Mafioso [Part 3] Page 8

  “Jimmy, stand up, nigga, and have some fun. What the fuck you moping for? All this pussy in the room and you lookin’ like a nigga done slapped your moms,” Deuce said.

  “I’m good, Deuce,” Jimmy replied.

  Deuce was ready to drown himself in alcohol and pussy. The strippers were all over him, and he was all over them. He was happy. It was an enormous payday, and he felt that with Whistler’s intel, there was much more to come. And when there was no more to take from Scott, then they’d go in for the kill and take no prisoners. It would be a bloodbath out there, and Deuce had his knives and swords already sharpened.

  Whistler downed more champagne. He needed to free his mind from the reservation he felt. He was smarter than this, and he knew he was only good to these fools if the intel he provided was on point.

  The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right? But in Whistler’s line of business, there was no such thing as friends. Friends could easily turn on you, and friends got greedy and could become corrupt. For now, he was among the wolves and wearing the same skin they wore, but in reality, he was still behind enemy lines, and he needed an escape. He smiled, though, and partied with them, but how soon would it be before things weren’t cool with DMC and they turned on him? He felt the way Jimmy looked at him was a sign of major trouble to come. But he would play along for now and provide them with the information they needed to bring down Scott and his organization. The former friend was now his enemy, and he would do anything to survive.

  Whistler guzzled down the Moët and stood up. He needed to free himself from the stress he felt, and he saw one way in doing that.

  “Excuse me, fellows. I need to go handle some business,” he said to them.

  They encouraged him. There were plenty of bitches to choose from, but Whistler had his attention on the platinum haired girl that was butt naked and nasty with it on the stage. She looked to be no older than nineteen, and he had that penchant for young ladies. He excused himself from the VIP area and made his way toward the stage. With a fist full of money, he immediately captured her attention. She smiled his way, and he tossed two hundred-dollar bills at her and then said, “I like you. Let’s go somewhere private.”

  She walked off with him. She knew what was expected of her.

  In the bathroom stall, the young girl lowered herself in front of Whistler and undid his jeans. She reached into his pants and removed his big dick and didn’t hesitate to place it into her mouth. She opened her mouth wide, relaxed her throat, and took him all the way in. Whistler leaned back against the stall and exhaled with gratification. Her head bobbed back and forth as he closed his eyes. He needed the blow job. The way she was sucking him off was about to make him come real quick. He wasn’t complaining. Young girls like her were the best at helping him relax. There was nothing better than a good blowjob and some young pussy.

  15

  The cute whore with the slight, graceful figure and oval face held the dick upright with her hand and lowered herself onto the man’s thin and fleshy shaft. Gap groaned with the sudden jolt of pleasure and felt cloud nine consume him. Her pussy was tight and wet, and he closed his eyes, grasped her moving hips against him, and enjoyed her from top to bottom. Her body was taking him to a place he didn’t want to leave—not too soon anyway.

  “Oh yeah, give me that pussy,” he moaned.

  She gyrated her naked hips against him, feeling him inside of her, and feeling his hands cup her tits and then smack her ass. He couldn’t stop touching her. She was like gold to him. Her pussy pulsed nonstop around his hard dick, and it felt like his cock was being sucked on by a gulping throat.

  “Shit . . . damn . . . oh damn, I’m ’bout to fuckin’ come! Oh shit, oh shit,” he hollered. Then, as quickly as it started, it ended. He came. The duration of their sexual experience was less than a minute.

  She smirked and climbed off his soon-to-be limp dick and wiped between her legs with a towel. He was another satisfied customer. She lit a cigarette and inhaled. Gap removed himself from the bed and got dressed. He then left her payment on the dresser near the bed. It was three hundred dollars for her time. He had a knot of cash on him and had plenty more to go around.

  She donned a robe and said, “You like it?”

  “Yo, ma, your pussy is too good,” he said.

  She smiled. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  She liked him. He was easy to please. He always came fast between her legs or into her mouth. It didn’t matter how she serviced him, he was a minute man.

  Gap finished dressing and tucked the .45 in his waistband. The gun was the testimony to the dangerous life he lived and the drugs he sold. He was an overweight man of average height, black skin, a bald head, and a lazy eye. He wasn’t handsome, but he was a savage on the streets. The projects of Brownsville were his to control and run. He was a man who wasn’t afraid to kill, and he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. He was blunt and fearless. And he was a bully. Gap was a tyrant in his own right.

  She walked him to the apartment door, and he praised her pussy once again before his exit. “Keep that good pussy nice and wet for me. I’ll be back.”

  “When I’m gonna see you again?” she asked.

  “Yo, ma, maybe tomorrow night. I gotta handle some business and shit. You know a nigga moving up on the food chain. I got this new connect and we ’bout to pop off.”

  She cared nothing about his business in the streets, only the money he left her after they finished fucking. “Be safe,” she said.

  “I’m good. Ain’t nobody fuckin’ wit’ me out there,” he said haughtily. “I’m the fuckin’ man on these streets.”

  She closed the door, and Gap turned and walked toward the elevator. So far, it had been a quiet night—good pussy and easy money. He was content, but he wanted more. He walked down the narrow ghetto hallway and stopped at the elevator, pushing the button impatiently. He had to meet up with his crew and handle his business. He glanced around at his surroundings, and everything was quiet and dim. He could smell urine and smirked at the nerve of someone using the bathroom in the hallway. But it was the ghetto for you—nastiness and people not giving a fuck! He pushed the elevator button again and muttered, “Shit is takin’ forever!”

  He adjusted the gun in his waistband and glanced around his surroundings again. A man in his position always had to be on-guard.

  Finally, he heard the bell chime above, indicating the elevator had stopped on the eighth floor. The doors opened up, and before he stepped inside, he heard a sound. It was faint, and it sounded like the stairwell door had opened and closed, but he saw no one emerge from it. Gap thought it was his nerves getting the best of him.

  He stepped into the elevator and pushed for the lobby. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, and the doors weren’t closing fast enough for him. He repeatedly pushed the button for the lobby and was growing more impatient. But before the doors could close, a dark, hooded figure abruptly loomed into Gap’s sight, standing a few feet opposite of him. The man outstretched his arm with a 9mm at the end. Gap was in utter shock and stumbled back against the wall. He desperately tried to remove his pistol to defend himself, but he wasn’t quick enough.

  He heard, “Meyer says to shut your fuckin’ mouth!”

  The gun discharged—Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!

  The muzzle flash lit up the dimness of the area briefly, and several bullets went into Gap’s head, chest, and throat. He collapsed in the elevator in a pool of blood, dead. His gory frame was a mess for whoever would find him. Someone finally shut his mouth for good.

  Luna quickly pivoted and fled the scene. He moved like a shadow in the night. He was unseen and quick. This was his nature, a killer. The shots noisily echoed throughout the narrow hallway and woke up the residents on the eighth floor. But by time the first person came out of their apartment to witness the horror, Luna was in the passenger seat of a black Charger speeding away f
rom the scene.

  16

  Layla lit her Newport, took a few pulls from it, and then downed a shot of vodka on ice. It was a cold night, but her soul and heart were even more frigid. She was still worked up over seeing Scott fucking teary-eyed and upset over Maxine. Her cage had been rattled by it. Her husband looking after and caring for Maxine made her see red. It was a feeling she couldn’t shake, and she didn’t want to shake it to be truthful. She wanted revenge.

  She pranced around her penthouse apartment chain-smoking and drinking. Maxine did over two decades in a woman’s prison, and she was probably some carpet munching dyke. She probably didn’t even like dick anymore. She probably was fucking Scott just to be spiteful toward her, Layla strongly felt. There was no way Maxine could fuck Scott better than she could. Could she? There was no way that Maxine could take her place. Had she? Layla gave that man the world and six kids. She was his true ride-or-die bitch, the one who would kill for him and had, and the one who stuck by him through thick and thin. But now, she had been rejected and humiliated. She should have seen it coming. It was a mistake inviting Maxine into her life and bringing her around her husband.

  She finished the cigarette and the drink, lit another Newport, and poured herself another shot of vodka. Stress and anger had her worked up—the nerve of Scott to ask for the money back. Fuck him and his two-week deadline. It was laughable. He wanted to leave her penniless. It wasn’t happening! Layla was happy she thought ahead and did what she did. With all the legal businesses he owned, his assets worth in the hundreds of millions of dollars, he wanted to make a fuss over fifty million that belonged to her too. No fucking way!

  The penthouse was dim and silent. The shades were drawn and the doors locked. She had an arsenal of guns hidden throughout the place. Her penthouse had become a minor fortress. Layla wasn’t taking any chances. Her security was tight. They were everywhere in the building and ready to act—but there was nothing better than being armed yourself and killing the threat.

  Being from the streets of Brooklyn, she was trained for this environment. She’d been through it all and had tumbled with the best of them and survived. Muthafuckas thought that the money, the beautiful clothes, the lavish homes, and lovely things made her soft like baby shit. But Layla was still a hardcore bitch, and she was ready to remind anyone who wanted to challenge her that she was nothing to play with.

  She downed the vodka and made another glass. The cigarette between her fingers was burning nimbly. She continued to pace around her place and was becoming impatient. She’d called her kids over two hours ago, and neither Lucky nor Meyer had shown up yet. Her time was valuable, and she had moves to make.

  The shipment from Angel had arrived via 18-wheeler, the kilos stashed in hidden compartments in the truck—one compartment being the gas tank. It was a polished operation, no errors. Now, nearly fifty kilos of cocaine and heroin were sitting in the Bronx warehouse, heavily guarded and ready to make her an even richer woman. It was time to get it out there and flood the streets. The Tri-State Area wasn’t ready.

  The doorbell sounded, and Layla looked at the security monitors to see who it was. Meyer and Lucky had arrived. The second she opened the door to let them inside, she cursed and scolded them for their tardiness.

  Meyer waved her off; he wasn’t in the mood to hear his mother bitch and moan about him being late. She didn’t control him. “We here, right?”

  “Over an hour late,” she retorted.

  “Hey, better late than never,” he said.

  “Then next time don’t fuckin’ come at all,” she snapped.

  He sighed and walked away from her. He had a life. Like his mother, he went to the bar and mixed himself a needed drink.

  Lucky, too, was in no mood to bicker with her mother. She lit a cigarette and lowered herself into a comfortable chair.

  Layla stood between her children wearing a long, flowing robe and had “boss bitch” written all over her. She would play no games. With Meyer lingering near the bar and Lucky quiet in the chair, she reached into a small bag and removed a kilo of cocaine and tossed it at Meyer and a kilo of heroin and threw it at Lucky.

  “You know the game, Ma. You don’t bring the shit to the crib—that’s a violation right there,” Meyer said.

  “Boy, I got too much security and cameras in my place to worry about 5-0. I’m ’bout my business, like y’all two should be,” she barked at them.

  Her kids inspected the packages. It was high-grade product.

  Then Layla hit them with the unexpected. “I want all of the Brooklyn territories first. I don’t give a fuck how y’all do it, just make it happen.”

  “Brooklyn? You gonna be stepping on Pop’s toes,” Meyer said.

  “Do I look fuckin’ worried about that? I helped that muthafucka build that shit from scratch—from the bottom up—and I want it all.”

  “Ma, is that wise? I know you’re hurt over what he did to you, but going to war with him and tryin’ to take Brooklyn? I thought we were going to build our own shit,” Lucky said.

  “Y’all questioning me? Who the fuck y’all think y’all are? ”

  “Look, you got the connect, Ma, and we can spread anywhere outside the city with that product. But mixing it up with Pop and Bugsy? I don’t think that’s wise,” said Meyer. “Fuck it. Get that money and just pay him back. And we ain’t just talkin’ about Pop here—you ready to piss off other players in the game?”

  “Meyer’s right,” Lucky chimed. “Look, I easily found Delaware, and I can get another area to move in on. We got the muscle, but stirring it up with Scott—it’s just crazy.” After the verbal and physical abuse, Lucky refused to call her father by anything but his first name.

  Layla wasn’t having it, though. She didn’t want just to build her own; she wanted to take her husband’s shit too—by any means necessary. As long as he was comforting and supporting Maxine, then she would fuck his shit up. She would rock his world and attack him where it would hurt the most—his pockets and then his bitch.

  Layla scowled at her kids. “Do I fuckin’ smell pussy in this room? Y’all lookin’ like two bitches ready to get fucked! And you, Meyer, I thought you weren’t scared of anything—and now you wanna back away from your father and brother and pay him the money back? I’m fuckin’ disgusted by you right now. And Lucky, that muthafucka put hands on you and violated this family, and you’re fuckin’ afraid of him! You wanna give him a fuckin’ pass?”

  “I’m not afraid of shit!” Meyer proclaimed.

  “Then fuckin’ prove it! I didn’t raise my son a fuckin’ pussy!”

  Layla’s unkind words angered her kids. Meyer pouted, and he was ready to bang his fists against his chest like an ape, charge violently, and declare that he wasn’t afraid of anyone. Lucky wanted to make money and thrive, but be careful too. They tried to reason with their mother, but she was being stubborn. The most Meyer thought he’d be doing was shielding his mother from trouble with his father and using the fifty million as seed money to invest in drugs, broads, and mayhem.

  But Layla was ready to amplify things. She was a woman scorned and saw one way for her to be happy, and that was creating the downfall of Scott and Maxine. This was the war of roses. She wanted people to die. She wanted bloodshed, chaos, and Armageddon—all of it at one time. Her heart was broken, and she wanted no one to have a happy ending.

  Meyer had a few words with his mother. Lucky too. But Layla was domineering. The look in her eyes said it all; there was no turning back. She was decisive, and she would set the city ablaze to get her revenge.

  Layla refused to tell them where the location of the money was. “I’m keeping that the fifty million locked up in a safe place for rainy days.”

  “You don’t trust us?” Meyer griped.

  “It’s just business,” Layla replied.

  “Just business,” Lucky repeated. “We are the business!”


  The choices she was making didn’t sit well with either of her kids. They fussed, but Layla refused to listen. This was her show, and she would choose how she ran it. Some of the cash went to hiring hardcore killers with no consciences. Some of the money went to her new luxurious penthouse on the city’s west side. The rent was $55,000 a month, and the place came with a panic room. She felt it was needed. It made her feel safe at night.

  Meyer’s gripe was that he wanted some fuck-you money too. But if his father ruled with an iron fist, Layla ruled with an iron heart. She was vengeful with no “off” button.

  She gave the order. Meyer and his goons were to break backs and fuck shit up out there—bust open heads to take over the Brooklyn territories. They were to rob, steal, pillage, and kill.

  “Do it quickly and stealthily, so that by the time Scott tries to come back at us, it will be too late.”

  She wanted Lucky to get her meth and the heroin out to Long Island. Layla wanted to wear the crown and become the queen of the city. Last on her list was Maxine. She wanted that bitch dead, dead, and more dead! And Meyer and Lucky would help her make that happen.

  17

  It had been over a week now, and Maxine was still in a coma. The hospital room was decorated with dozens of cards, balloons, and flowers. It was looking and smelling like a florist. Many people were wishing her to get well and have a healthy recovery.

  Scott continued to sit by her bedside and observe her condition. He felt guilty.

  He thought back to 1994 when they’d first met. The day he saw her coming off that train with her school friends looking too cute in her prep school outfit, he had to introduce himself. It was love at first sight. She had innocence and beauty, and she was smart and ambitious. Maxine was gonna be somebody in life. She was supposed to become a prominent lawyer, and they would be a power couple. She would be the businesswoman and Scott would be the streets—the thug with her back.

  Maxine was always good to him—real good. She wouldn’t even look at other guys. Scott was her everything. He took her virginity. He bought her whatever she wanted and needed. Scott didn’t want his woman to want for anything. So what went wrong between them? How could he allow the woman he supposedly loved to do over twenty years in prison? How could he have forgotten about her? He did her wrong, and it pained him greatly. He’d allowed Layla to come between their loving relationship. Layla was great sex, but Maxine was the perfect woman for him. Layla knew his world while Maxine was sheltered. Maxine was the opposite of him, but she loved him dearly, and she was perfect for him, so why did he marry Layla?