“Good work. I will see you when you get back,” Moretti replied, smiling as he pulled one of his most expensive Cuban cigars from his desk and lit it.
Just as the men were pulling out, Real was pulling in. Real noticed the three Italians from earlier in the brand new Maserati Quattroporte with Florida tags, but this time, they were rushing out of the parking lot instead of going into the club. Real didn’t think anything of it, as he couldn’t blame the guys for wanting to have a drink and a little peek at the finest-ass dancers in town.
Besides that, Real was too distracted with his own thoughts, mad as hell at Cash’s betrayal. He rushed back into the club to his office to make some calls. Ducking and dodging all the complaining dancers and shushing Cream and Strawberry with a wave of his hand, he made it to his office. As he pushed the door open, he lost his breath at the sight of his cousin slumped over his desk, bleeding out all over the paperwork and the cherry finish.
“Oh shit!” Real screamed as he closed the door and quietly stepped to the DJ and told him to announce the club had to be evacuated for unforeseen circumstances.
“What up, boss?” the DJ asked as he packed up his CDs.
“Ain’t nothing. I’ll holla at you later,” Real said, still in a slight daze from seeing his cousin Max’s head split open on his desk.
After everybody left, Real dialed 911; the police arrived in a matter of minutes.
An old Black detective scolded Real for closing the club before they arrived, considering that they could have interviewed potential witnesses. The coroner removed Max’s body as Real looked on with pure hatred seething inside him for the men that carried the hit out. After the detective questioned Real and gathered evidence, they told him they would be in touch, but Real didn’t bother to give them any information because he knew who was behind this, and he wanted them himself.
After seeing the police off, Real went back into his blood-drenched office, emptied the safe, and locked the club doors as he exited. “Mutha fuckers don’t know who they fuckin’ with! You want a war, fuckers? Well, it’s on!” Real declared calmly as he exited the club.
Chapter 23
Cash sat uncomfortably on the holding cell bench thinking back on the good old days when he and Real were living the life. He smiled as he thought back on the women, the clubbing, the money, and the sex-filled nights before Real met Constance. Cash regretted his decision to help the feds bring Real down, but he knew it was his life or Real’s. While Cash sat on the bench entertaining thought after thought, his cell door opened.
“Corey Fields, put these on. You’re being moved into a protective custody unit per the federal prosecutor,” a chubby Black guard announced as he threw Cash some old prison garb in a gaudy orange.
After changing out of his street clothes, Cash was moved to PC—a one-man cell where he would remain until Real was brought in and taken to trial.
* * * * *
While Cash was adjusting to his new home, B-Low and Jesse were sitting around impatiently waiting on Real to call.
Just as B-Low and Jesse started thinking twice about Real’s intentions, the phone rang.
“Say, I need y’all to meet me out at my spot ASAP,” Real spat, going against his rules of never letting anybody come to his crib. He knew if he was going to deal with Jesse and B-Low, he would have to start trusting them fully.
He gave directions as he pushed the Range Rover to the limit while thinking of his next move. Twenty minutes later, he was pulling up into his driveway and entering his empty house. He walked briskly to his home office and took a seat in his oversized office chair to contemplate his plans.
As Real was sitting behind his desk running his plans through his head over and over again, B-Low and Jesse pulled up. “Man, this is boss as fuck!” Jesse said, looking up at Real’s multi-million-dollar home.
“Bro, in due time, we going to be living up in one of these mutha fuckers—just like this one! I told you this nigga was living like a king,” B-Low declared as he pulled the Chevy to a halt and killed the engine.
B-Low and Jesse looked on in amazement as they walked up to the door and knocked. A few seconds later, Real was at the door to let them in.
“What it do?” Jesse asked as they entered the house.
“Shit ‘bout to get Real crazy around this bitch. I’m going to give all these bitches a taste of the old me,” Real said as they walked through the house and down to his office.
B-Low and Jesse were in awe of the expensive furnishings and state-of-the-art electronics that filled the house.
“Bro, we got you. Just give us the rundown, and shit will be taken care of,” B-low promised Real as they entered his plush office.
“Take a seat,” Real told them as he walked around his desk and sat in his office chair.
“Bro, you ever catch up with Cash?” Jesse asked as he took a seat on the soft black leather couch positioned on the office wall.
“That’s part of the problem. That nigga done ran off with my work. He got to be handled too!” Real said firmly.
Hearing Real talking about taking Cash out caught them totally off guard. They were closer to Cash than they were to Real, but when it came down to the money and being down with Real, Cash was a dead man.
“He ran off? Damn, bro. Slimey as fuck! Bro, we will handle all this shit,” Jesse said forcefully.
“Listen…this the move…” Real first told them about the men coming in the club and killing Max, and then he ran down the plan. “We—and yeah, I said ‘we’—ain’t passing up the chance to look in these hoes’ faces when I stop them from breathing. We going out to Miami Beach and handle Rossi, and then we going out to Star Island and pay Moretti a visit. I got a friend down that way that’s going to give me their locations when we get there. I’m going to send both families a message since I don’t know which one is responsible for my cousin’s death,” Real said as he slid his desk drawer open and pulled out his chrome Desert Eagle.
“Bro, you really don’t have to get your hands dirty. We can hit down there and be back in no time,” Jesse told Real.
“Man, like I said, I’m going to look in these hoes’ faces when they take their last breaths. I’m in no matter what! Nobody—and I mean no fucking body—snatches my lady, steals my shit, and aims their guns at my damn family!” Real said firmly as he ejected the clip and started sliding bullets in it with his signature handkerchief.
“A’ight, bro. When we taking off?” Jesse asked.
“Tomorrow morning. Y’all meet me at the Burger King on Old National. I’ll have us a rental car. Y’all got heat?” Real asked them with a raised eyebrow as he cocked back the Desert Eagle.
“Heat? What that rap nigga said? We pack mo heat than the oven door,” B-Low declared as he pulled up his shirt, revealing twin nines.
“My bad,” Real grinned. “Y’all just meet me at Burger King in the morning at eight so we can reach Miami by six.”
“That’s a go,” B-Low said as he and Jesse stood to leave. Walking back through the house, B-Low vowed quietly to himself that he would one day own a house like Real’s.
* * * * *
After seeing them out the door, Real took a shower and got in the bed. Just as he was dozing off, his phone rang. “Hello?” he answered sleepily.
“Hey, baby! I’m here,” Constance said.
“Hey, baby girl! So you finally made, huh?” Real said joyfully, glad to hear his baby’s voice.
“Yeah, I’m here. Cuz says ‘hey’. Baby, you sound like you were sleep.”
“Yeah, it’s been a long day. Somebody killed Max in the club in my office,” Real told her calmly, as if it were an everyday occurrence.
“Quit playing, Real!” Constance yelled.
“Seriously, he’s dead. Some Italian fuckers did it,” Real told her as he stared up at the ceiling fan.
“Oh no! Real, you got to get away from all that! Please, baby! Why would they kill Max?” Before the words left her mouth, she thought about what Real said—that they
had killed Max in his office. She was more than sure that the men took Max to be Real.
Real had already realized the same thing. “They had to think Max was me, being that he sat behind my desk in my office,” Real explained as the image of Max lying dead popped up in his head.
“Baby, please be careful,” Constance pleaded.
“I will, boo. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you,” said Real.
“Love you too,” Constance replied as the line went dead.
In no time, Real had drifted off into a deep sleep, dreaming of sweet vengeance.
Chapter 24
The next morning, Real met up with B-Low and Jesse at the Burger King on Old National, just as planned. Not wasting any time, they got situated for the long ride to Miami. Real started off the long stretch behind the wheel as they rotated driving duties every couple of hours.
Ten hours later, they were exiting off at Miami Beach and pulling into a Quick Mart parking lot. Real pulled out his cell phone and called his Miami connect, Sergio.
“My man Real! How’s it going?” asked one of the biggest money launderers in the South.
Real dealt with Sergio on a regular basis, and it was good to hear his voice again. “Just exited off at Miami Beach. What you got for me?” Real asked as he grabbed a pen and piece paper from the car console.
“Well, Moretti was quite easy to locate, as a matter of fact. You’re already in his neighborhood. He’s got a house out on the beach, but you can surely find him at his lil’ Italian eatery out by Royal Palm Ave. The name of the place is Papino’s, and he makes it his business to go over his books every night while having dinner there. He’s usually with his nephew Angelo and his brother Carlo,” Sergio said as he flipped the page on his notepad.
“Okay, got it,” Real uttered as he took notes.
“The other man—this Rossi—was a little harder to locate, but I found him. He’s got a mansion out in Coral Gables, which he hardly ever leaves. You got a pen, right? His address is 2736 Coral Way. He stays there with his nephews Alberto, Saul, and Milo. Word is, the police killed one of them, and the other’s gone AWOL. They frequented Atlanta a lot on business. But anyway, Rossi’s place is used for most of the family meetings. I checked to see where he could be found on a regular basis but came up empty handed. The man is a fucking hermit. He rarely leaves the house. That’s the best that I could do for you, old friend,” Sergio said, closing the notepad as he walked through his multi-million-dollar home on LaGorce Island.
“Naw, that’s more than enough info. I appreciate it, Sergio. I’ll get back with you later,” Real said as ripped the notes from his pad.
“Anytime. Just remember…you didn’t hear it from me,” Sergio declared. He knew it would be an automatic death sentence if anyone found out he divulged this information.
“I got you. I’ll get at you,” Real assured him as he ended the call.
“A’ight, y’all,” Real said to B-Low and Jesse, who had been loading their weapons while he spoke with Sergio, “this is what we got. Moretti can be found at his restaurant right around the corner from here, and this old Rossi fucker can be found out in Coral Gables. It ain’t that far, but we got to get in his house to touch him,” Real explained as he looked back down at his notes.
“No problem. Who we takin’ out first?” B-Low asked as he loaded his two nines.
“I think we should holla at Rossi first and then come around and see Moretti. We got to catch Moretti in his restaurant, which is a public spot, and that ain’t good. We will see him last because we don’t know what kind of heat it’s going to bring,” Real explained.
“I feel that,” Jesse added as he stuffed shell cartridges into his pistol grip pump.
“Let’s do this,” Real said as he put the black rented Lincoln Town Car in drive and cruised out of the parking lot.
The factory navigational system led them right to Rossi’s front door. B-Low and Jesse instantly realized that Real’s mansion was a shack compared to Rossi’s palace. Real pulled the Lincoln next to the curb just outside of the residence.
“How in the hell we going to find him in there?” Jesse asked as he pulled out three ski masks. “This house is big as hell.”
“We going to grab the first mutha fucker we see and make ‘im take us to the asshole!” Real said forcefully.
“Yeah. When we move, we got to move fast, because we don’t know who off in there.. and most importantly—rule number one…” B-Low said.
“…leave no witnesses,” Jesse added, cutting him off.
“I always follow the rules,” Real agreed, smiling deviously as he reached back and plucked the black ski mask out of Jesse’s hand.
Just as they were about to exit the car, a big black and grey Maybach cruised by them and turned into Rossi’s driveway. After the car stopped, all the occupants piled out. Real and his boys knew the old man had to be Rossi by the way the housekeepers and the driver hastily came to his aide to accommodate him. The muscle-bound man that got out behind him was his nephew, Alberto, who doubled as a body guard from time to time. Real, B-Low, and Jesse knew this was their best shot, being that the house was in a secluded area with no one around. Trying to get into the house was going to be difficult, but catching him now was going to be real easy.
“Now or never!” Real called out as he pulled the ski mask over his head and grabbed his Desert Eagle off the seat.
“Shit! Let’s do the damn thang!” B-Low screamed as he adjusted the ski mask around his eyes.
“Let’s ride!” Jesse chimed in as he pulled his ski mask down.
Geeked for the kill, all three men jumped out of the Lincoln and rushed the Italians, who were standing in the driveway next to the Maybach laughing and talking. When the Italians saw the three men in ski masks rounding the corner with guns raised, their eyes grew big as golf balls.
“Yeah, bitches!” B-Low screamed as he ran up on Rossi’s nephew Alberto and shot him at point blank range in the face. Alberto never had a chance to pull his forty-five automatic secured in his wrap around holster.
Jess caught the driver with the pistol grip pump in the back as he started to run. It blew him clean off his feet and into the grass. The two Italian female housekeepers screamed at the top of their lungs until Real silenced each of them with a bullet to the chest.
Old man Rossi tried his best to make it to the house; he hopped as far as he could before Real ran him down. Blocking the old man’s path to the house, Real hit him hard in the head with the Desert Eagle knocking him to the ground as B-Low and Jesse looked on. “You sent men to kill me! You fuckin’ threaten me! You kidnap my girl!” Real screamed as he stood over a cowering Rossi.
“No! No! No! I don’t know what you are speaking of!” Rossi screamed, holding his wrinkled hands up in front of his face as he lay face up in the grass.
“Fuck, bitch, THIS is what I’m speaking of!” Real screamed as he knocked the old man’s hands out of the way and placed the barrel of the Desert Eagle in the middle of his forehead.
“No! I swear! Please! I don’t know who—” Rossi begged.
“Fuck you, bitch!” Real shouted as he pulled the trigger, literally blowing off Rossi’s face. Rossi’s blood splattered into Real’s face, drenching his ski mask.
B-Low and Jesse were both cold-hearted killers, but the sight of Rossi’s face being blown away even disturbed them. They knew right then that the laid back, quiet Real was a stone-cold killer also.
They followed rule number one. Leaving no witnesses, they all rushed back out to the Lincoln and sped off to the next stop on their to-do list of vengeances.
Chapter 25
Wheeling the Lincoln away from Coral Gables, they headed out toward Royal Palm Avenue, where they knew Moretti would be having dinner and going over his books. Pushing the Lincoln in and out of traffic, they reached the eatery in no time.
“The place looks empty,” Jesse noticed as they circled the restaurant parking lot.
“Probably a lil’ fam
ily spot. I’m going to peep in and see if I see him,” Real said, pulling the car to the far end of the lot before getting out and adjusting his clothes, trying his best to disguise the old man’s blood on his shirt. He adjusted his Desert Eagle in his waist as he walked briskly across the lot.
B-Low and Jesse sat in the car loading their weapons as they waited on a signal from Real to move in. While watching Real, they paid no attention to one of Moretti’s men creeping up from behind, pistol in hand. Sergio failed to tell them that Moretti kept security at the eatery and an unknown car in the lot alone would be suspicious.
Real lightly jogged up to the eatery and positioned himself on the side of the building. Looking around to make sure the coast was clear, he rounded the corner and peeped into the window. He saw Moretti sitting at a far corner table with two other men, talking. Knowing B-Low and Jesse were watching, he waved them over without taking his eyes off the men and Moretti. As Real evaluated the scene, he knew he could get a drop on the men at the table, but the old cook in the back would be a problem. Real knew that even old Italian cooks could be armed and dangerous. He decided to take the cook out first. Real watched the men intently while he waited for B-Low and Jesse to get across the lot.
Just as B-Low and Jesse got out of the car, the man with the gun eased up on them, nice and slow. “Don’t move! Both of you drop the guns!” he screamed from behind them as he used his free hand to fish his cell phone from his pocket.
Jesse and B-Low stopped in their tracks when they heard the man behind them. “What’s the problem, sir?” B-Low asked as he dropped his gun to the ground.
“Yeah, what’s going on?” Jesse added as he let the pistol grip hit the pavement.
“Don’t fuckin’ move!” the man yelled forcefully again.
“Look here, man…we just trying to get a lil’ something to eat,” Jesse lied, knowing deep down the man wasn’t buying it, especially considering they were brandishing guns.
“Put Mr. Moretti on,” the man barked into the cell phone while holding the gun steady at B-Low and Jesse.
Real looked over to see what was taking B-Low and Jesse so long, and that’s when he saw the man with the gun on them. “Shit!” Real said under his breath as he ducked back around the building.
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