by Askari
When the three vehicle convoy reached the bottom of the hill, they slowly approached a black, eight-foot-high, iron gate with “La Casa Moreno” written across in large solid gold letters. A small security booth was positioned to the left, and a uniformed security guard was standing beside it. The older black man nodded at Brother Aziz, and then activated his walkie-talkie. After receiving permission from Muhammad, he stepped inside of the booth and hit the button that opened up the gate.
One by one, the three vehicles drove through the open gate and coasted up the cobble-stone driveway. A succession of in-ground lanterns was lined up along the sides of the driveway, and the cobble-stone road led to a large loop that wrapped around a large water fountain. The fountain’s icy blue water was illuminated by built-in halogenic lights, and the statue of a life-sized lion was prominently positioned in the center. The large beast was standing on all fours and facing the driveway. His muscular chest and full grown mane were proudly on display, and his facial expression was Grip’s silent warning, “Fuck around if you want to.”
As Brother Aziz pressed down on the brake pad and brought the convoy to a stop, the mansion’s double-doors opened up wide and Grip was standing in the threshold with an old white woman standing beside him. Brother Shabazz hopped out of his truck and then opened the back door for Olivia. He then motioned for Brother Aziz to help him carry Rahmello into the house.
Sonny reached down and grabbed the Glock .40 that was stashed under his driver’s seat. Placing the pistol in his left jacket pocket, he killed the ignition, and then climbed out of the Porsche. He looked to his right and saw the two bodyguards carrying Rahmello. Olivia was a couple of steps behind them, and he could see that she was still crying.
“As salaamu alaikum,” Grip greeted his soldiers.
“Wa alaikum salaam,” they replied in unison.
“Heldga,” Grip addressed his housekeeper. “This is my grandson, Rahmello. He’s hurt very bad and I need you to look after him, you hear?”
The elderly Armenian woman looked at him and nodded her understanding. She hardly spoke the English language, and therefore she only spoke when necessary.
“Very well,” Grip smiled at her. “Take them to the first guest room on the second floor.”
Again, she nodded her understanding. She looked back and forth between Brother Shabazz and Brother Aziz, and then gestured for them to follow her into the house.
As Grip stepped aside, he looked at Sonny and sighed. “Welcome to La Casa Moreno,” he greeted his grandson. Sizing him up, he noticed the bulge in his fox-fur coat. “It’s freezing out here. Why don’t you come inside?” He spun around and began walking towards his office. “Follow me,” he said over his right shoulder. “I need to show you something.”
Sonny stepped inside of the house and closed the double-doors behind him. The grandeur of Grip’s mansion was utterly breathtaking. The twenty-foot-high ceiling was supported by large white columns, reminding him of the lavish middle-eastern masjids that he’d seen on television. The walls were painted a soft mint-green, perfectly matching the money-green marble that covered the floor, and as he followed Grip down the hallway, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the million dollar Pablo Picassos that decorated the foyer.
Damn, he thought to himself. This nigga’s caked up fa’real. He was accustomed to being around money, but his grandfather was on a different stratosphere. Fuck the mansion, his art collection alone was worth more than Sonny’s empire. Damn.
He followed Grip into his office and took a look around. The first thing he noticed was the picture on the wall behind Grip’s desk. It was a black and white picture of Grip infused with the Philadelphia skyline. Towering over the city, he was dressed in a black tuxedo and his Bossalini hat was slightly cocked to the right. He was puffing on a Cohiba cigar and his cold blue eyes were looking down on the streets of Philly.
Taking his eyes off of the picture, Sonny looked at the mahogany desk. A gold lamp was positioned beside a 19” computer monitor, and off to the right, he noticed the security monitors that were built into the wall. There was a total of ten monitors, and each monitor showed a different section of the mansion. On the left side of the desk, he spotted a fully stocked book shelf with damn near every title from The Art of War to The Qur’an, and in the far right corner, he saw a wooden coat rack and a file cabinet. A 60-inch plasma was built into the far wall, and two leather swivel-chairs were positioned in front of his desk.
“Have a seat,” Grip instructed him, gesturing towards the two swivel-chairs. He approached his file cabinet, opened the top drawer, and extracted a red folder. He sat down behind his desk and opened the folder. He pulled out a five page document and sat it down on the desk.
“About your estate in Upper Dublin,” he said, looking Sonny square in the eyes. “It’s owned by M&R Real Estate. Your house in Cheltenham, your nightclub on Broad Street, and your sports bar on Spring Garden Avenue are all owned by M&R, correct?”
“Yeah,” Sonny said while nodding his head. His left hand was still wrapped around the handle of his Glock .40 and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it if he felt that he had to.
“Well, guess who owns M&R Real Estate?”
“You.”
“Absolutely,” Grip said with a smile. He flipped to the last page of the document and picked up his gold ink pen. After signing his name at the bottom of the page, he laid the pen on top of the paper and slid it over to Sonny. “All you have to do is add your signature, and M&R Real Estate belongs to you.”
The look on Sonny’s face exuded his frustration and confusion. “I need you to explain how you own M&R because, as far as I know, Alvin Rines left the company to my wife when she was a little girl.”
“He did,” Grip confirmed. “But he only owned ten percent of the company. You see, Alvin was my number one soldier before he went to the can. Clavenski created a bullshit case against Alvin, hoping that Alvin would turn state’s evidence against me, but he didn’t. He remained strong, even in the face of a life sentence. His loyalty was immensely appreciated, and to compensate him for his sacrifice, I relinquished ten percent of my company, making him a minority owner. At the time, Moreno Real Estate was worth forty million dollars. Today, it’s worth one hundred fifty million dollars.”
“Yo, hold up,” Sonny said with a screwed up face. “So what, you’re tellin’ me that you know my wife?”
“No, not personally,” Grip clarified. “But on the strength of Alvin, I’ve been taking care of Daphney since she was five years old.”
“Well, does she know about you?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Grip stated. “In 1992, the same year that Alvin went to prison, I changed the company’s name from Moreno Real Estate to M&R Real Estate, and the company went public. Alvin retained his ten shares of the company and signed them over to his daughter, your wife, Daphney. Now, me on the other hand, I sold thirty-nine of my ninety shares on the open market. And as of right now, M&R Real Estate has a total of thirteen owners. However, by retaining fifty-one of the shares, I’m the majority shareholder, which means that I’m still the boss. Now, my twelve co-owners, including Daphney, can make suggestions, but ultimately I’m the one calling the shots.”
“I’m sayin’, though, based on everything that I’ve seen, Daph’s the one running the show.”
“And she’s supposed to,” Grip nodded his head. “Aside from owning ten percent of the company, she’s also the Chief Executive Officer, and therefore she’s responsible for the day to day operations. But even then, she doesn’t call the shots. The most she can do is make suggestions pertaining to the daily operations.”
“A’ight,” Sonny replied. “Let’s say I choose to sign this document, then what?”
Grip smiled at him. “You’ll be the majority shareholder, claiming ownership of numerous properties. And that’s including La Casa Moreno, your Upper Dublin estate, and the two businesses you thought you owned.”
Sonny looked at the documents, and t
hen returned his gaze to Grip. “Yo, cut the bullshit. What’s your angle? After all the shit we been through, why the fuck is you goin’ outta ya way to do all of this for me?” He removed the Glock .40 from his coat pocket and sat it down on top of the paperwork. “What makes you think you can trust me?”
Grip smiled at him, and then cleared his throat. “Ah em.”
Before Sonny even peeped what was happening, Muhammad was standing beside him with a sawed-off shotgun clutched in his hands. Sonny was unmoved. He didn’t even flinch. Instead, he just looked at Muhammad and dismissed him with the wave of his left hand.
Like a proud grandfather, Grip chuckled and clapped his hands together. “That’s the reason I trust you, Sontino. You’re just like me, solid. You fear nothing. You’re a great leader, and a strategic thinker, a little rough around the edges, but strategic nonetheless. And most of all, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and you know what side of the toast that your bread is buttered on.” He looked at Muhammad, nodded his head, and the lanky old man left the office without saying a word.
“Yo, Grip, you mind if I put somethin’ in the air?” Sonny asked, holding up a neatly rolled Backwoods.
“Not at all,” Grip said. “You’re the boss now. You get to do whatever the hell you want.”
Sonny shrugged his shoulders. “More or less.” He placed the Backwoods between his lips, sparked it up, and took a long, hard pull. While exhaling a cloud of smoke, he asked, “So, what about my nigga, Mook? I’m ‘posed to just let that ride?”
Grip fired up a Cohiba and took a nice pull. “No disrespect, Sontino, but fuck Mook. That mutha’fucka wasn’t doing nothing but holding you back,” he spoke through a thick cloud of cigar smoke.
“But Mook was my Big Homie,” Sonny countered. “When my pops was gettin’ high back in the day, Mook stepped up to the plate and held me down. That nigga practically raised me.”
“Your Big Homie?” Grip repeated his claim. “He wasn’t your Big Homie, he was your goddamned boss, and Morenos don’t have bosses. We are the bosses,” he declared, raising his voice a few octaves. The thought of his bloodline working for another motherfucker was pissing him off, but he quickly calmed himself down. “Listen, Sontino,” he said in a softer tone of voice. “Mook wasn’t nothing but a crutch, and the only way I could get you from underneath him and put you in a position to stand on your own two feet, was to get him out of the way. And I can understand that you had love for him. But in the life we live, sometimes you have to do what’s necessary.” He took another pull on his Cohiba and released the smoke.
“Like when you left my grandmoms for dead when the Italians kidnapped her?” Sonny asked, laying all of his grievances on the table.
“It was a rough decision,” Grip admitted, thinking about the hardest decision that he ever had to make. “And did I make the wrong decision? Yes. But if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a goddamned thing.” He took another pull on his cigar, and then plucked the ashes in the ashtray. “It’s just like I told you,” he released a cloud of smoke, “sometimes you’ve gotta do what’s necessary.”
Sonny took another pull on his Backwoods, and then stubbed it out in the ashtray. “I’m sayin’, though, that was your wife and unborn child. If you’ll cross them, what’s to say that you won’t cross me?”
“It was a bluff,” Grip explained with a smile on his face.
“A bluff?” Sonny asked with a raised eyebrow. “On whose end, yours or theirs?”
“On theirs,” Grip replied while lounging back in his swivel-chair and locking his fingers together. “You’ve gotta remember, Sontino, I was raised by the mafia. And up until the age of thirteen, I was indoctrinated into their way of life. Aside from their Oath of Silence, they have two specific rules when it comes to doing business, they can’t touch government officials, and they can’t harm innocent women and children. So, when they kidnapped your grandmother and threatened to kill her, I knew it was bullshit.”
Sonny thought about his grandfather’s explanation, and strangely it made sense. “So, basically, by refusing to pay the ransom, you called their bluff and solidified your gangsta at the same time.”
“Absolutely,” Grip confirmed. “I showed the city that nothing or nobody would stop my movement, and that I was willing to do whatever it took to maintain my position. In the process, I put fear in the hearts of the heartless, and at the same time, cast a shadow of ignominy over my father and his family.” He smiled and raised his hands in victory. “Checkmate, the Morenos win.”
Sonny laughed at him. “Damn, man, I’m really glad we had the chance to sit down and talk. ‘Cause on some trill shit, I was definitely thinking ‘bout killin’ you.”
Grip joined him in laughter. “And I was thinking the same shit about you.”
The laughing stopped and they looked at one another in admiration. “So, we cool?” Grip asked as he extended his right hand.
“Yeah,” Sonny nodded his head and accepted Grip’s gesture. “We cool.”
“Good. Now, sign these papers so I can officially retire.”
Chapter Nine
ADX Florence Correctional Facility in Florence, Colorado
Alcatraz in the Rocky Mountains, that’s what the federal inmates who resided at ADX Florence called the super-max prison. A bonafide hell on earth, it was the final abode for some of America’s most dangerous criminals, and Angolo “Big Angolo” Gervino was one of them. Housed in a small six by eight foot cell with nothing but a stainless-steel sink, a stainless-steel toilet, and a concrete slab with a three inch mattress, the ninety-eight year old mafia don was teetering on the brink of his twilight. Inflicted with pancreatic cancer, the original don of South Philadelphia was fragile and weak. But that didn’t stop him from engaging in his favorite pastime, a nice game of chess.
Sitting on his bed in complete silence, the old man was contemplating his next move. Notoriously known for being the best chess player on the compound, for a thousand dollars a game, he willingly accepted any and all challengers. His makeshift chessboard was laid across the foot of his mattress. Designed from the cardboard backs of two legal pads, its rectangular-shaped boxes were numbered from one to sixty-four, and shaded in with the black ink from his flexible security pen. His green and white chess pieces were expertly carved from bars of soap, and with his droopy eyes looking at the pieces from every angle, he was silently anticipating the impending fate of his opponent.
The entire cell block was quiet, extremely quiet. It was the unified silence of a hundred and fifty-seven inmates propped against their cell doors, patiently waiting for Big Angolo to announce his next move.
“My Queen on thirty-seven takes your Rook on sixty-seven. Check,” Big Angolo shouted in a raspy voice, eliciting “oohs” and “ahhs” from his spectators. Every inmate was attentively watching the game play out on their individual chessboards, and every time Big Angolo or his opponent announced their move, the inmates would move the pieces on their individual boards, essentially seeing the game first hand.
His opponent, Omar Yusef, a convicted terrorist, chuckled and rubbed his hands together. This was the first time in over twenty years that Big Angolo made a mistake of this magnitude. The mafia don appeared to be so focused on his offense, that he uncharacteristically overlooked his defense. “My Knight on fifty-four takes your Queen,” Omar shouted in a thick Iranian accent. “The check is cleared.”
“Ohhhh,” the spectators exclaimed, surprised by the fact that Big Angolo had lost his Queen so early in the game.
Big Angolo cackled like a hyena, astonished that Omar took the bait. By moving his Knight from the fifty-forth square to take his Queen, he left his King completely vulnerable. “My Rook on three moves to four. Checkmate.”
Utterly stunned, Omar shook his head from left to right, realizing that the game was indeed over. The entire cell block went crazy. Many of the inmates were working side-bets and they wasted no time collecting their winnings. A plethora of fishing l
ines covered the tier and in a matter of minutes, every commissary item from toothpaste to cupcakes was being transported from one cell to the other.
“Scooby Doo on the move,” Vladamire Melnik, a convicted Soviet spy shouted, alerting his fellow prisoners that a U.S. Marshal was patrolling the tier. Instantly, the fishing lines disappeared and a deathly silence washed over the cell block.
The U.S. Marshal walked down the tier with a manila envelope tucked under his left arm. He stopped in front of Big Angolo’s cell and opened up his tray slot. “Mr. Gervino, you have a legal package that was sent to you by way of certified mail. I need you to inventory the contents, sign the receipt, and then slide the empty envelope back through the tray slot.”
“Thanks Mitchie,” Big Angolo smiled at him, knowing that the legal package was just a decoy for the U.S. Marshal to hand him his cell phone. For two thousand dollars a month, the young Marshal would bring him his cell phone whenever he had an incoming call, or needed to make an outgoing call. He grabbed the manila envelope and carried it over to his bed. After removing his Samsung, he stood beside his window to get the best reception possible. He placed the phone up to his ear and said, “Hello.”
“Poppo?” Carmine questioned.
“Yeah, Carmy, it’s me. How’s everything going?”
“Poppo, things are bad, very bad.”
“Like what, Carmy? Talk to me.”
“It’s Gramps,” Carmine sighed heavily. “Him and Tony Bruno got whacked.”
“What? How? Who done it?” Big Angolo asked in a shaky voice. “Please tell me that it wasn’t Gervin.”
“No, Poppo, it wasn’t Grip.”
“Well, who in the hell was it?” Big Angolo pried, raising his voice a few octaves.
“It was the Mexicans,” Carmine revealed. “A situation happened outside of my club a couple of weeks ago. Chatchi’s nephew was kidnapped and murdered. We assumed that it had something to do with the beef between Chatchi and El Gallo, so initially we didn’t pay it any mind. But now, that fuckin’ Chatchi’s holdin’ us responsible, and he’s pickin’ us apart left and right. First, he whacked Alphonso, then he whacked Gramps and Tony Bruno. And to make matters worse, he’s givin’ me twenty-four hours to hand over the mutherfuckers responsible for kidnappin’ his nephew.”