Loving a Colombian Cartel Thug 3

by K'Aliyah Knight

  “Look, I killed Janyca and when I told Lorenzo he had this look as if she… and before that after I really didn’t kill her… Chuey did… Lorenzo wouldn’t…”

  I look back and forth at the both of them. There’s a liar among us. Rockwell isn’t making any sense. She and Chuey murdered a hoe that was so nameless to me before this very moment. So disconnected from my Lorenzo that I know couldn’t be receiving that ring that Rockwell looks so guilty wearing. I’ve never seen Rockwell look this distraught. Her only guilt is not believing in her nigga’s love.

  “Chuey,” I speak calmly and clearly. Lie detector serum is coursing through my veins. It’s in a Medina’s blood—mi Madre’s blood— to know a liar. So why not ask the sneakiest person himself to build his own grave? “Tell me what happened?”

  As I look into his eyes, I regret having given him freewill. Trying to believe that Mendoza blood –mi padre’s blood—hasn’t tainted him. I spent years telling myself that I was no longer a Mendoza. No longer Margarita Antoinetta Medina Mendoza. Never got Mendoza legally removed, but I am not a part of these evil, conniving muthafuckas. But in my desire to do right by my fam, I tolerated him. I told myself that he’s not his father’s son. But Chuey opens his mouth and I know that though some of his words are truth. Though he is some sort of guilty.

  “Rocky went over Janyca Cisneros home,” he begins, and I know that the name Cisneros holds some sort of weight within the folds of Colombia’s political world. “Janyca said she was pregnant with Lorenzo’s child. The bitch taunted Rockwell, showing–”

  “She showed me this ring. Janyca said Lorenzo and her were getting married and that they were going to raise their child–”

  “Rockwell,” I cut her off. Yeah, I’m sure the trick said something along those lines but… If there’s one morsel of wisdom for females, it’s that a bitch will say anything they can to start some shit. This fucking dead bitch is still a plague to my family even now.

  “So Rocky had this gun she got from Blu and shot that bitch in the belly,” Chuey adds.

  “Aye dios mija,” I sigh. Damn, under any other circumstances I’d congratulate my daughter-in-law for popping her cherry. Learning how to grind for family, by way of the gat. But…

  “I tried to call Lorenzo, you, Blu, even considered calling Lakitha, anybody to help me get rid of her, but Chuey answered–“ This time Rockwell isn’t cut off by me for saying this, we can hear my eldest daughter’s loud mouth.

  “Lorenzo is home…” I’m just as baffled as Rockwell is. Who knew they came home?

  “Mama Rita, that’s Chuey and my only secret. We haven’t done… we ain’t ever…” she stutters. Dang Rockwell can’t even speak the words about cheating on Lorenzo. Nah, she hasn’t fucked around. Her warm eyes plead me not to say anything.

  I look at this girl that I thought was so in love with my son. At this very moment, I know that love is so fucking complicated that it should be a sin. Something in this story wants me to reverse and have them say it all over again, detail by detail, of how my son’s bitch decided to fuck him over. But it will have to come later.

  What will also have to come later? Why the fuck is Chuey still in Rocky’s ear. Telling her about folic acid, prenatal vitamins and the likes? Who does this little shit think he is? I can just about imagine that he’s trying to warm his way in as her friend because of Lorenzo’s misdeeds.

  Tip number two to my female race: when a nigga gets dirty, do not go to another dude… well, unless you want that nigga. I don’t think Rocky wants Chuey. Especially since she had tried to call us all that night. I remember Blu being crazy out of her mind because that bitch ass Henry wouldn’t claim Toi as his child. He’d refused to attend the funeral. Blu failed her that night by just giving her a gun. I failed her that night because I was so fucking deep in my emotions. Lorenzo, who can’t keep his dick in his pants, failed her too.

  Rockwell moves ahead of me. The bright sparkles in her eyes have returned. She loves Lorenzo too much to even consider bringing up Janyca in a way that would kill any of the misconceptions she has about that bitch and her husband. No matter how beautiful, how sweet, how loving Rockwell is, she doesn’t have enough esteem.

  Chuey is slowly making his way down the steps. When I look at him, looking at her running to Lorenzo I know this little bastard hates on that love. Good thing this nigga hates. While he’s all up in his emotions, he doesn’t even know that their love is crippling at the seams.

  “Baby!” Rockwell shouts, as she runs down the foyer and toward my son. Tall as he is, a few weeks in jail have made him harder. Mentally and physically. He’s been working out on pure aggression.

  …

  My.

  Mouth.

  Opens.

  No.

  Sound.

  Escapes.

  He knows. Not sure what he knows, but Lorenzo knows that Rockwell and Chuey are bonding just a tad too much. That is evident in how his gun comes out and to her head.

  “Bitch, don’t even try me,” Lorenzo says through gritted teeth.

  “Renzo…” she says, back to me. Body tensed.

  “The fuck wrong with you, nigga,” Popeye says, placing Blu back onto her own two feet. He begins to grab his Glock, having known Rockwell years longer than Lorenzo.

  “Brah, what you doing?” Blu starts to take her own burner out. “Nigga, is you tripping?” She points it at Lorenzo for the sake of her bestie. Even if hers and Popeye’s ain’t cocked and Lorenzo’s is, she is hoping that this transaction will be enough to cool him down.

  “Mi amor, we have all these children around,” my voice croaks. My son is impulsive, there’s no mistaking it. Popeye Junior and Lorenzo Jr. are stunned silent. Lorenza is nestled next to Lakitha, lips trembling. Thank God Lorenzo’s two other daughters are still in their cribs.

  “Lorenzo, man,” Chuey descends the last step, measuring his moves. He begins going for his own gun, “What–”

  “I was thinking back,” Lorenzo says, looking at all of us, even his own son. Junior is crying just as much as Rockwell. “If I kill this bitch for fucking Chuey–”

  “Rockwell,” Blu starts to lower her gun. Loyalties switch.

  “I would have to live with that my entire life. Am I that type of dude that could kill his baby mamas, his muthafucking wife?” The shouting booms across the expansive walls.

  I’m speechless. There are no words for me to say. No actions, because if I do, and bust the wrong move, the entire house is going to see Rockwell’s brains splattered across the marble flooring. She’s speaking, murmuring, almost too silently as her arms are held to her chest. Lorenzo’s thick bicep has Rocky on total lock down. I pray to God that what she’s telling him penetrates.

  “Aye, Aye, Aye,” hard, emotionless words are said in unison.

  Through the open doors comes more of my son’s crew. Colombia’s finest, points sawed off shotguns and AK-47s at Chuey. The butt of a shotgun jabs harshly at the back of Chuey’s knees. He’s brought down! He slumps forward as that same shotgun bashes the back of his skull in. I consider praying for a swift death for Santiago Junior. Then again, maybe not.

  “Rocky’s pregnant!” I finally speak. Not knowing Lorenzo’s intentions; the chilly look in his dark eyes is not connected to this world.

  That gets a rise out of Lorenzo. Instead of anger, hatred, disgust, disappointment. He is consumed with hurt, shock, pain.

  “Pregnant,” he shoves her to the ground. Lorenzo rubs his face as if thinking long and hard. He blasts off one round.

  CHUEY

  The line band at the NFL Super Bowl ain’t got shit on how my head is pounding. My brain is pulsating. My wrists are bound above my head; a thick rope is dangling me from the ceiling. My body teeters around with each punch. Blood drips down my back. One of my eyes won’t even open, while the other is just fuzz. The room is dark; the stench is dusty with cat and rat piss.

  “Ro… Rock…. Rocky…” I force myself to say; my throat is on fire as
if I’ve been chocked while I was out.

  “You worried about my muthafucking property, is that right?” The words come from my primo, but I can only see a dark figure. Big and black.

  “Rockwell…” I try again. It’s pissing him off. I’m dying, I’m sure of it that my expiration date is coming shortly, but I have to know that she’s okay.

  “Dead. Esta muerto,” the phantom Colombiano replies…

  A pain consumes me from the pit of my stomach. Goons begin to laugh. “Lorenzo, no…”

  “Si,” he says and then another hit to my stomach. Instantly, that sadness torpedoes into a ball for the love of my life. I spit up blood, with vomit. My body goes swinging back and forth; wrists burn from the stretch of my weight.

  “Usted es mi sangre!” Lorenzo shouts over and over again. “You’re my blood! You’re my blood…” I’m still unable to see, but rely on my sense of sound. He’s punching his chest at these words. This is the kind of shit that makes Colombianos weep. The severing ties, loyalty lost.

  I should tell this muthafucka the truth. I haven’t smashed his wife. But if she’s dead. I’m already dead anyway. It’s on the tip of my tongue to lie, say just how good Rockwell was. Just how sweet the pussy tastes and feels against my dick. I should kill this nigga with my words, but the only letters that will exit my mouth is the string of R-o-c-k-y.

  “You’re my blood, Santiago Louis Medina Mendoza Junior. So I’ma do the thing I never thought I would when it came to the bitch that I owned. Always thought if–damn not even really if–but if Rockwell does something like this, her death would be worse.” He steps closer to me. Lorenzo’s hand is painted with the blood from my face. Dark evil marbles for eyes glare into mine. “And the muthafucka that touched her? It didn’t even fucking matter. I just knew that one little stolen touch would have the dude meeting the type of death that requires my body to go straight to hell.”

  Lorenzo stops. He reaches into his shirt, pulls out a crucifix and kisses it. “You will go to hell soon, primo. I will pray for the rest of my life that God has mercy on me. If He doesn’t, oh well.”

  “Rockwell.”

  “No,” Lorenzo grabs my blooded face, suffocating me with his hands over my mouth and nose. “Say her name again; mark my words, Chuey. You are going to get that type of death, but I still consider you familia,” he chuckles harshly as if the mention of me being blood will make the horror of this all slightly more stomach able.

  I see the fuzziness of movement and it’s not another blow to my body, but Lorenzo putting his phone on speaker.

  “Tio Santi,” he says, voice dead.

  “Sup? Heard you were out?” Santiago matches Lorenzo’s emotionless tone. Shit, this nigga acts more like my father than I do. Lorenzo—oh shit, I fucking forgot, my mom. Mayté said Lorenzo was my brother.

  “Is that so? You heard I was out, Tio?” Lorenzo continues to talk into the speaker of his cell phone. His sarcastically continues, “I know you didn’t have anything to do with hundreds upon hundreds of kilos of your own product being confiscated. See how I say your product. Not even the fact that your own fam had to sit in jail. I was in the pen for two weeks, you know.”

  “Two weeks, you say? Well, perhaps I did have had a hand in it,” Santiago’s chuckle is crackled through the bad reception. “C’mon, Lorenzo, the fuck is wrong with you, neph’? How could you even ask that? You’re my baby sister’s son! No, I had no hand in your jail time. But I am glad you are home.”

  “But Chuey isn’t,” Lorenzo says, “He’s simmering in anger right now, wishing I woulda stayed in jail. Maybe rotted for a lifetime. Would you like to speak with him?”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Santiago replies, “It seems you and my son have important matters to discuss. Just remember, the boy shares my name.”

  Lorenzo steps away from me. I see the slight glimmer of silver. It’s a tray… A tray of torture devices. He begins to pick up something hard off the rollaway tray and saying, “So does that mean Chuey is untouchable?”

  “Would you like to figure that out?” Santiago growls.

  Nino

  1996

  Zendaya’s mom wants to have a party for her when she turns 14. All the while I'm like trick please. Zendaya’s mom doesn't spend any dough unless she’s guaranteed more money. So I put down the new textbooks my girl has in her laps. If that ain't proof that I've been taking care of Zendaya then she need to look in the mirror. Hips thicker. Ass fatter. My bitch has been eating.

  I pull Zendaya on my lap, as we sit on the couch.

  She squeals, “Can we go?”

  “Man...”

  “Nino,” she sighs, wrapping her arms around me. Tender lips tickle at my neck, and then Zendaya’s tongue slithers out to roll around my skin. She begins to suck harder. Every time her mouth leaves my neck, she makes her case by saying, “I cleaned up.” Then again sucking my neck. “Nino, say yes, baby.”

  I ignore her little brown ass.

  Zendaya continues. After a while, her childish as whimpers, “Baby, that party is for me! I wanna go.”

  “The bitch didn't even ask,” I shout.

  “Ask who?” Zendaya smirks.

  “Me!” I command through gritted teeth. This bitch has been with me for almost a year. Her mom doesn’t have to take care of her anymore. Zendaya is my property now. So that old ass hoe should have shown me some respect and called.

  Zendaya shakes her head. Her gorgeous face contours, “You act like you own me, boy.”

  I grab her cheek. Damn, it’s been a while since I had to blemish that flawless skin of hers. But if Zendaya wants to try me… I glare my bitch hard in the eye, and ask, “So?”

  Zendaya softly rubs at my hand, as I harshly grip her face. She can’t really reply. I let up a little. “Nino, you know you own me, baby. Look at the invitation please. I barely get to see my family. If we didn't live so close and walked out at the same time or the few times I saw my mom in the store...then...”

  “Then you’re a lucky muthafucka because you ain’t got to set eyes on your fucking pimp. That trick ain’t ya mom! The only thing she’s done is sold you! Am I right?”

  Zendaya starts to get up.

  “Where you going?”

  “Whateva,” she swats me away. Zendaya speaks under her breath, “All you do is call me and my damn mama out of our names. My mama hasn’t pimped me out for kicks. Shit, we do what we have to do to survive.”

  I get up from this busted ass chair and mad dog her ass for that move. Today she doesn't back down. “So you finna give me a party then?” Zendaya asks.

  I glare at this girl. Nobody has talked back to me before and lived to see another day, nobody but the fucking ungrateful ass bitch in front of me. I could carve the beauty off this girl’s face, and torture the rest of her in a blaze of fire.

  “Nino,” Zendaya’s voice gets soft again. The softness about her, that’s the reason why she is still breathing. “Nino, I just want to have a party. You haven’t given me one for my birthday.”

  Damn, here she goes with the guilt trip. In this hard world, it ain’t nothing like a pretty ass bitch that loves me to death, to stop me from taking her ass out! But I don’t feel like being wrapped around Zendaya’s finger so I wave her off, “Bitch, you ain't even ask.”

  “Why I got to ask for everything?” she questions, innocent amber eyes gloss over.

  Damn. I don't know. Now I want to apologize to Zendaya. But I ain’t ever said those words. I shrug. “Because I say so.”

  Zendaya steps closer to me. Her soft body worms into my arms. “It's just a tiny get together, Nino. I love you, baby.”

  As she tries again to sweet talk me into this party, my hand grips her arm so tight that I can feel her bone. Her breath hitches.

  She continues to rub my back. Zendaya’s voice is laced with pain as she says, “Just a little get together, Nino baby. Then we will come back home. Don't hurt me, baby. You love me.”

  I add more pressure; my biceps a
re bulging. I’m finna leave my girl with a bruise on her arm. But I can’t let her go.

  Zendaya

  My mom jumps up and down when she sees me. She’s kinda like a kid. Mama and Nino’s mother were pretty much bottom bitches in the slums back in the day. It might not sound like much since they didn’t always make enough to get to resort town. But you try to turn a trick when a day’s wages have sound effects. Chump. Change.

  So yeah, Mama has that young mentality, unless it has to do with setting up her next Julio. Mama’s growth was stunted when she did drugs. I learned that from this book I've been reading. She pulls me into a hug. For a second I'm happy as hell too, then she looks at Nino. She rolls her eyes and says, “Happy Birthday, mi amore, come in.”

  Nino steps inside before she can lock him out. I thank the Lord above that my dude doesn’t slap the dog shit out of Mama for that move. I promised him all kindsa freaky ass sex tonight, and I’m excited about it. I love him so much.

  The music is up-tempo, Spanish tunes blare through the raggedy ass speakers, as loud as it will go. Not loud enough though, since I can hear the chatter of too many people before I even see them. This is more than a little “get together” like my mom said while passing me the invitation at the grocery store the other day.

  Her arms are over my shoulder. Mama does the cha-cha, forcing me to move along with her as we enter the living room. There are reused birthday decorations that I had bought when my mom turned 25 draped around. I'm enjoying my cousins and happy that Nino mingles with my cousins, then some Spanish rap comes on.

  Papa flies out of the bedroom. “Aye, aye, turn that shit up,” he slurs in Spanish. A bottle of cheap beer sloshes down his hand and onto the gummy carpet. The rapping is too quick for him to keep up, but he tries.