by Cash
Wahida Clark Presents
BONDED BY BLOOD
A Novel by
CA$H
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Wahida Clark Presents Publishing, LLC
60 Evergreen Place
Suite 904
East Orange, New Jersey 07018
973-678-9982
www.wclarkpublishing.com
Copyright 2011 © by Cash
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
ISBN 13-digit 978-0-982841433
ISBN 10-digit 0-9828414-3-4
Library of Congress Catalog Number 2010916371
1. Urban, Contemporary, African-American, Atlanta Georgia – Fiction
Cover design and layout by: Baja Ukweli
Book interior design by: Nuance Art*.*
Contributing Editors: Jazzy Pen Communications, R. Hamilton and M.D. Phillips
Printed in United States
Acknowledgements
As always it’s a far more difficult job to pen the shoutouts than it is to pen the actual book. Because if I forget to mention one person they never let of forget it. But y’all should know it's love no matter what and it’s deeper than a mention in a book. Mama (Mrs. Rosie Williams) I want to thank you for your unconditional love and unbending confidence in
me. Absolutely no love compares to yours. I love you and I know that it is your greatest hope to live to see me and Darnell make it home from prison that is why I've left the other things alone and ride strictly legit these days. I wanna make you proud and I will. To my seeds Destiny, Keke, Lil Cash, Shawt, Cortez, Jakia, and the son I do not know, I do what I do to show each of you that it does not matter what your predicament is, determination and intestinal fortitude will surmount any obstacle thrown in your way. I love each of you and that won’t ever change. Destiny I am so proud of the ambition you show. Keke, your vibrant personality will take you far. Shawt, it's all about making good choices and sticking them out, you are the master of ya own destiny. Lil Cash, I like your focus and i know you'll reach your goals academically as well as in the rap game. Cortez, what has happened to our communication? Get at me and sponge some of this wisdom. Ya pop got a street Phd. No need for you to travel the same road because it leads to nowhere. Jakia, where are you? It's been so long since I've heard from you. To my son whomremains unknown to me
but always in my heart and thoughts, I will find you one day. To my brother and sisters, nieces and nephews, I love you all and thanx for the love back. , Jadelz, sometimes you do too damn much but I love you and we have such a great relationship which I hope will always remain this strong even when I get on that behind. J A special shoutout goes to Shorty Redd, you have proven your every claim and they have withstood the test of time so all I can do is respect your heart. Kayundra, your kindness is not forgotten. Raquel, your heart is so big. Mel, you are an incomparable friend. Mo, we don’t talk often anymore but that’s on me. Author Dutch I thank you for the blurb on TRUST NO MAN 3. Author LaTonya West I see your growth and I value our friendship. WCP Authors Mike Sanders, Tash Hawthorne, Missy, Victor Martin, Anthony Fields and others we go hard for the team! To my niggaz on lock with me and all over the country keep ya heads up and remain one hunnid. Anything less ain’t respected. Thanx for supporting this gutta shit I write. Midget Baby, Travis Cosby, Big Gat, Sincere, Bo Pete, Kee Boo, and Cutts Boogie Down, and my dude fa life, Manny. Toni you are a class act and your friendship is platinum lady. Misha, I haven’t forgotten you. My entire fb fam much love. To my editor, Joan of Jazzy Pen Communications, you did a tight job on this, you brought out the best in me. To everyone at Wahida Clark Publishing
thanx for what you do to help me succeed. Finally, to the Queen herself, Wahida Clark. Not only are you a fiyah author yaself, you’re a hella publisher. Thank you for the platform you provide for me to share my stories with the world. If I've forgotten anyone my bad.
DEDICATION
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO ALL MY URBAN AND STREET LIT AUTHORS WHOSE STORIES DEPICT THE STREETS AS THEY REALLY ARE. THANX FOR NOT WRITING THAT FAKE ONLY-IN-THE MOVIES GARBAGE THAT SATURATE THE GENRE.
-END-
AUTHOR’S NOTE
By the time you read this I’ll have been on lock 20 years! I’m often asked how I’ve managed to do such a long bid yet maintain my sanity, dignity, and ambitions. All I can say is that I don’t know what it is to give up. And now that I can see the finish line, I’m not slowing down. If you’ve read my previous two novels, TRUST NO MAN and TRUST NO MAN 2, then you already know I write that gutta shit, so you know what to expect when you turn this page. Holla at me!
On Facebook @ Cash Street-Lit author or email [email protected] or write to:
Wahida Clark Publishing
C/O Cash Fan Mail
60 Evergreen Place, Suite 904
East Orange, NJ 07018
Bonded By Blood
Prologue
Valencia Jones aka Black Girl was flat on her back, a position that she had been in many times before in her profession as a stripper and a hooker who never gave the “P” away for free. This time, however, Black Girl wasn’t in a motel room or in the backseat of some baller’s whip with her toes pointed to the sky; she was in a hospital bed at Grady’s Memorial. The HIV virus she had contracted while tricking off with different corner hustlers for crack after the addictive drug reduced her from a boss bitch in Rapheal’s stable to a clucker had turned into full blown AIDS.
The incurable disease had slowly eaten away all of the phat ass that had once been so enticing to the tricks, especially when Black Girl was young and on top of her game, strutting up and down the ho stroll like a Clydesdale or working the pole in a strip club like a pro. Her once flawless blue-black skin was now scattered with sores and held an ashen hue; those succulent lips that used to make a trick bust in minutes and come back for more head were now sunken and parched, and those pretty hazel brown eyes that had hoped to see the world were now as dull as a rotting eggshell. Death was calling.
Black Girl heard death’s call as clearly as she used to hear a baller in VIP call out to her for a table dance fifteen years ago. And just like she used to ignore the call of a broke nigga, she ignored death’s persistent whisper; she needed a few more moments with her sons, Khalil, B-Man, and Quantavious, who were at her bed side.
“Mama is tired of fighting this,” Black Girl said as tears of regret ran down her face onto the starched white bed sheets.
“Don’t give up, Mama,” pleaded sixteen year old Khalil, her first born. “Ain’t that what you taught us?”
“I also taught y’all to keep it real so that’s what I’m doing—I’m keeping it one hunnid,” remarked Black Girl in a vernacular her sons could relate to. They were used to their mother giving them the uncut truth. She forced open her tired eyes and looked up into Khalil’s. “Mama gonna leave here real soon.”
“Shh Mama! You ain’t going nowhere,” replied Khalil.
“You sho’ not. You gonna get well and get back fine so that you can get Rapheal back and y’all can stunt on haters like old times,” chimed in 13 year old Quantavious. He knew that in spite of everything, their pop was still Black Girl’s pride and joy.
Fifteen year old B-Man scowled at the mention of Rapheal’s name. He and Rapheal had never gotten along too well and he blamed Raphael for what Black Girl was going through.
A slight smile came across Black Girl’s face as she quickly reminisced back to the happier times when Rapheal was one of the most prosp
erous pimps in Atlanta and she was his bottom ho. Time was of the essence though—death was knocking loudly at her door and she didn’t want to waste it reminiscing. She didn’t have a damn thing in this world to leave behind for her sons so she wanted to at least leave them with some important mental jewels before she departed.
Black Girl understood that hers sons were born and bred in ATL’s grimey inner-city and had inherited a street hustlaz mentality from both their bloodlines and the environment in which she and Rapheal had exposed them to. She had known that in life, and now that death was so imminent, she was not about to try to fool herself that her sons would choose the square life, therefore she felt obligated to prepare them for what awaited them in the streets. “Khalil,” she coughed, “you a pretty nigga who the niggaz gonna envy but the girls gonna love. Neva mind the haters but don’t let the girls like you for free. Tell those lil tricks that your mama sold ass to feed you so they gotta do the same. Make those bird bitches turn tricks and work the poles to give you what a pretty nigga like you deserve.”
“Aight, Mama, I’ma mack ‘em hard,” promised Khalil who was already trying to chili pimp a few young broads in the hood.
Black Girl whispered B-Man’s given name, “Basil,” and he leaned down to hear her better.
“I’m right here, Mama,” he said. At fifteen years old he was the middle son but the bond between him and Black Girl was a bit stronger than Black Girl’s bond with Khalil and Quantavious because many times Black Girl had taken an ass whooping from Rapheal to protect B-Man. Now she whispered something in his ear that made B-Man understand why Rapheal had mistreated him at times.
Khalil and Quantavious strained their ears to hear what was being whispered but Black Girl’s voice was too faint to carry beyond B-Man’s ear, which was an inch from her mouth. When B-Man lifted his head, his mouth was a tight line and his eyes were slits. “I understand,” he muttered, holding back his emotions.
“All of that don’t matter now,” said Black Girl tearfully, “it is what it is. Now listen to me closely. I know about you jacking niggaz. People talk Basil. That’s why you have to move in silence and never do dirt where you live or revenge will come right through your front door.”
B-Man nodded but his mind was on what Black Girl had whispered in his ear.
“Everything is a hustle and in the streets you gotta get them before they get you.” Black Girl continued. “If you’re gonna live by the gun, you make sure not to hesitate to do what you gotta do if a muthafucka test you.” It was the type of gutter advice her sons were accustomed to hearing from her. B-Man’s scowl softened, he was with that.
“Quantavious, you’re gonna be the best hustla to come out of my big coochie if you can keep a bitch from being your downfall,” Black Girl predicted for her youngest, who smiled. Q was proud that she saw so much potential in him. He had dreams of a crack supastar, but his mom was right . . . he had a real soft spot for chicks.
“I’ma tighten up,” he promised.
“Please do, because the wrong ho will bring you down faster than a snitch can. And while you’re out there pitchin’ rocks on the corner don’t forget to put something away for a rainy day.”
“I won’t,” said Q.
“Another thing . . . and I’m talking to all three of you; with three of y’all gettin' money from three different hustles there’s no way anybody should be able to touch y’all. By the time y’all have kids and they grow up, they shouldn’t have to ever fuck with the streets. The family should be legit. Don’t let money, bitches, or envy come between y’all. Believe it or not, home is often where the hate is. But I’ll turn over in my grave if y’all ever allow that to happen. Remember, its family over all others. Y’all are bonded by blood. Promise me y’all won’t ever violate that bond.”
“I promise,” Q said.
“Me too,” vowed Khalil.
“Yeah, me too,” B-Man promised.
“One final thing,” said Black Girl who’s every word had become a struggle to speak. “Don’t hold anything against Rapheal, he didn’t put a gun to my head make me go in the clubs and strip. He didn’t make me trick off or even smoke crack. I chose to do those things because doing them allowed me to be with him, and being with him made me happy. He may not be much now but he used to be my everything.”
“We understand, Mama.” Khalil spoke for the three of them.
I don’t understand nothin’! Thought B-Man, Nigga fucked your life up and now his junkie ass ain’t nowhere to be found. He gonna pay for this when I grow up.
“Mama!” Q cried out when Black Girl’s eyes closed and her jaw appeared to go slack.
“Yes, baby?” I was just thinking about how tired I am. I mean, what I got to fight for? Look at me, I’m nothing but skin and bones, I ain’t got no ass no more and my skin looks like taco meat. I’m only thirty-eight but I look sixty and feel like I’m goddamn a hundred,” Black Girl wept, allowing self-pity to overtake her emotions for just a moment. She forced her eyes open once again and saw through her tears that Q was crying too. Khalil was stoic but she felt him gripping her hand. B-Man’s eyes were red with fury.
“I want y’all to bow y’all head and say a prayer with me,” Black Girl requested of her sons. Though religion had never been practiced in their family all three heads bowed.
“My Father in Heaven, I ask that you hear my prayer. Lord, I know that I have forsaken you and don’t deserve to enter your pearly white gates when you call me home, so
watch over them and don’t allow envy, hate or jealousy to destroy their bond. In Jesus name . . . amen.” Black Girl’s voice became as faint as the flapping of a butterfly’s wings.
Khalil opened his eyes when he could no longer hear her. He saw that her head had fell to the side and she was no longer breathing.
“Nooooooo, Mama, don’t die!” cried Q, falling on the bed and throwing his arms around her frail body. Khalil touched his baby brother’s shoulder, “she’s gone lil bruh,” he said consolingly while B-Man stood in the background thinking, If it wasn’t for Rapheal Mama wouldn’t have died.
When Khalil turned around and saw B-Man’s expression, he reminded him, “Bonded by Blood.”
“Whateva!” replied B-Man.
Chapter One
Atlanta, Georgia: Seven Years LaterFazio sat down on the soft, butter leather, half-oval sofa in the spacious, expensively decorated entertainment room of the $2.7 million dollar baby mansion he had purchased a year ago. The 20-room adobe was only a couple of blocks away from the mansion in Fayettesville once owned by ex-heavyweight champ, Evander Holyfield.
Fazio had paid cash for the opulent home. The huge cash transaction had been cleverly concealed by his real estate agent to protect the 35-year-old black drug kingpin from the IRS, DEA, and all the other alphabet soup agencies that laid in the wings waiting to seize a nigga’s properties and assets as soon as he slipped.
The fly drug supplier, who was presently that nigga in the dope game in ATL, wore silk Coogi pajamas with matching bedroom slippers. Around his neck hung a platinum chain with an iced-out medallion replica of Queen Nefertiti that was the size of a paperback book and fell to his navel. A thick platinum and diamond Rolex sparkled around his wrist and was accentuated by a 25-carat pinky ring.
There was no questioning the fact that Fazio was getting to major chips—the boy was caked up. His jewels were custom-ordered straight from Jacob’s of New York, the premiere jeweler for rich mafuckers from drug kingpins to entertainers to pro-athletes. If a nigga had serious guap and wanted custom jewels, he was tryna see Jacob.
Fazio was that type of caked up nigga. He had married Selena and her family had cocoa out the ass. Her brother Francisco had put Fazio on once he had proven his loyalty when Francisco was going through a bloody war to become El Jefe or the boss of Atlanta’s drug trade.
On the marble cocktail table in front of him sat a whole brick of the best cocaine to be found in all of ATL. The kilo on the table was small shit, though. Fazio had
149 more of them stashed behind a fake wall inside the kitchen’s pantry, and at least 500 more hidden at his produce market out on Buford Highway.
“Yo, China, powder your nose,” Fazio said to Diamond, the curvaceous stripper who was sitting to his right on the sofa, wearing nothing but a look of seduction.
“China?” questioned Diamond, thinking Fazio had forgotten her name.
Fazio explained, “It means the same as if I call you shorty or mami.” He was in the habit of occasionally speaking a mixture of English and Spanish since he was around his Mexican in-laws so much and had picked up certain Spanish words and phrases from them.
Diamond accepted Fazio’s explanation, along with the cocaine he pushed toward her. Turning to the naked cutie on his left he said, “You, too, baby girl. Go ahead and get your head right.”
Diamond laid out several lines of the potent white powder and the three of them took turns snorting. The high quality coke sent an immediate rush to their heads, while Usher’s “Confessions” played softly in the background from the surround sound system. Bottles of Corona and tequila got popped next and the trio got real nice.
Fazio was glad that Selena was visiting family in Texas.
Usually several of his people were in his company, but tonight he had given Maldanado permission to take the night off. Maldanado was Fazio’s most trusted lieutenant and a cousin to Selena. Fazio didn’t want Selena’s people to peep his unfaithfulness. It had been hard enough gaining their respect and trust. Mexicans, besides being clannish, weren’t quick to trust a black or welcome him into their family. Selena’s people, especially Francisco, had put Fazio to the test numerous times before embracing him—he wasn’t tryna fuck that up.
Fazio’s Mexican compadres could understand a man having a china on the side, but they wouldn’t have respected Fazio bringing strippers into his home. He didn’t want them to see him as most men are gluttonous in their appetite for women and sex. It was okay to have an insatiable appetite for dinero and power, but an unappeasable thirst for women is viewed as a weakness waiting to be exploited.