Loving a Colombian Cartel Thug 3

by K'Aliyah Knight

  “Baby, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been working on wedding stuff,” Yvonda says, coming out of the bathroom. Her skin is flawless, big brown almond eyes sparkling as if she’s never even handled a Beretta.

  Instead of greeting me with kisses, Yvonda is all googly-eyed as she says, “Don’t get all clammy because I already told you it was my dream to get married at the Waldorf Astoria.”

  I follow those sexy thighs and ass back to our bedroom, sizing her up. Her skin is soft as satin, just like Rocky’s. Her thighs are nice and shapely from all the working out she does, but then again me and Rocky had those sexy ass legs of hers on point while I pretended to be Lorenzo’s ace and made her laugh when he was away.

  They have a different type of laugh, though.

  “Caesar! Baby, are you listening,” Yvonda says, while pulling all of the designer pillows from the King sized bed.

  “Yeah,” I nod. “The flowers, tell me about the flowers,” I add, knowing that will get Yvonda not to ask me what she just said. It will also get my girl to continue talk and I can continue with my comparison. She mentions a blanket of white roses. All white roses. I almost wince thinking back to Lorenzo and Rockwell’s wedding. No matter how beautiful this woman is before me, she will never be that gorgeous of a bride.

  “My daddy is paying for everything, Caesar. So what do you think?”

  “What?” I forget that as Agent Caesar Cruz I make 50Gs a year. My “student loans” aren’t paid off, nor is the Impala I drive around town. That was the thing with Yvonda’s pops and me. He makes buku money by Black American standards. But even if I never worked another day, my moms always made sure there was money set aside for Shawn and me if Santi even forgets that he has a wife and kids. Not to mention the homes I have in Colombia and all around the world. Rock is a multibillion-dollar a year empire, so the cocaine got me laced regardless. I just have to remember to be poor around Yvonda.

  “Caesar, Caesar,” Yvonda bites her luscious lips, then her dark brown eyes look sad, “Oh I get it…”

  “What?” Dang, I still don’t know what to say, as I finally look at ugly Chinaware for the reception that she picked out. Does she know?

  “Look, I’m sorry.” Yvonda jumps into my arms. “You’ve been gone for a while. So instead of missing you, I’ve been keeping myself busy with this new Enemy of the State case I’m working on. Not to mention, flowers. The hydrangeas were beautiful; my mother keeps trying to push them on me. But I don’t know if I want that color and–damn, lemme stop and love my man. We have to celebrate your taking down that punk Phantom too.” She licks her lips and my dick gets hard.

  I smile; same ol’ girl I met and fell for in college. “Yeah Mommi–”

  “Why you calling me, Mommi?” Yvonda stops kissing my neck. As Agent Caesar Chavez, I’m “Latino” by way of Mexico and Black. I could pass, but I don’t talk slang. I’m just educated, and I have a sickly mother in Mexico. It’s hard pretending to be who I am, though.

  “You know I been in Colombia for months? And going back and forth from pretending to be with Lorenzo Medina and Santiago Mendoza, to caring for my sickly mother, well…”

  “Oh yeah, just long as you just hearing those disgusting ass Colombian’s saying it, and you haven’t been so deep undercover that you have a whore to say ‘Mommi’ to.” Yvonda looks me in the eye. This bitch really knows how to make my dick go limp. There her mind goes again, over-thinking shit. Then Yvonda smiles. “I’m sorry, baby. That’s just me being hormonal; it’s that time of the month.”

  Her tiny hand goes to my chest. I sit back on the black leather couch as Yvonda gets to her knees.

  “Mmmm, I miss my penis,” she says with a smile, while unzipping my pants. Her clean sex talk makes me want to laugh at her, but Yvonda does have ingenious head. Her plush lips take to the tip of my dick, kissing it softly. Her mouth is soft, silky and warm as she kisses the nerves of my thick, hard manhood. Lemme get this nut out real quick, and then I’ll let her ass know I need to get back to Colombia; back to Rocky.

  LORENZO

  Murder was on my mind.

  “That's your baby mama–excuse me, your new wife, and your cousin Santiago Junior enjoying a night out almost a half year back? About a month or two after Lisa and Lila were born, if that helps jog your memory.”

  I remember that day. Rockwell and I had been mad feuding over nothing, man it couldn’t have even been nothing. One night my bitch didn’t come home. She said she slept at a hotel… I just stare at a photo of them at a hotel’s nightclub in the city. Chuey looks like he’s just waiting to smash. I glance over every inch of each photo, then back at Emerald and Hernandez.

  These Feds want a rise out of me, but they ain’t finna get that. Nope.

  “Now don't go getting too angry. I think the Latin lover is to blame. As you can see, she's not really all that into him there. But don't take my word. I'm only a behavioral and body language analyst.” Emerald laughs.

  Hernandez holds out another photo. “Now this one. Oh wait; this ain’t even a year ago. You’re still a newlywed, right? This one is from today...”

  Tears burn my eyes as I see a photo of Chuey and Rockwell on the balcony of a lavish beach hotel. His arms are around her.

  “Look at you. Does the Phantom need a tissue?”

  “Nah. I’m just feeling some type of way for my kids. Can a nigga feel bad for his kids?”

  “Your kids…” Emerald mumbles.

  Fuck that, I ain’t a bitch. I look him dead in the eye. I say, “Yeah, my kids. Their moms, that bitch only has a little while longer to live…” I glare straight through these agents. I love Rocky with all my heart. Loved Chuey, he's my blood. Which one of these muthafuckas is going to get it worse…?

  They’re talking, but I can’t hear it for a few minutes.

  “So you want us to let you go?” They laugh.

  “Lemme rephrase that shit for you. For hours, y’all ain’t gotten shit outta me. A few minutes before you pulled out this new file with my bitch and my muthafucking primo y’all were looking funny. Hernandez had just stepped out with a phone call. For a Mexican dude, you came back in here looking pale as fuck and had that file. I'm thinking that phone call wasn’t your bitch ass mama. Y’all showed me these photos because you want to set me free. Ain't no way in hell y’all finna lock me up after showing me this shit I know.” I put my emotions on the back burner, letting these muthafuckas know that I’m not as dumb as they take me for. My assessment must be grounded in some type of truth because Hernandez still looks like he is going to cry since I mentioned the call he took.

  “It looks like y’all got money problems,” I chuckle. “Don’t worry, I understand your situation. A nigga has been hungry for half his life. Like I said. Y’all wanna let me go.”

  “Bravo, Hernandez looked like a fucking ghost, huh? I’m the Gringo,” Emerald shook his head. “So you’re right. We just found out our vacation and retirement plan just got blown to shit. Maybe even our children and grandchildren’s private school and graduate tuition went bust—give or take what they plan on becoming one day.”

  I nod my head. Damn, sounds like a lot of money they’re missing.

  Emerald leans back, interlocking his fingers and placing them behind his head. He lingers before mentioning, “We do wanna let you go. We've always been in the business of making friends, so…

  Hernandez laughs. “We fucking like you, contrary to our previous inability to be hospitable. But what we want,” he pauses. Looking at one of the cameras along the Feds cement walls. Damn, I notice that the red lights on all the cameras are out. Had to have been turned off when Hernandez came back into the room after the ghost-face call. I’ve been very observant while here, but didn’t notice that.

  “What we want is for you to become our newest buddy,” Hernandez holds out his hand for a friendly shake.

  “Hold up, y’all. I ain't a fucking snitch. You feds. I’m not stupid. I expected you to have me run them pockets,” I sai
d, rubbing my nose. “Shit, it’s a win-win. You get fed;, y’all like lobster, skrimp, and King Crab legs I’m sure. I like Federal agents. See, we’ve been here almost twenty-four hour. Shit, I thought y’all knew what’s up. But that type of favor for a favor? No snitch. Never that.”

  Then I remember Salvatore Ganza and all that rambling he did before dying. He had started to say Emerald. Did he mean this muthafucka standing before me? These dudes act as if they’re at the top of the totem pole. They want me to snitch, and I can tell they’re too motivated.

  But if Chuey could take my bitch, the least I could do was be cool on him too. So I waited for these grimy dudes to spit out their newest motivation.

  ~~~

  Hernandez and Emerald assured me that being a snitch wasn’t part of the contract. If they forget, then that’s on their asses. I bide my time, before my new amigos can come through. Yet, 48 hours later, I still want to know what my amigos need from me. And then there is Rockwell. At a beachfront hotel the very next day after I leave her for the states! C’mon man, I would never have suspected that the love of my life would pull a hoe-ass move like that.

  Pushups and sit-ups 24/7 got me at 90. Shit, if I was at a 100 fuck this supermax facility. I’d break out before Emerald and Hernandez have gotten things in order. Guess where I go first? To murk my wife, my number one, my muthafucking bitch. Sweat is dripping down my muscles as I think about her. Rocky’s beautiful face is the tat right on my heart. If I had a knife, I might carve out her face, and cut off that skin before the adrenaline even wore out. Out of all the tattoos on my body I got while growing up, I had always saved a spot on my chest for the bitch I met when I was 12. How the fuck she gon’ do me like that? With my cuzzo? Chuey ass dead too, on sight.

  The intercom comes on, time for this shitty ass food. Since I’m in isolation, I know to keep my ass back when the small slit in the steel door opens. These dudes so in fear they think I’ma take their ass out from just a tiny opening. I’m 6’ 2” and 220 pounds of all muscle. How the fuck they think I’ma murk them through a five inch partition.

  I chuckle.

  Irrelevant.

  I sit back on the frumpy bed, and watch my food being shoved inside the slot. That shit they call chow, will still be there when they come back. I’ve been fasting since being here. Only Dios will save my wife from me. With my head cocked back, I mean mug nobody in particular as my mind is consumed with Rockwell.

  Maybe I’ma do her how I did Trinidad back in the day, kill the bitch softly with my hands around her tiny neck. The tiny tap of her pulse dying out will probably kill me first. Damn, I sigh, leaning back.

  Another method to murk my bitch?

  My baby mama got a beautiful ass face. How I look bashing it in? I can’t hit a bitch either. Never.

  My wife likes diamonds. I could have a diamond handled, .44 magnum revolver made to blow her ass away. Fuck that, that shit ain’t even funny.

  I’ve got time to figure out her death.

  Something vibrates, and I’m up in seconds. It’s coming from the green plastic tray of shit. Tucked between napkins is a burner phone. I snatch it up as the vibration stops; 15 missed calls, all from the same number. I call it back.

  “Lorenzo?” Rita asks.

  “Yeah Moms.”

  “Baby, what happened? Estás herido—are you hurt? Where you set up? Que pasó mi amor,” she goes back and forth from English to Spanish. She’s tryna figure out if I’m safe and who the fuck we need to put down for this situation.

  “Nah, moms, damn. I’m…” I pause; my mind is consumed with Rockwell. “I’m a’ight.”

  “Sure?” she sighs, “Lorenzo, you don’t sound like it, baby what’s wrong?”

  “How are my kids? How’s my bi–Rocky?” I ask, deciding not to disrespect my baby moms to Rita. Have my moms tell it, she helped raise Rockwell so she wouldn’t even take me calling Rocky a bitch.

  “The babies are okay, they’re getting a lil’ fussy, you know they don’t like you gone too long. Lila is extra cranky about a tooth coming in tho. Junior is tryna be the man of the house, him and Phillip. Rockwell, all she does is ask when’s Lorenzo coming home? She’s worried about you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, you know Rocky, always worried about you,” Rita adds, not catching the sarcasm seeping through my tone.

  “She doesn’t know what’s up?” I ask, as a picture of Chuey and Rockwell at a hotel flashes before my eyes.

  “Hell nah, I… we actually have a situation, so it’s hard to tell her–”

  “What type of situation?” I buck up.

  “Nigga, check ya tone. It’s nothing that we can’t handle–” she pauses and then I hear background chatter, then my girl takes the phone.

  “Lorenzo, bae, I miss you!” Rockwell sounds so muthafucking convincing with her tiny voice. At 5-foot even and weight in all the right places, my bitch is fine as fuck. Can’t another touch her, but I knew Chuey would never try. I don’t trust many muthafucka’s, but damn.

  “Lorenzo,” she says in her melodic tone. “Baby, I miss you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, uh… are you with… bae, you coming home soon?”

  “Nah.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Rocky. Lemme speak with my m—”

  “Nigga, are you with another bitch? We need you! I need you!”

  As Rockwell goes off, I keep my tone mellow just so this bitch knows that I can give a fuck about her. I’ve done that shit in the past when Rockwell tries to get too active. But today is a new day. I really don’t give a fuck about this trick. She continues to argue about how we already have enough money not to work for Santiago. How we could have been moved somewhere, some Tropical Island to take care of the kids. When she’s done, I sigh, saying, “Man, I ain’t even tryna hear all that.”

  “Fuck you, Lorenzo,” Rockwell says. My bitch been saying that since she was fourteen. First cuss word was “FUCK YOU LORENZO!”

  “A’ight, ma.”

  “Why you acting brand new?” She starts to sob.

  And before I can tell this bitch to cut the good-girl act, a gun goes off. Two rounds burst… BACA BACA. In my muthafucking mansion! One. The only muthafucka that gets to bust one in my crib is me. Or two, Popeye or Rita, if there is a reason. Three, shouldn’t ever be a reason for a gun to go off at my spot!

  “Rocky?” I shout her name, but ain’t nothing there…

  RITA

  I stand at the upstairs bridge, just outside the door, listening to Lorenzo and Rocky talk. Nah, I ain’t a muthafucking psycho mom like that. But Lorenzo is acting way to cool about the situation. Rockwell’s baby face gets sadder and sadder by the second. Her hazel eyes become a champagne color and the same pain that has been consuming her for days is taking over her even now. I reach closer to try and figure out what the hell is going on. Now, I said I ain’t one of those mom’s in they kids business. Shit, I got 5 kids from age 26 to 9, so never that. But I’m Colombian; there are no break ups. Divorce ain’t even a fucking option.

  Since the master suite is disconnected from most of the mansion with a bridge leading to the rest, something catches my eye outside the window. A line of silver zooms past. I wonder if it’s Miguel’s truck. He’d promised to come check on me today, and pray for our family.

  Instead of investigating, I hear Rockwell cussing out Lorenzo. Then the sound of bullets spraying sends prickles of tiny hair shooting up my spine. Finger to the gat in my waistband, I start down the stairs, with my mind on my grandbabies: Lorenzo Jr., Phillip Jr., the twins!

  “Ma,” Blu’s snappish voice pulls me to the left as the sound of one of Lorenzo’s goons hits the cement right outside. “All the kids are in the safe room,” she quickly whispers. There are multiple around this 18,000 square feet so I assume it’s the one connected to the den.

  “WHERE THE FUCKING PARTY AT?” someone screams in Spanish.

  My eyes lock on Blu’s. The tone is not famil
iar for her either. Damn, what fucking party could this muthafucka be talking about? It’s just females and children here. More bodies hit the floor, as we stay ready. Blu is right flank next to the towering double doors. I take the left.

  “Mama Rita…” Rockwell’s timid voice trails from up the stairs.

  Fuck, in my brain I’m screaming why this girl would draw attention to herself. My line of vision is on red-bottom stilettos as she begins to descend the staircase. Yet, I realize my naïve daughter-in law isn’t that dumb, there’s scuffed boots right behind hers. As they make it to the first level, a Colombian has his pistol to her temple.

  “He oído que Lorenzo se ha ido,” he says, knowing that Lorenzo is gone.

  “Fuck you,” Blu shouts.

  The man’s dark marbles for eyes sweep over Blu and me, then outside. I’m dead quiet just observing this dude’s body language. There’s uncertainty in his stance and a slight tremor in his trigger finger that can go both ways. Either ol’ boy is worried about something or he might accidently body Rocky.

  I realize his nervousness stems from the quietness outside. If all my son’s thugs are dead, why isn’t his crew coming through the front door? The fireworks that just went off still echo in our ears. But I wonder what is right behind this chocolate-painted door?

  Rockwell is silently crying; amber eyes gloss with tears as he says something in her ear. This muthafucka is no doubt stalling, waiting for his goons to open the door and ensure that they’re the last ones standing.

  Blu cusses at him, telling him to be a real dude. Put down the gun…

  “You scared,” I ask calmly.

  “Lo que, puta?” he asks as if he hadn’t heard me.

  “Why are you hear?” I ask, my eyes trailing up the marks on his arms. “We don’t have any drugs here. Just innocent women and children.”

  “Innocent,” he snaps, glaring at my gun then his eyes waver over to Blu’s.

  “Yes, we might not even have bullets—“