by Marcus Weber
Clearing his throat, Antonio began laying out the things Emil had told him to say, with authority.
Antonio had been told that he needed to give Jackson leash with a little bit of length, but not too much that he would think he could run free. It had been an unprecedented move by Emil. One that even Antonio didn’t understand himself. He couldn’t lie . . . he felt super powerful.
When the men filed out of the room, Hayden and Jackson remained so they could chat separately.
Jackson stood so close to Antonio he could feel the heat of his breath on his lips.
“I know you may have fucking convinced Pop that you can be trusted, but I don’t trust you. You have no fucking idea what you’re getting yourself into. You’re not about this life, nigga. What the fuck was that all about?” Jackson gritted, baring his teeth. Jackson was showing his spoiled brat ways and letting Antonio know just how threatened he felt.
“Look, man. I’m doing what Pa . . . I mean . . . what Emil asked me to do. If you got a problem with the decisions being made, you need to take that shit up with him.” Antonio wasn’t going to back down. Now more than ever, he needed to stand his ground. He couldn’t front, his insides were churning with nervousness.
Emil had put him in a fucked-up predicament. Why him? Why had Emil chosen him to announce the new supplier? That was always Jackson’s role in the family. Hayden was the clean business guy, who sometimes had to get his hands dirty. He was the square that Emil could put in front of a group of legitimate businessmen and feel good about it. But, him, Antonio . . . where did he fit in? He still couldn’t figure it out. Shit wasn’t exactly making sense.
“Stepping into this business is not something you want to do. You don’t know these dudes and you don’t know shit about this business. Once you’re in, you can never get out,” Jackson gritted, his eyes lit with animosity. Antonio thought about what Jackson was saying. He thought about Paige, her family, their reputation, their son. He mulled over Jackson’s words. But, in the end, it didn’t matter. Emil had chosen him. The arrangement had been made, and if he didn’t stick with it, it could result in multiple casualties. So he really had everything to lose either way.
“What did you expect me to do? Tell your father no? Walk away from his connections, all of his business, and money? Leave everything to you and Jackson? Run away when I’ve been running all of my life? Do I look stupid to you? Last I checked, I’m just as much a Cartwright as both of you,” Antonio said pointedly.
Jackson closed his eyes and scrubbed his hands over his face. It was all he could do not to punch Antonio in the face. There was no winning this argument. Jackson put his hands up in front of him in surrender. He had to get Antonio on his side. It was the only way he could get what he needed. But once he did, all of them would be sorry.
“Listen,” Hayden said, stepping forward. Both Antonio and Jackson glared at him. “We can sit here and run over this all night, but Pop made the decision.” Then he turned his full attention to Antonio. “I just need you to understand that running numbers and the other stuff we’ve exposed you to this far, is not the same as running this business,” Hayden warned. “I’m sure Pop thinks you’re cut from the same cloth as he is, but this side of the business, it’s no place for a soft, orphan foster kid turned celebrity basketball star who is a total amateur.” His words felt like an open-handed slap on Antonio’s face.
“Don’t ever mention my childhood out of your mouth again. You grew up how you grew up, and I grew up how I grew up. . . . Leave it at that,” Antonio said calmly, clearly fighting the rage inside.
Jackson shoved his hands into his pockets and balled his fists until his knuckles throbbed. Hayden bit down into his jaw until his head hurt. Neither was prepared to share the possibility of becoming the boss with anyone, much less the son of their father’s whore.
* * *
Antonio stepped out of Jackson’s Range Rover and slammed the door behind him. Jackson handed his keys to the eager-for-a-tip valet standing in front of the towering skyscraper in midtown Manhattan. Antonio glanced back at the caravan of black SUVs that had followed them down from the Bronx. Jackson nodded at his little street dude, who sat shotgun in the front passenger seat of the first vehicle. Antonio didn’t bother to look back at any of the passengers of the other three heavily tinted vehicles. Antonio and Jackson had exchanged hardly any words while in the truck on their way to meet the new connect in a high rise in the heart of New York City.
Antonio tugged at this suit lapels and straightened himself out. He looked at his brother and mentally shook his head, partly in disgust and partly in empathy. Jackson was just a hood dude at his core, nothing could change it. Not even a father like Emil.
Antonio noted the stark differences between himself and Jackson, from the way they dressed, talked, looked, and carried themselves. Antonio knew he would never have chosen to wear a pair of flashy-pocketed Balmain jeans, a bright ass Gucci T-shirt, a leather Balmain jacket, and red Balenciaga boots, to an important business meeting. Antonio was much classier than that. He’d chosen a smoke gray Armani suit, similar to one he’d seen Emil wear; a perfect satin pocket square; a pristinely pressed, crisp white French cuff shirt with diamond monogrammed cufflinks worn open at the collar; and on his feet, a pair of black suede Salvatore Ferragamo loafers. Antonio’s outfit exuded class and sophistication. When he looked at his brother, it was all hood nigga vibes.
Antonio looked around the lobby of the building and thought about Paige. She would love to live in a fancy building like this one. He’d been thinking about her a lot. He was deep in the trenches now, and if she knew everything, he didn’t think she would stick around.
As the elevator ascended the building’s floors, Antonio closed his eyes. He pictured Paige and Christian. He smiled a little bit. They were his life. He had been slipping and losing sight lately, but he planned to make it up to them. As soon as he made this connection, he would make it up to them. Antonio was planning out how he’d wrap Paige up in his arms and tell her they didn’t have any more financial worries, and how Christian would try to get in on the action with his sweet little hugs and affectionate nature.
When the elevator doors dinged open on the 50th floor, the penthouse, Jackson rushed out first. Another notable difference between Antonio and Jackson. This one Antonio couldn’t let slide.
“Emil told us not to be too eager,” Antonio mumbled disdainfully, glaring at Jackson. It was the first words they’d exchanged since they’d left the Bronx.
“Yo, nigga. What you not gonna do is tell me how to act in meetings that I’ve been going to years before your ass was on the scene,” Jackson replied with a hateful snarl.
He couldn’t even pretend to be happy about this arrangement if he wanted to. He was sour as hell that his father chose Antonio to lead this, or even be involved in the first place, rather than giving him free rein to take care of things. Especially because Emil had been really particular about keeping his connects to himself, something Jackson always resented. His father was a control freak, but all of a sudden, out of nowhere he was allowing an outsider into his deepest business. None of it made sense. Jackson knew that his father was a calculating man, so there had to be some kind of reason behind all of this. Still, he wasn’t happy about the shit and felt slighted that his father didn’t care to let him in on the plot.
Four young dudes stood like sentries in the hallway, awaiting their arrival. They looked like they still had fresh Similac on their breaths. Antonio’s heart throttled up in his chest. One thing he did know from growing up in the rough streets of the Bronx was that young dudes were wild because they had little to nothing to live for.
The first dude, who resembled a baby-faced Lebron James, put his hand up, halting their movement. Another smaller, but screw-face youngin’, waved Antonio forward. He rubbed his hands up and down the outside of Antonio’s clothes. He guessed they were making sure he wasn’t carrying no heat. They’d left their burners in the truck . . . another fact
that had unnerved Antonio a little bit.
The men gave Jackson an even more thorough once over. They ran their hands along the legs of his jeans, around his ankles, and even between his legs. They made him remove his jewelry and even lift up his shirt to show that no wires were taped to his chest. These little boys weren’t playing.
Once the pat-downs were complete, two more ruthless looking young dudes led them inside. Antonio’s stomach did back flips as he stepped into the ultra-modern suite. The strong smell of weed immediately assailed his nose. He forced himself to swallow the bit of acidic vomit that had crept up his esophagus.
Jackson was acting like it was nothing—like he’d been to a thousand of these types of nerve-wracking meetings and he was too cool. Antonio knew better. He’d long ago figured out that Jackson was a lot of tough talk. Antonio wasn’t so sure about how much action Jackson had in him.
The first thing that came to mind as Antonio looked around, was who the fuck was this guy? The penthouse was simply fucking breathtaking. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows rendered a breathtaking view of New York. Antonio felt like he was sitting on top of the world looking out those windows. Everything else inside was decorated red, white, and black. The walls were painted an institutional shade of white, and the marble-tiled floors looked fresh like purely fallen snow. There were four leather couches—two black, two red—circling a white leather ottoman that served as a coffee table in the center of the room. There were three white and red shaggy throw rugs that looked like no one had ever stepped on them either. To the left was a glass-top bar, the bottom tiled in white. Four eggcup, shiny red lacquer stools stood in front of the bar. Antonio felt slightly jealous. Here he had worked hard in the NBA for years and couldn’t live like this. He wondered if he was going to make enough money to show Paige a life like this again.
Who would’ve ever thought a nobody like him would be sitting in a high-priced suite like this waiting to negotiate terms of a lucrative business deal? Antonio definitely was proud of himself.
“Yo, what up?” a voice echoed in the middle of the room. Antonio whirled around so fast he nearly stumbled backward. Jackson, with a scowl on his face, turned slowly like a gunslinger from the old Western movies. Neither Antonio nor Jackson was prepared for who they were seeing in front of them.
You gotta be fucking kidding me. Antonio blinked a few times to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. From his peripheral, he could see Jackson was thinking along the same lines. What the fuck? Who the fuck?
“So, I heard you the lost son,” the man, well . . . boy, said out as he circled Antonio slowly. He literally looked like a little ass boy. He couldn’t be any more than an even five feet tall. His face had no hair, not even peach fuzz. Talk about baby face criminal. The kid was flanked by three huge, wild-eyed young dudes that had no problem showing their guns to Antonio and Jackson.
“Nah, I’m the son. Jackson,” Jackson stepped forward. The kid didn’t flinch. He kept his eye on Antonio, who still wore an expression that said he couldn’t believe that this little boy reaching out to shake his hand was the big bad connect that had all the so-called gangsters in New York running scared.
“Yeah, Jackson is Emil’s son. I’m the associate,” Antonio said. “And you are?” Antonio extended his hand for a shake.
“Everybody calls me Mo,” the boy said. His baby face and barely deepened voice were actually making Antonio want to laugh. Mo looked like an escapee from a foster home rather than a deadly, billionaire drug kingpin.
“A’ight Mo,” Antonio replied, trying to keep himself from staring too much or giggling. Mo reached out a little boy’s hand. Antonio shook it firmly, and the boy seemed surprised at the grip.
“And you?” Mo said flatly to Jackson, eyeing him like he already didn’t like him.
“Like I said before, I’m Jax,” he said like he was offended that the little boy tried to play him like a nobody. “My pops ain’t the only one making waves out here, so I’m sure if you heard of him, you heard of me,” Jackson spat.
Antonio let out a long breath. He knew Jackson was stupid, but now he realized he was more like a fucking idiot.
“Nah, nigga, I ain’t never heard of you,” Mo said. “So you ain’t all that, B.”
Jackson went to open his mouth, but Antonio stepped between him and Mo.
“Let’s get to it,” Antonio said, his voice quivering.
“Yeah, how ’bout that,” Mo said, still grilling Jackson. He moved over to his pristine couches. “Have a seat.”
Antonio didn’t feel comfortable but followed anyway. He sat on the very edge, back straight. Jackson sat next to him, also on the edge of his seat.
“First off, let me let y’all niggas know . . . I don’t take no off-the-cuff meetings like this, especially not at my crib,” Mo said, taking a freshly rolled blunt from one of his young guns. He took a long pull on his blunt. “But, I respect Emil Cartwright, and because I hate that motherfucker Max King, I agreed,” Mo said, his voice sounding like he was struggling to breathe.
Antonio looked over at Jackson with a raised brow. Jackson shifted uncomfortably on the seat, causing the leather on the couch to crackle.
“Nah. We ain’t gon’ talk about King today,” Jackson said, rushing his words out like the topic was forbidden. “This is all good business.”
Antonio had heard the name Max King before, but it wasn’t from Jackson, Hayden, or Emil. He scoured his mind, but in that moment, he was drawing a blank on the name. Antonio cleared his throat and put his hands up.
“Listen, I’m sure you’re a busy ki—I mean dude. We appreciate the meeting. Understand, your enemies are our enemies,” he assured.
The mood in the room shifted to uneasiness. Mo nodded at Antonio and blew out a thick stream of weed smoke. He seemed to be pondering what Antonio said.
“So, I hear you will be taking over this side of shit for Cartwright?” Mo asked and told at the same time, looking directly at Antonio.
Suddenly, it felt hot inside. This was the moment of truth.
“Well, not exactly. Jackson is going to take over with me, but Emil wanted a second chair on this deal,” Antonio corrected, feeling the heat of Jackson’s gaze on the side of his face. It wasn’t what Emil wanted, but it was what Antonio, Jackson, and Hayden had agreed upon at the Blu. It was Antonio’s way of treading lightly, for now.
The air in the room suddenly felt stifling. Tension buzzed like a swarm of bees around their heads.
“I guess you could say I would be in training, while Jackson runs things,” Antonio clarified. Mo was suddenly seized by an uncontrollable rattling cough. It was like a combination of the weed and Antonio’s words had choked him up. Antonio’s eyes went wide. He looked at Jackson, who didn’t seem to care or notice.
“Shit,” Mo finally rasped as one of his young guns handed him a glass of water. His hands shook violently as he raised the glass to his lips. He sipped the water and handed it back to the boy. “A’ight. I’m good, now. So, you saying this hothead right here is going to run the shit but you just around for support?” Mo summarized for clarification.
Of course Jackson started to move, and Antonio had to put his hand on him. Mo’s sarcastic tone was blowing Antonio’s high. He wanted to jump up and slap this little kid, but he kept his cool. The little dude knew he could play tough, so he did. Period.
“We both will be working with you. That simple,” Antonio replied, slightly annoyed. “I really don’t have any experience with all of this. Emil wanted to have more than one of us in the know. It’s what Emil wants. I will give Jax the lead, I just want to stay connected too, for my father’s interest,” Antonio explained.
“Nah,” Mo said flatly.
Antonio raised his eyebrows. He felt like Mo had just spit in his face.
“In this business, the niggas on the street don’t make the decision of who deals with the connect. The connect makes the decision on who the fuck I want to deal with,” Mo chastised.
“No offense intended,” Antonio placated.
“Yeah, you better control your hot head brother, B,” Mo said, sneering at Jackson.
“Now, I will not deal with anyone but you,” Mo said, knowing he was dissing Jackson in his face and there wasn’t shit he could do about it.
Jackson breathed out loudly and clenched his fists. The vein in his temple began beating fiercely against his skin. Antonio swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t there to step on Jackson’s toes, but there was really no way around it. Shit!
“What’s your name again?” Mo asked Antonio.
“Tony. You can call me Tony.”
“A’ight, Tony. Since it seems like you don’t know, in this business there can only be one boss. Understand? If your father is the boss and I’m the connect, then that makes y’all the flunkies,” Mo said.
Antonio looked on, growing more annoyed by the minute.
“So y’all niggas can fight amongst yourselves, but today, I chose to deal with you and not that lame nigga,” Mo said, pointing at Jackson.
Jackson sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. This was not how he’d envisioned things going. He was clearly the next in line for the position since he was his father’s oldest son. He was supposed to be the next Cartwright to take over shit.
“You think you know my family? He’s not even at the amateur level in this game. Someone with no experience can really make this dangerous for all of our people,” Jackson protested. His insides burned, his fists curled.
Mo’s eager and waiting young dudes moved closer, but Mo didn’t even react to Jackson’s outburst. Jackson was outnumbered for sure. His eyes danced around the room. Fuck! He screamed in his head. If he wanted to make it out of there in one piece, he had to dial it down first. He wasn’t stupid. Jackson’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and he returned to his seat.