to sacrifice four of his men to make the trap believable. It was for the greater good. The men killed knew what they had signed up for, and their families would be handsomely compensated.

  Then, another problem unexpectedly surfaced.

  The sliding doors opened to the lobby, and Layla pranced into the hospital like the diva she was, flanked by thugs and looking like she belonged on Keeping Up with the Kardashians with her expensive jewelry, mink coat, and designer boots. She pretended to be grief-stricken. Bugsy spotted her and he knew his mother being there wasn’t a good thing. He curtailed his phone conversation and called Scott before he marched Layla’s way.

  “You can’t be here, M
a. This is a bad idea,” Bugsy protested.

  “My prodigal son, you telling me where I can and can’t be? I’m here to see an old friend,” Layla griped back.

  “Pop is here, and he’s not going to like it at all.”

  “You think I give a fuck about his feelings? And you have the audacity to side with him after he embarrassed me and went off with that bitch? I fuckin’ gave birth to you, and you bend your knees for him and—”

  “Just leave. Please, I’m begging you,” Bugsy said.

  She slapped him. Immediately, there was a minor scuffle in the lobby between her men and his. It was quickly broken up by the hospital security guards. Layla frowned at Bugsy. What a waste. He had so much potential, but he would rather help out his father than the woman who gave birth to him.

  Suddenly, Scott loomed into view of everyone, and he was in no mood for Layla’s bullshit. This was the first time they’d seen each other since he’d tossed her out on the street and she’d stolen his money.

  “Why the fuck are you here!” he roared at her.

  Layla stood her ground and glared at Scott. She looked intently at his face, and she could see he was visibly upset and saddened by Maxine’s condition. It almost looked like he had been crying. Scott, crying? She felt it was impossible, but his face looked flushed, and his eyes were puffy. Seeing this made her even more upset. The audacity of him. Did he ever cry over her, or for her?

  “I know you ain’t crying over this bitch.” She inched closer toward him. If looks could kill, then he would have been massacred.

  “Fuck you, bitch!” he snapped back.

  “No, fuck you!”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Layla,” he said.

  “You love that stupid bitch!”

  Scott clenched his fist. “Leave, before I make you leave.”

  “I got the right to see my best friend. She’s my friend, and she’s hurt,” Layla said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief and putting on a show for everyone.

  “Friend? You’re no friend of hers.”

  “And you think you’re better? You fucked me while you were with her, lovin’ this good pussy. You let that bitch rot in jail for over twenty years for me, Scott. Don’t you forget that shit,” she said, airing all their dirty laundry.

  Scott wanted to murder Layla. The bitch had some nerve sashaying into the hospital after she’d stolen from him. Had Maxine not pleaded with him to spare her life, he would have killed her from his rage. He was tired of her, but the hospital wasn’t the place, and this wasn’t the time. Fifty million dollars she took from him. It made his blood boil.

  He stood there with a hard scowl. “I want my money back.”

  Layla didn’t take him seriously. It was her money too.

  “Two weeks, bitch. And every penny better be there, or you’ll be sharing a grave with Bonnie.”

  It was a low blow to Layla, for Scott to bring up their dead daughter. The look on her face transitioned from rage to full-blown crazy. She locked eyes with him and snarled, “Don’t you dare threaten me and bring up Bonnie! My fucking baby girl! You sick, twisted, pussy-whipped bitch! Who the fuck you think you are? Bullets don’t have names on them, and ya dumb ass ain’t bulletproof, muthafucka!”

  They went back and forth; their goons were on the sideline knowing things could go from bad to worse in a heartbeat. The look in Scott’s eyes was murderous, and Layla mirrored the same reflection. She argued with him that legally half of that money was hers.

  “You have no legal claim to any illegal money. Stop fucking with me. I promise you’ll regret it if you keep this shit up.”

  More security guards emerged to defuse the argument and the growing tension between both groups. Layla was the aggressor. She wanted to slap him and snap his neck simultaneously. She was hurt. The thought of Scott sitting at Maxine’s bedside was a lot for her to deal with.

  “Get this bitch out of here,” Scott shouted.

  “Ma’am, you need to leave,” a security guard said to Layla.

  “You know who the fuck I am? Don’t you dare fuckin’ touch me!”

  But he was adamant in doing his job and threatened to involve the police if she and her men didn’t leave the premises immediately. Her goons were ready to pop off, but she didn’t give them the green light. Reluctantly, she walked away, but she would remember faces and names. It was embarrassing. Scott had gotten her tossed out of the hospital.

  Scott had become Maxine’s guard dog, and Layla didn’t like it. She’d gone there to rattle her husband’s cage, but he shook hers.

  ***

  Layla’s skilled and very expensive lawyer, Jonathan Graham, was on top of things. It didn’t take him long to sign a letter of intent and all the contracts for the Bronx warehouse. Layla was pleased. The faster the building was hers, the sooner her new business with Angel could start.

  She left her lawyer’s office and climbed into the Bentley. She sat back and lit a cigarette. Her driver, Manny, navigated the vehicle from downtown Manhattan to Brooklyn, where she was to meet with Lucky. Layla had a plan, and she was implementing it to the fullest effect.

  The drive from Manhattan to Brooklyn took longer than she thought, with evening traffic crippling the roads, bridges, and highways. Layla sighed while caught in gridlock on the Brooklyn Bridge. Traffic seemed to have stopped. They were doing construction work a mile away, and they’d been sitting in idling traffic for almost an hour. She lit another cigarette. She had no choice but to be patient.

  The traffic started moving, and her driver steered off the bridge and onto the local streets of Downtown Brooklyn. Two blocks into Brooklyn, and a black Suburban cut them off and brought the Bentley to a complete stop in the middle of the road. Manny cursed and immediately reached for the pistol under his seat.

  Layla perked up with caution, knowing this wasn’t a random incident on the road. The rear door to the Suburban opened, and a suited man climbed out and approached the Bentley. The man was tall and Latino, and he moved with coolness while car horns blew around them and drivers complained about the disruption on the road. This man had no concern for the traffic he was blocking. Layla and her driver didn’t know if he was a threat to them or not. But Manny was ready to react.

  “Manny, chill,” Layla said, recognizing the face of the man. “He’s cartel.”

  Manny nodded. He kept his grip on the pistol and unlocked the doors. The suited man quietly slid into the backseat with Layla and introduced himself. “I’m Gabriel, and Angel Morales sent me.”

  “Is there a problem?” she asked.

  “No problem, but as you can see, we like to do business face-to-face. Mr. Morales gives his word on the shipment to arrive in a week. There was a simple hold up at the ports—nothing to worry about, everything is back on track. He just wanted to let you know.”

  Layla raised her eyebrows and blinked at him. “I guess he doesn’t believe in phone calls,” she said.

  “In Mr. Morales’s position, he rarely talks business over the phone. He sent me. I’m his voice.”

  Layla wasn’t stupid. She knew what it was—it was a strong statement from the cartel to prove a serious point to her. They could find her and get to her wherever she was. Whether she was moving or not, they had eyes on her.

  She smiled at him and replied, “Message received, clearly.”

  Gabriel looked at her expressionless, and then exited the Bentley like it was parked on the street. Car horns continued to blow around them, and they detoured around the two vehicles parked in the middle of the road. One man even cursed at Gabriel and flipped him the middle finger. “You fuckin’ asshole, get the fuck out the road!”

  Gabriel glared his way and was tempted to make another statement to rude drivers. But he declined. He was there for one thing only. He smirked at the slowly passing motorists before climbing back into the Suburban and driving off.


  “Everything okay?” asked Manny.

  “I’m fine. Just take me to see Lucky,” she replied.

  She was over an hour late to meet with Lucky. Layla wanted to fill her daughter in on the Maxine drama.

  12

  Once again, Wacka came to Tarsha’s door in bad shape. With his left hand poorly bandaged and his face severely cut and bruised, he collapsed in the front room.

  “What the fuck happened to you now?” she asked him.

  “I need you,” he cried out.

  Wacka was in severe pain, but he was a tough son-of-a-bitch. The stolen car he used to get from New York to Maryland was left parked outside her home. Wacka had carjacked some fool with his severe injuries and made it back to Maryland, blowing through the tolls with the stolen E-ZPass. How did he make the long drive in his condition? It would always be a mystery to Tarsha. But he trusted her. He had no one else but her and their son.

  It was the middle of the night, and, luckily, their son was sleeping, and so were her neighbors. Wacka cringed from the pain in his hands. From where Tarsha stood, it looked bad. She closed and locked her front door and went to tend to his injury. She undid the bandage around his left hand and saw the unthinkable.

  “Ohmygod!” she uttered in shock.

  Wacka was missing three fingers. He’d lost his thumb, trigger finger on his dominant left hand, and separated the pinky finger on his right hand from the horrific car accident that Maxine caused. With his adrenaline on high, he had found and picked up his fingers and run off. It took sheer willpower to carjack someone in his condition and drive the hours to Maryland.

  “Wacka, what the fuck am I supposed to do wit’ this?” Tarsha hollered.

  “I need help, baby. I’m fucked up,” he moaned.

  “You need to go to the hospital. That’s what you need.”

  Wacka looked reluctant. Not that long ago he had been in the hospital from his gunshot wounds. He had gone through days and days of therapeutic healing. But he didn’t have a choice. He was in pain. His body felt mangled inside. Maxine did a number on him when she flipped the car. But he refused to die. The sheer hatred he felt for her and the West family kept his heart pumping with life.