Blood of a Boss III

by Askari

  One night, while leaving Carmine’s strip club, Chico and Roberto were ambushed by three men. Chico was knocked unconscious and when he came to, Roberto was gone. Terrified, Chico searched high and low for Roberto, but he never found him. He failed to protect the boss’ nephew, and now he had to pay... with his life.

  Swoosh.

  Whack.

  “Ay yi yi,” Chico cried out. The burning sensation of the bull-whip was hotter than fire. “Chatchi, please,” he begged his tormentor. “It wasn’t my fault, eh! Somebody set us up!”

  Chatchi was standing behind him with the ten-foot-long bull-whip clutched in his right hand. As the acting boss of the Sinaloa Cartel, he was the most powerful man in the Rio Grande Valley, and arguably the most powerful man in North America. His drug cartel was responsible for smuggling forty tons of cocaine across the border every year, and his four-billion-dollar empire was the most notorious in all of Mexico. Rival drug crews, such as The Gulf Cartel and Los Zetas, were close in stature, but nothing compared to the murderous, bloody Sinaloa.

  Dressed in a fresh wife-beater, tan slacks, and black suede shoes, Chatchi circled the horse stable like a caged lion. His 5’6”, 158 pound body was chiseled like a Roman statue, and beads of sweat glistened on his golden-brown Aztec skin. “I put my trust in you, homes. And you let me down.”

  Swoosh.

  Whack.

  “Ayyyy, Chatchi, please, homes. It wasn’t my fault, eh.”

  “You don’t get no sympathy from me, homes,” Chatchi said in his Mexican accent. He was burning with rage, but his voice was calm and steady. “You don’t deserve it. My mother and my sisters are back in Mexico crying their eyes out because somebody kidnapped and murdered my nephew. My brother, Joaquin, is sitting in a jail cell, furious and thirsty for revenge, and you got the nerve to beg for sympathy?”

  He raised the bull-whip over his head, twirled it around like a lasso, and then let it rip.

  Swoosh.

  Whack.

  “Ayyyy,” Chico wailed from the pain. “Ay dios mio. Ay dios mio.”

  Chatchi looked at him and shook his head in disbelief. “I hear you calling on God, mijo, but not once did you ask Him for forgiveness. I trusted you with the safety of my nephew, but you fucked up, eh. You returned from Philadelphia in one piece, but my nephew,” he paused for a brief moment, “he returned in pieces, mijo. In pieces.”

  Swoosh.

  Whack.

  Swoosh.

  Whack.

  “Whoever kidnapped him, they sent his tongue and his hands to my mother,” Chatchi continued shouting. “His tongue and his fuckin’ hands, mijo.”

  Swoosh.

  Whack.

  “I want answers, Chico. Now.”

  Swoosh.

  Whack.

  Chico was in a dark place, mentally, physically, and spiritually. He’d been receiving this torture for the past ten hours, and a numbing sensation was beginning to wash over him. Chatchi crouched down beside him and spoke to him in a low, condescending voice. “Talk to me, homes. Are you sure that Carmine didn’t turn you against me? Are you sure that he didn’t kidnap and murder my nephew?” he smacked Chico in the face. “Come on, mijo, tell me something.”

  “I can’t say for sure,” Chico whispered, “but Carmine... Carmine was okay. He didn’t give us any problems.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Chatchi said as he stood erect and wiped the sweat from his brow. He walked over to the first horse stable where a two-foot-long, stainless-steel machete was laying on top of a bale of hay. After dropping the bloody bull-whip on the floor, he picked up the machete and held it in front of his face. The Friday the Thirteenth knife was sharp and shiny. After admiring his weapon of choice, he rested the blade on his right shoulder and then stood in front of Chico.

  “So, let’s get this straight, mijo. Earlier you told me that Carmine invited you and my nephew to his strip club, correct?”

  “Si, Chatchi. Si.”

  “And later that night when the two of you left his club, my nephew was kidnapped, right?”

  “Si.”

  “But yet you claim that Carmine had nothing to do with this?”

  Silence.

  “Answer me!”

  Silence.

  Chico’s body was completely limp. His eyes were closed and his tongue was hanging out of the side of his mouth like a dead dog. Chatchi looked at him with hatred and contempt. The two men had grown up together in Isla Mujerez, Mexico, but none of that mattered now. Chatchi raised the machete over his head and positioned his body for a devastating swing. His focus was on the base of Chico’s rectum. It was there, precisely in that spot, where his grandfather taught him as a young child to gut his enemy from groin to sternum.

  The front door of the stable swung open and Chatchi’s twelve year old son, Gato, slipped inside with a cell phone clutched in his right hand. “Poppy, you left, you left your phone in the truck. Here,” he extended the touch-screen device towards his father, completely disregarding the large man dangling from the ceiling. “Somebody’s try’na call you. It’s been ringing like crazy.”

  Chatchi lowered the machete and grabbed the phone from his son. Looking at the screen, he flexed his jaw muscles and gritted his teeth. It was the call he’d been waiting for. It was Carmine Gervino.

  “Talk to me,” Chatchi spoke into the phone.

  “Who the fuck is this?” Carmine snapped.

  “Your worst fucking nightmare,” Chatchi replied in a cold voice, and then handed the machete to Gato.

  “Motherfucker, do you know who I am?” Carmine continued his rant. “Do you have any idea of what I’m capable of?” His words were boss, but the shakiness in his voice didn’t give them any credence.

  Chatchi was on point, and just like an apex predator, he could smell the fear in his victim. Typical American, he thought to himself, a pussy-made bitch in a tailor-made suit.

  “Did you hear what the fuck I said?” Carmine continued snapping.

  Ignoring his hostility, Chatchi remained calm. “My nephew, Roberto, was kidnapped and murdered a couple of weeks ago when he left your club.”

  Upon hearing this, Carmine calmed down. His heart dropped into his stomach, and his stomach did a cartwheel. “Ch-Ch-Chatchi?”

  “My nephew, Carmine. I want to know what happened to my nephew.”

  Carmine was bitching. “Ah... Ah... Ah, all I know is that he came into the club that night, he partied a little bit, and then he left. That’s all I know,” he lied. He was well aware that Roberto was kidnapped because he watched it unfold on his security cameras. He never said anything, because just like everybody else, he assumed that Chatchi’s arch enemies, The Gulf Cartel, were the ones who kidnaped him.

  “How long have you known me, Carmine?”

  “A little over ten years.”

  “Okay, so do you know what I’m capable of?” he asked, using Carmine’s words against him. When Carmine didn’t respond, Chatchi chuckled. “So, you do know what I’m capable of!”

  “Listen, Chatchi, I’m tellin’ the truth. My family didn’t have anything to do with Roberto being kidnapped.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Chatchi replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “This shit happened too close to home for you not to know anything. So therefore, that leads me to believe one of two things. Either you’re responsible for what happened to my nephew, or you’re protecting the person who’s responsible. Both are unacceptable, mijo. So, I’ll tell you what, you have twenty-four hours to bring me the heads of the motherfuckers who kidnapped and murdered my nephew.”

  “But Chatchi…”

  “But nothing,” Chatchi yelled into the phone. “This is not a debate. And just to show you how serious I am, I’ve got a banana clip with a couple of names on it. Now, go to the nearest funeral parlor and pick out some fucking caskets.”

  Click.

  Placing the cell phone in his back pocket, Chatchi looked over at Gato. The little boy was standing
behind Chico and audibly counting out the lashings on his back. “Gato,” he addressed his son, “what are you doing over there, eh?”

  “Poppy, are you going to kill Chico?” he asked with a mischievous grin on his face. “I like Chico. He’s funny.”

  Chatchi sighed. He approached the little boy and retrieved the machete from his hands. “Mijo, do you remember the dog we had when you was a little baby? Bandito?”

  Gato nodded his head. “Si, Poppy. Bandito was my first Pitbull. He was my best friend.”

  “He was a good dog, right?”

  “Si, Poppy.”

  “But one day,” Chatchi calmly held the stainless-steel blade in front of Gato’s face, allowing him to see his reflection, “Bandito bit you.”

  Tears welled up in Gato’s left eye as he examined his mutilated face. When he was three years old, for no apparent reason, Bandito bit down and locked on the right side of his face. His jaws were so powerful that he crushed the little boy’s eye socket, damaging his right eyeball beyond repair.

  Gently, Chatchi caressed the little boy’s back as tears trickled from his left eye. “Ssshhhh. Settle down, mijo. It’s okay.”

  Gato nodded his head and wiped away his tears with the back of his sleeve. After calming himself down, he pointed at Chico and said, “Poppy, did Chico bite you?”

  “He did, mijo, in the worst way possible.”

  Gato nodded his understanding. “So, now you gotta put him down the same way you had to put down Bandito?”

  Chatchi squinted his eyes and slowly shook his head. “No, mijo. This time around I want you to put the dog out of his misery.” He handed the machete back to his son, and the little boy smiled.

  ***

  Club Spontaneous

  “Carmy, what did he say?” Fat Petey asked. He was standing across from Carmine and looking at him inquisitively.

  “He’s holdin’ us responsible for the shit that happened to his nephew,” Carmine replied as he darted out of the office.

  “But we didn’t have anything to do with that,” Fat Petey complained. He was a couple of steps behind Carmine, following him to the front door. “You gotta call him back.”

  “For what?” Carmine asked as he stepped outside and headed towards his Infinity. “There’s nothin’ we can do. He’s givin’ us twenty-four hours to find out who done it.”

  “But what if we can’t find out?”

  “He’s gonna fuckin’ kill us. Now, come on.” He climbed inside of the car and started the ignition. “We gotta get back to the neighborhood. I think they’re gunnin’ for my grandfather.”

  ***

  Back at the Aramingo Diner

  When Sonny and Grip emerged from the diner, they cautiously glanced around the parking lot. Satisfied that everything was kosher, they motioned for Gangsta to come outside. His black fitted hat was pulled down over his eyes, shielding his face from any potential witnesses. His right hand was gripped around the handle of a large carry-on suitcase, and Clavenski’s body was folded up inside. He quickly glanced around the parking lot, and then used the device on his key ring to pop the back doors on his SUV.

  “So, Uncle G, what’s the next move?” he asked while pulling the suitcase towards his truck. He picked it up and carefully sat it down in the cargo compartment. After covering the suitcase with a blanket, he locked the back doors, and then joined Sonny and Grip beside the Escalade.

  Grip looked at Gangsta, and then glanced at his Rolex. “First and foremost, I need to fly back to Cuba in the morning. Obama’s supposed to be lifting the embargo, so I need to make sure that this doesn’t affect our asylum agreement. I paid Raul a shit load of money, and it’s imperative that I take the necessary steps to protect our assets.”

  Grip looked at Sonny, who was once again texting on his iPhone. “Sontino, just lay low until I get back. You’re too valuable to the family and we can’t afford you running around the city like a mad man. I know you wanna take it to Carmine, but you have to be patient. For now, I just need you to lay low.”

  “More or less,” Sonny replied while stuffing his phone back in his Ferragamo slacks. The brown folder that he got from Gangsta was tucked under his right arm, and he couldn’t wait to get home so he could thoroughly go through its contents. “When you get back to the states, just holla at me.”

  “Most definitely,” Grip assured him. “I should be back before the summer hits, sometime around June. On the Fourth of July, we’re scheduled for a meeting with The Conglomerate, and that’s when I’ll introduce you as the new boss of the family.” He blew into his hands and rubbed them together. “Do you need us to take you anywhere?”

  “Naw, I’m good,” Sonny replied. “My man’s a couple of blocks away. He should be here any second now.”

  Sonny extended his right hand and Grip accepted the gesture with a firm handshake. As he repeated the process with Gangsta, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled into the parking lot and flashed the high-beams.

  “That’s my peoples right there,” Sonny said as he pointed at the Phantom. “And just so you know,” he looked at Grip, “if I catch one of them pussies slippin’, I’m puttin’ my murda game down.”

  Grip didn’t respond. He already knew that Sonny would do everything in his power to eradicate the Italians, and truth be told, that’s exactly what he wanted him to do.

  Sonny walked away from the Escalade and climbed in the passenger’s side of the black Phantom. As he reclined back in the butter leather seat, he looked over at his silent partner. “First thing in the morning, I want you to get with your people and let ‘em know we got $250,000 on Little Angolo and another $250,000 on Carmine. And when you get back to the office, I want you to dig up all the information you can on this organization called The Conglomerate.”

  Mario Savino nodded his head and then backed out of the parking lot, refusing to give Grip and Gangsta the opportunity to see his license plates.

  “So, Uncle G, do you think we can trust him?” Gangsta asked as the black Phantom cruised up Aramingo Avenue.

  “Only time will tell,” Grip replied as he opened the passenger’s side door. “Right now, I just wanna focus on Little Angolo. Did you instruct Murder and Malice to take care of business like I told you?”

  “Absolutely,” Gangsta nodded his head. “They left for South Philly right before y’all got here. They know what to do.”

  “All right, that’s all I needed to hear,” Grip said as he climbed inside of the Escalade. “Now, get rid of Clavenski, and then meet me back at the house.”

  “Fa’sho.”

  Grip closed the door and then pulled out his cell phone. He reached inside of the glove compartment and pulled out a white piece of paper with numbers scribbled on it. After dialing the numbers, he held the phone up to his ear.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “You’ve reached 1-800-Crime-Stoppers,” a feminine voice eased through the phone.

  “I would like to report a crime,” Grip said. “I think someone’s about to be murdered.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “I think there’s about to be a murder, and I’m trying to stop it before it happens,” he clarified.

  “Do you have a location, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m in South Philadelphia, on the 600 block of East Wolf Street. I just came in the house from walking my dog, and I noticed that two women were parked in front of my neighbor’s house in a dark-colored Dodge Challenger. I looked inside of their car, and they were loading up guns. I honestly believe that they’re up to something.”

  “Okay, thank you for the tip, sir. I’m dispatching a couple of units to your location.”

  “Thank you.”

  After disconnecting the call, he motioned for Muhammad to pull off. It was time to clean house, and he didn’t want to waste any more time.

  Chapter Four

  South Philadelphia

  A two-toned, silver and black, Cadillac DTS was double-parked in the middle of Wolf Street, and Tony Bruno was sitting b
ehind the steering wheel waiting on Little Angolo. Their plane to Miami was scheduled to take off in less than an hour, and Tony was looking forward to spending a couple of months in the Florida sunshine. The city of Philadelphia had become a war zone, and just like Little Angolo, fifty-seven-year-old Tony Bruno wanted nothing to do with it.

  “Let Carmy and the younger guys deal with this shit.” That’s what Little Angolo had told him a few minutes ago when they were watching Grip and Sonny on the Channel 9 News. “We’ve already made our bones. It’s time for these younger guys to do the same.”

  Tony fired up a Carrillo cigar and took a deep pull. As he released the smoke, he looked at the two-story row home that once belonged to the original don of South Philly, and his mind traveled back to a day that he’d never forget.

  September 2nd, 1985

  He arrived at the don’s house just a little before nightfall and was greeted at the front door by Little Angolo, the don’s son and the underboss of the family. Dressed in a three-piece Loro Piana suit and handmade Italian leather shoes, Tony felt like a superstar. The books in the Philadelphia mafia had been closed for the past twenty-three years, so for a young Tony Bruno, being “made” was definitely an honor, a rebirth, an unadulterated dedication to a life of crime. From that day forward, The Gervino Crime Family would come first. It would come before his mother, his father, his sisters and brothers, his wife, and his children. If he was called upon to kill his own brother, then that’s what he had to do, because this “thing” would come first.

  When he entered the finished basement, followed by Little Angolo, he immediately laid eyes on the boss of the family, Angolo ‘Big Angolo’ Gervino, and his consigliere, Marco ‘The Wop’ Ferrenga. In full mafia regalia, the two men stood firm and fearless, calm and deadly. Positioned at the head of a rectangular-shaped, oak wood table, their dark Sicilian eyes were fixed on his. Their shoulders were squared, and their powerful hands were folded in front of their bodies, right over left.