Blood of a Boss III

by Askari

  “It wasn’t Gervin,” Chatchi explained. “It was his grandson, Sontino. Poncho paid him to take out Roberto, and the guys that Sontino used to make the hit, we know who they are, we have them on video.”

  “And how do you know all of this?”

  “Aside from the information that we got from Carmine, I spoke to Juan Nunez and he explained everything in detail.”

  Joaquin paused for a moment, giving his brain the opportunity to digest the new information. “Alright, now for what reason did Poncho want Roberto dead?”

  “His daughter,” Chatchi told him. “Her name is Olivia and she was Roberto’s girlfriend. Poncho didn’t approve of their relationship, and him and Roberto had a heated argument. After that, Poncho reached out to Gervin’s grandson, and he paid him to make the hit.”

  “Where is Poncho now?”

  “Poncho’s a done deal. Juan had him clipped as a sign of good faith. He’s claiming that he had nothing to do with the situation, and that he wanted to show his loyalty.”

  “And what about this kid, Sontino?” Joaquin asked him. “Is he dead yet?”

  “Not yet, but we’re in the process of trackin’ him down.”

  “Does Gervin know about this? Does he know that his grandson murdered my Roberto?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, but I’ll know sooner rather than later. I called a mandatory meeting with The Conglomerate. It’s tomorrow at midnight. And trust me, mijo, by the end of that meeting we’ll know everything that we need to know. Any and all debts will be paid in full.”

  Joaquin looked at his phone and saw that he had an incoming call. It was Big Angolo calling him from ADX Florence. “Alright, homes, now back to the Gervinos. Are you absolutely sure that Little Angolo and Carmine had nothing to do with my son?”

  “A hundred percent, mijo, a hundred percent.”

  “But they paid the price anyway?”

  “I mean, it was a mistake, a casualty of war,” Chatchi explained, attempting to make light of the situation. “And at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. Gervin and Sontino are both connected to the Gervino Family.”

  “Technically your right, but at the same time we both know that the Morenos and Gervinos operate as two separate entities. This could turn out to be a major problem.”

  “A problem?” Chatchi laughed it off. “We have Diablo for such problems.”

  Joaquin took a deep breath and flexed his jaw muscles. Chatchi didn’t understand the severity of the situation, but he did. “Listen, mijo, I have an incoming call. I’ll be calling you back within the next couple of hours, so stay by the phone. And mijo, put away the yahyo and get some rest. Midnight is right around the corner and you need to be clicking on all cylinders. We can’t afford to make a bad situation worse.”

  After disconnecting the call, he accepted the incoming call from Big Angolo. “Mr. Gervino,” he addressed the mafia don with the utmost respect, “I’m glad that you called. We need to talk.”

  ***

  Back at Poncho’s New Jersey Estate

  When Estaban pulled up in front of his parent’s mansion, an eerie feeling shot throughout his body. He’d been calling Marisol back to back for the last fifteen minutes, but every time he called, the phone went to voicemail. “What de fuck is goin’ on?” he asked himself while climbing out of his Benz.

  The large house was completely quiet, and from the looks of things, it appeared as though nobody was home. As he approached the front door, he immediately recognized that something was wrong. The front door was slightly cracked open and all of the lights were turned off. Confused, he looked around the front yard and calmly removed the .380 handgun that was tucked down in his waist band. Cocking a live round up into the chamber, he pushed the door open with the tip of his boot and cautiously slipped inside of the house.

  “Mama,” he called out, slowly moving forward with the .380 leading the way. “Emilia.”

  He listened closely and the only thing he heard was the tick-tocking of the Grandfather clock that was positioned on the wall to his left. Tick. Tock.

  Tick. Tock.

  Tick. Tock.

  Stepping into the main hallway, he noticed that the only light in the house came from the kitchen. As he began walking in that direction, an unfamiliar fragrance smacked him dead in the face. It was strong and rancid, similar to the smell of raw chitterlings but a little more gamey. “Yuck.” He used his free hand to cover his nose and mouth and shook his head disdainfully. “What de fuck is Emilia cookin’?”

  When he reached the end of the hallway and stepped into the kitchen, the first thing he spotted was the large pot that was sitting on top of the stove. Hot steam was seeping through the cracked lid and the odor was so strong that he couldn’t help but to cough and gag. “Mama,” he continued to call out. “Emilia.”

  Aiming the .380 from left to right, he approached the stove and turned down the dial. The bubbling pot came to a halt and the blistering steam was reduced to a simmer. “What de fuck is goin’ on around here?” He looked around the kitchen and everything seemed to be in place, but there were no signs of Marisol and Emilia. “Where de fuck did dey go? Dey shoulda been here waitin’ for me.”

  After looking around, he lifted up the pot lid and damn near had a heart attack. Emilia’s swollen, decapitated head was staring at him from inside of the pot. The skin on her face was stretched out and leathery, and directly underneath, he caught a glimpse of the well-done flesh that was dangling from her cheek bones. “Yo, what de fuck is dis?” He dropped the pot lid and backed away from the stove. “Is dis a fuckin’ joke?”

  “Esta... Estaban,” he heard a voice calling his name.

  “Who de fuck is dat?” He was waving the .380 from side to side, ready to blow a mutha’fucka’s head off.

  “In... In here,” Marisol continued to whisper. “In... In de pantry.”

  “Mama?” Estaban questioned the voice. When he approached the pantry, he dropped his pistol and covered his mouth with both hands. He was completely stunned and didn’t know what to do. His mother’s naked body was connected to Emilia’s headless corpse, and the two bodies were stitched together in the “69” position. Marisol was lying on top and her swollen head was nestled in between Emilia’s thighs.

  “Mama,” he cried out. “What happened? Who done ju like dis?” He knelt down beside her and scoured her body from head to toe. She was a bloody mess, and Estaban couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The skin on her back was ripped away and he could vividly see the whites of her rib cage. He wanted to help her, but when he tried to move her body she released a gut-wrenching scream.

  “Mama,” he continued to cry. “Who de fuck done dis? Tell me now.”

  Marisol turned her head to the left and her entire body began to tremble. “Esta... Estaban... run.”

  “Mama, I can’t hear ju.” He leaned forward and placed his ear beside her mouth. “Say it to me again, I couldn’t hear ju.”

  “He... He’s coming.”

  He looked at her skeptically, unable to hear what she was saying. “Mama, I gotta get ju some help,” he cried like a baby. “Ju need help.”

  “Di... Diablo.”

  “Diablo?” He gave her a funny look. “Huh?”

  “Be… Behind ju.”

  “Mama, I can’t hear ju,” he sobbed. “Say it to me again.”

  He waited for an answer, but it never came. She took her last breath and her body went limp. “Mama,” he shouted and shrugged her shoulder with brute force. “Don’t go, mama. Come back to me, please.” He reached out to hold her, but stopped moving when a cold hand gently caressed the back of his neck. He stumbled forward and quickly spun around. Looking up, the first thing he noticed was the devil horns that protruded from Diablo’s forehead. The small Mexican was covered in blood and a large Butcher’s knife was clutched in his right hand. Estaban was frozen with fear. He wanted to strike out and avenge the murder of his mother, but he couldn’t move.

  “I am Diablo,”
the little Mexican spoke in a demented voice. “Fear me.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sonny’s Old Trap House on Fairhill Street

  Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm.

  Sonny looked at his iPhone, and then returned his attention to Zaire, who was strapped down to the chair at the other end of the dining room table. The Reaper was standing behind Zaire and his sawed-off shotty was pressed to the back of his noggin. Nipsy was in the living room sitting on the couch, and Sonny’s pit bull was watching him closely.

  “Nipsy, come over here and take the duct tape off his mouth,” Sonny demanded.

  “A’ight, but first you gotta get ya dog,” Nipsy told him. “This nigga lookin’ like he ‘bout to eat a mutha’fucka.”

  “Damu,” Sonny said in a deep, dominant voice. “Get ya ass upstairs.”

  The large pit bull looked at him and then looked back at Nipsy. His cropped ears were standing at attention and a deep growl was festering in the back of his throat. Urrrrr.

  “Now,” Sonny commanded.

  The muscular dog trotted up the stairs and Nipsy got up from the couch. Obediently, he stood next to Zaire and snatched off the gray tape, causing the twin to grimace in pain.

  “Damn,” Zaire complained, looking at Nipsy like he wanted to punch his face off. “Fuck you do it all hard for?”

  “Nigga, shut the fuck up and listen,” Sonny barked at him. He leaned across the table and pointed his finger in Zaire’s face. “You got one chance to prove that you ain’t have nothin’ to do wit’ this shit.” He grabbed Egypt’s cell phone off of the table and put it on speaker. After dialing Daphney’s number, he slid it across the table, and then sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “About fuckin’ time,” Daphney said when she answered the phone. “Is it done? Did you kill him?”

  Her words hit Sonny straight to the heart. It was one thing to see her and Egypt on video, but to actually hear his own wife plotting his murder was a completely different thing. Enraged, he continued listening to the conversation.

  “Egypt,” Daphney’s voice boomed from the phone. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” Zaire responded, pretending to be Egypt. “We got him, two to the chest and one to the head.”

  “We?” Daphney questioned. “Who the fuck is we?”

  “Me and Zaire,” he replied. “I know he wasn’t a part of the plan, but I was thinkin’ that if I brought him wit’ me, shit would go a lot smoother.”

  “A’ight,” she said. “But from here on out, I don’t need you to do any thinking, that’s my job. I do the thinking and all you gotta do is follow my lead. Oh yeah, and as far as your brother, I didn’t make a deal with him. I made a deal with you. So, whenever we need to take care of business, you can just leave his ass out of it.”

  Zaire looked at Sonny and gave him a look that said, I told you so. He returned his attention back to the phone call. “So, whatchu want me to do wit’ him? You want me to leave his ass at the club and just wait for somebody to find him?”

  “Hell no,” she quickly shot back. “That’s my mutherfuckin’ establishment. Why the fuck would I want a dead body poppin’ up at my place of business?”

  “A’ight, so then whatchu want me to do wit’ him?”

  “I’m sayin’, like, don’t y’all have a place to take the mutherfuckers that y’all want to turn up missing?”

  “Yeah,” Zaire confirmed. “We got a spot in Bucks County. It’s a pig farm right off of Route 611.”

  “Good, well then take his ass there.”

  Click.

  Zaire looked up at Sonny and nodded his head. “You see, bro, I told you. I told you I ain’t have nothin’ to do wit’ this shit. It was all Egypt.”

  “You’s a funny mutha’fucka,” Sonny said as he got up from the table and walked over to Zaire. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

  “Bro, what is you talking ‘bout?” Zaire asked, looking at him with pleading eyes. “You heard it for ya’self, I wasn’t involved.”

  “Nigga, you made me kill my fuckin’ young bul,” Sonny snarled at him. “He was innocent and he lost his life because of you.”

  “Yo, you’re trippin’, bro. Straight up.”

  “Not at all,” Sonny confirmed. He reached down and lifted up Zaire’s left pant leg, revealing the scar tissue from a gunshot wound. “Just like I thought... Egypt.”

  Egypt lowered his head and accepted his fate. He tried to pull a fast one but it didn’t work. When The Reaper aimed the shotgun at the back of his head, he saw him out the corner of his eye and ducked down just in time. The bullet whizzed by his left ear and struck Zaire on the right side of his forehead, knocking the gravy out the back of his biscuit. When Sonny snatched open the passenger’s side door and they fell out the Bronco, he pretended to be his twin brother, thinking he could prove his innocence and possibly live to see another day.

  “Damn,” he sighed. “How the fuck did you know it was me?”

  Sonny gritted his teeth and looked at him like he wanted to break his fucking neck. “I caught a glimpse of that scar when I was puttin’ ya stupid ass in the back of the truck,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “And I knew that Zaire wasn’t the one who got shot that day, it was you. That’s how the fuck I knew who you was.”

  The Reaper and Nipsy were completely dumbfounded. They would have never figured out that Zaire was actually Egypt, The Reaper in particular. He could have sworn that he shot Egypt in the back of his melon.

  Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm.

  Sonny looked at his vibrating cell phone, but ignored the incoming call. “Nipsy,” he spoke in a calm voice. “Go in the kitchen and grab the sharpest knife you can find. I got a little bit of work to do.”

  ***

  The Philadelphia International Airport

  “Come on, Sonny, answer ya fuckin’ phone,” Gangsta said as he handed his bags to the TSA agent. He’d been calling Sonny back to back for the last hour, trying to put him onto game, but he couldn’t get through.

  “Don’t you think me and Aziz should stay back?” Shabazz asked him. “So, that way, we can tell him what’s goin’ on.”

  “Nah,” Gangsta shook his head. “Big Angolo told me to bring y’all wit’ me. Credentials or not, it wouldn’t make sense for just one agent to be transporting a federal prisoner by himself, especially, from one country to another. So, I’ve gotta take y’all wit’ me, it’s the only way we can pull this off.”

  Aziz sighed, “But I’m saying, if we don’t get in touch wit’ Sonny, he’s gonna walk right into an ambush. We can’t let him go out like that.”

  “I know,” Gangsta agreed. “But at this point, there’s nothing else we can do. Big Angolo made it clear that he wants us in Mexico by the morning. We have to pick up Joaquin and have him in New York by midnight.”

  “New York?” Aziz gave him a questioning look. “I thought we had to put him on the first thing smokin’ to Cuba?”

  “Initially, that was the plan, but things got switched around at the last minute,” Gangsta explained. “According to Big Angolo, we gotta have him at the Waldorf Astoria by midnight. It’s the only way we can straighten out the differences between our families.”

  “All right,” Shabazz nodded his head. “But at the very least, I think you should call him one last time.”

  Gangsta did as he suggested, and once again, the phone went straight to voicemail. It was against his better judgement to leave a message of such magnitude but he did it anyway. “Sonny, it’s Gangsta. Whatever you do, you can’t trust Grip. Him and Muhammad are plannin’ to kill you. I’ve been try’na call you for the last half an hour, but you’re not answering. Hopefully, you’ll get this message before it’s too late.”

  Frustrated, he disconnected the call and switched his phone over to plane mode. Looking at Shabazz and Aziz, he said, “Come on, y’all, we got a flight to catch.” He headed towards the runway and the two men followed behind him. />
  ***

  An Hour Later Back At La Casa Moreno

  Grip was a nervous wreck. He was sitting behind the desk in his office, chain smoking and nervously watching his security monitors. His top soldiers were missing in action, and worst of all, Joaquin wasn’t accepting his phone calls. “Ain’t this a bitch,” he said aloud. “I’ve been chasing behind this mutha’fucka for two years now, going out of my way to put him in position, and this is the goddamned thanks I get? I should have listened to G.J. and Muhammad, and killed his ass when I had the chance.”

  “Killed who?” Rahmello asked as he limped into the office. His anxiety was getting the best of him, and he was tired of lying in bed looking up at the ceiling.

  Grip started to speak, but his vibrating cell phone demanded his attention. Hoping that the caller was Joaquin, he snatched it up and looked at the screen.

  “Who’s that?” Rahmello asked.

  “It’s your bother,” Grip said as he accepted the call and placed the phone against his ear. “What?”

  “Nigga, don’t be whattin’ me,” Sonny snapped back, daring the old man to say something crazy.

  Grip took a deep breath and gently caressed his beard. In a calmer voice, he said, “Pardon me, Sontino, I’m just a little frustrated.”

  “Oh yeah, well I’m just callin’ to let you know that I took care of that situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “The twins, Egypt and Zaire,” Sonny clarified. “I took care of business.”

  “Is that right?” Grip perked up and damn near hopped out of his chair. “Are you shittin’ me right now, or did you really take care of business?”

  “Ain’t that what the fuck I just said?”

  “That’s good,” Grip smiled at Rahmello. “Real good. We’re gonna need ‘em for the meeting tomorrow, and you know what I mean when I say that, right?”