“Oh shit, I’m gonna come again! Damn, nigga! Do that shit, nigga!” She panted and huffed.
Layla felt the need to have control over him, and their sexual position shortly transitioned to her on top. Her thighs and pussy straddled his mouth as she gripped her headboard and ground against his face with her pussy quivering. His hands reached up to cup her tits as he took her clit into his mouth and sucked.
When it was all said and done, the chocolate stranger was well worth her time, and her body felt spent from the multiple orgasms. Layla removed herself from the bed, allowing the man to remain comfortable in her presence. His naked frame was barely covered, and his huge endowment showed from under the sheets. It was eye candy for her—maybe something she could deep-throat. But at the moment, she didn’t desire that part of him. It was his mouth she fancied.
Layla put their sexual evening on hold to handle some business. She donned a long white robe, lit a cigarette, and poured herself a drink from the makeshift bar. Her chocolate lover gazed at her with admiration from across the room. He wanted more. He wanted to feel her tight and wet cave, her legs wrapped around him.
“Are you coming back to bed?” he asked.
She shot a stern look his way. “Who told you to speak?”
She cut down the hulking ebony hunk with her dominating attitude. If he kept annoying her, then she would tell him to leave. She’d gotten what she wanted.
She traveled to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked at the city lights. While the cold was biting outside, Layla was comfortable inside the lavish penthouse with her cigarette, her drink, and her hard, chocolate dick. With civil war within the family, she kept her cool and was pushing forward with building her empire. Now that she had the finances, all she needed was loyalty from her children and her goons.
Two out of three wasn’t bad, but she wanted Bugsy on her team. He was smart, and with him by her side, there would be nothing she couldn’t do. She could take over the world. But Bugsy was his father’s son, and he was adamant to remain with Scott. So she had to make do without him.
Layla finished her cigarette and continued to stand by the window. Her attention was on an illuminated Manhattan horizon on a full moon night while she talked on her cell phone. There was so much to do, and she had to be smart about her business and her network. The first thing she did was meet with a team of lawyers and accountants to launder her money—and one-third of it was wired to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands—over sixteen million dollars was sent. Layla felt she needed to build a wall around her, from the streets with Lucky and Meyer, to her band of trusted lawyers and accountants that would shield her from prosecution or financial downfall. The last thing she needed was the feds and IRS knocking down her door and trying to take away everything she’d worked so hard to build.
She’d spent many weeks with her dream team of lawyers and accountants, separating herself from Scott and anything they’d built together. She had enough cash and collateral to do whatever she wanted.
When Scott threw her out on the street like trash the look on his and Maxine’s face said that they had broken her. Well, Layla had been picking up the pieces. While everyone was celebrating the holidays, she was making inroads with heads of prominent cartels to see if she could earn a seat at the table. Her name got her a few meetings. Her street smarts, winner’s mind, and business acumen would need to seal the deal.
She had to find a new connect and then strategize on moving kilos on the streets. She trusted Meyer and Lucky for that—street dominance. The two siblings were fierce separately, but together, they were a force to be reckoned with.
Drug manufacturing and distribution was a lucrative, but dangerous, business. If you’re fortunate enough to outmaneuver your opposition on your way to the top, then you’ve only won half the battle. The real test was staying there. This feud had sparked Layla’s ambition. She didn’t want to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with an exclusive club of cartel heads usually reserved only for men; she wanted to be the boss of bosses.
Yes, Layla was building something powerful for herself, and she was determined not to let anything get in her way. She wanted to destroy Scott and decapitate Maxine and see their bodies rot in the gutter. She was a woman scorned, and her payback would be a muthafucka.
Her chocolate lover was still waiting patiently in bed for her to rejoin him for round two of some hardcore fucking. But he dared not to interrupt her while she was on her phone. She gave him a warning to be quiet, and he took heed. Layla’s reputation was brutal, and he knew she was connected to some dangerous people. She was becoming a powerful woman in the underworld, and she could easily have someone killed anywhere in the boroughs with the snap of her fingers. So while he waited, he took it upon himself to jerk off while watching her from the bed.
“Not over the phone,” she told someone. “Tomorrow evening . . . I’ll call you back with the location.”
She ended the call and threw back a shot of vodka. She didn’t tie her robe together, leaving it open to expose her perky tits and shaved pussy. It was eye candy for the chocolate man waiting for sexual healing.
She lingered by the window for a moment before pivoting with a stern look. “Time to leave.”
Her words baffled him. “Leave? Why? Did I do something wrong?”
She didn’t need to explain herself. She’d already gotten what she wanted from him.
He removed himself from the bed and looked reluctant to leave. He wanted her badly, and all nine inches of him hung low and strong. But tonight, she wasn’t impressed by it. The shop was closed.
“I thought we were gonna fuck,” he said.
“I’m not in the mood for it.”
“So you get yours, and I don’t get mine?” he said.
“You have a problem with that?”
He did. But he would not gripe about it. It would have been suicidal. If it were anyone else, he would have slapped the shit out of her for playing him. He didn’t go around licking pussy as a hobby. What the fuck he look like? But Layla’s look was intimidating. She had two armed men nearby in case of an emergency—meaning if she needed someone manhandled or killed. And for her personal protection, she had a Glock 17 and a .380 hidden inside the room.
Crushed by her change of mood, he just answered, “Nah, I don’t have a problem. I had fun tonight.”
She ignored him. He collected his things and quietly exited without a single argument. Layla had the power, and it felt good controlling him like that. He stood six-two, muscles everywhere, and he had arms and a chest so big that it would have made The Rock look small. When the door closed behind him, Layla smirked. Her pussy had been well taken care of tonight.
Power was a hell of a drug for Layla. It felt good to know that she could do and take whatever she wanted from men like him at her beck and call, submitting to her, knowing if they dared come against her they would be violently dealt with. Layla loved the feeling; the power was fascinating, always had been. And with her power, she wanted to crush her husband and see Maxine’s head on a silver platter. She had become independent, and now it was time to be a boss bitch.
Layla felt it wouldn’t be long until those who betrayed her, embarrassed her, and went against her would be dealt with. She wanted to see them cowering beneath her designer heels before she squashed them like the bugs they were.
6
Wacka didn’t plan on abducting Maxine. His original plan was to torture and kill her in her mother’s home. He even thought about opening her mother’s neck up from left to right with a sharp knife and making Maxine watch her bleed out. Seeing the old lady in her sleep, though, he thought about sparing her. She had nothing to do with his beef with Maxine. But why show compassion? Wacka wished the triggermen that’d come to his mother’s home would have given her the same courtesy, but they didn’t. They gunned down his family like they were nothing, and now he wanted retribution.
Wacka didn’t care for her pleas or pity, or her explanations. He had one motive on his mind, and that was killing anyone who had a hand in his family’s murder. He remained stone cold.
Maxine would not give up on not dying today. She thought she could talk some sense into him. “I know we can work something out. Just talk to me.”
He stayed quiet, and the gun still was a deadly threat to her. She could almost see down the barrel. One squeeze of the trigger and a bullet would enter the side of her face and blow her brains out. But not at the moment, because she was the one controlling the car on the highway. Traffic was sparse on the Sunday morning, and Maxine felt time on her life was winding down—tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
She glanced at Wacka. The gun was so close to her face she could smell the gunpowder. Then she turned to look through the windshield, the car doing sixty miles per hour on the road. She could feel his despair and his anger; his face was twisted in a snarl, and his eyes continued watching her every move.
“How did you find me anyway? How did you know I would be at my mother’s place? Have you been following me?” she asked him.
He remained silent.
There was no need to follow her. Wacka knew her mother was important to her. He had been showing up at the house three or four times a day for weeks, waiting for Maxine to show up, going unnoticed by the neighbors and the old woman. He felt pity for the old lady. She was alone with no regular visitors. It seemed like Maxine had abandoned her.
“You’re a selfish bitch,” he growled.
“I’m not,” she said.
“I coulda killed your mother weeks ago, and you would’na known she was dead.”
Immediately she felt guilty. “I love my mother.”
“You left her to grow old and die alone. I was willing to put her out of her misery,” he said.
She frowned. It was a conversation she didn’t want to have with him. He made her feel small and self-centered. Maxine wanted to change the subject. She glanced at him and then said, “Shiniquia was my best friend. I would never do anything to hurt her. She helped me out a lot.”
The fast wallop from the butt of the gun to the side of her face came unexpectedly. It caused her to swerve on the highway, nearly creating a crash. She regrouped and took control over the car. Blood trickled from the side of her head. The pain was agonizing.
“Don’t you ever say her fuckin’ name again,” Wacka shouted.
Maxine frowned. She would not be bullied or threatened. She felt he would kill her anyway. She would not go quietly.
“I didn’t double cross her. I was her fuckin’ friend,” she said. “I can help you, Wacka. I can become a friend, and I can get you closer to Layla. She’s the one you want to kill, not me. ”
He scowled and thrust the gun to her temple. “Shut da fuck up!” he hollered.
None of it was getting through to him. His family was dead, and he was a wanted and hunted man in the city and most likely everywhere else. Scott was an influential man, and Wacka knew people like him wouldn’t stop until the day he was dead. But Wacka wasn’t going out without a fight, and his first victim would be Maxine.
“Keep fuckin’ driving,” he said.
She wasn’t persuading him. He was dead set on killing her. She saw the signs on the Belt Parkway taking her to the Verrazano Bridge. How far was he taking her? Maxine guessed he was taking her to a desolate place to kill her. She had to do something. She was desperate to survive. She wanted to live, but if she did die, then she would take him with her, and that meant she had to do the extreme. So, she accelerated the car, and it went from fifty-five to seventy-five miles per hour in a heartbeat.
Wacka noticed the sudden speed. “What the fuck you doin’?”
Maxine turned the steering wheel abruptly, veering into a sharp right and deliberately sideswiping a van at high speed. The car flipped over several times on the highway, tumbling around like a bouncing ball and violently throwing her and Wacka around in the car before coming to stop in the middle of the road. Maxine could feel her ribs cracking and a few bones breaking before everything came to a halt. The chaos on the highway turned into a pile-up with three vehicles. Blood trickled from her face. She felt trapped, and she smelled smoke. Wacka was inside the crashed and twisted piece of metal, still. Was he still alive? She didn’t know. But she knew that she was in bad shape. Her body felt mangled. She heard screaming and heard people surrounding the car.
“Someone call 911,” she heard a woman shout.
It didn’t take long before someone was pulling her out from the driver’s seat, and every part of her body was in pain. Maxine could hear the emergency sirens getting louder as they neared the car crash. Her breathing was sparse, and she felt herself slipping into unconsciousness. A female kept shouting, “Stay awake! Ma’am, stay with us!”
Her eyes closed and everything went black.
7
The chair went smashing against the wall of the room and broke apart, and bottles and small objects went flying across the room, breaking either against the wall or the floor. Scott was going berserk. He put his fist through the wall, cursing and shouting. He was ready to take his guns and hunt for the man who kidnapped Maxine himself.
Bugsy had never seen his father so mad. It was a dangerous situation. He simply stood out of Scott’s way, knowing that at the moment there was nothing he could say to him. Scott had been threatened, somehow outsmarted, and embarrassed in front of his goons and his woman. An unknown assailant had gotten the best of him and taken what he loved, and now there was no telling if Maxine was alive or dead.
Beneath all that seething anger and hatred was grave concern and worry for Maxine—and sadness. She could be anywhere by now. He had every one of his men searching throughout the city for Maxine. But New York was a huge place.
Finally, after his emotional temper tantrum, Scott collapsed into the one chair he hadn’t broken apart and released a deep sigh. Now wasn’t the time for him to fall apart. He had to be more focused and stronger than ever. He needed to finish what he’d started in Delaware and elsewhere, and, most importantly, he had to find Maxine.
Bugsy stood nearby and quietly watched his father’s every movement. He knew it wasn’t the right time to speak. He read his father’s face and gave him his space, knowing that if they had taken Alicia, he probably would have acted the same way.
Why haven’t we found and killed Deuce and DMC yet? Scott thought. Was Deuce and his crew that elusive? It had been too long now, and Deuce was that thorn in his side growing more painful. Scott didn’t blame himself for trying to take over a town already occupied. The place had potential, and Lucky was right, it was a cash cow. It was a wise business decision, but it also came with significant casualties—his precious children could never be replaced.
Scott lit a cigar, still worried about Maxine. He blamed his men for her being taken and for his kids being murdered. They weren’t doing their jobs. Scott felt they were lazy and incompetent. He wanted to kill one of them to release his anger. Any man would do. But he had to get a grip on himself and control the impulse. If he kept killing his people when something went wrong, it would become harder to recruit new soldiers. The last thing Scott needed was unrest among the troops or a revolt against him. Sure, he would rather be feared than loved; but if that fear consumes someone, then they will lash out and kill the one they fear most.
He took a pull from his cigar and continued to remain quiet with Bugsy close by. Scott knew that he needed to strategize. He felt he was holding back on Delaware and Deuce, and now it was time to break out the big guns and go in full throttle. The room was quiet with apprehension, and Bugsy stood like a statue near
the wall. Why was his son so calm? Scott wondered. What was he thinking? Bugsy always had a game plan—some clever strategy. Was he now out of ideas?
Scott took a few more drags from his cigar and finally spoke. “I want you to gather everyone on our payroll for a meeting with me. We end this shit today.”
Bugsy said, “Where do you want to meet them?”
“The farm upstate,” he said.
Bugsy nodded. “I’ll have them all up there within the day.”
Bugsy left the room to arrange the meeting, while Scott went back to silence and his cigar. Bugsy had to bring over a hundred men in their organization to the farm in upstate New York. It was a giant task—like a massive recall, but he could do it. Why Scott wanted everyone to meet there was a mystery to him. To Bugsy, it seemed like a desperate move, and one thing Bugsy knew was that desperation brought on mistakes. They were in a position where they couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
Bugsy saw several things wrong with bringing gangsters into a rural area in upstate New York, namely the attention it would bring to the rednecks and the police. With that many men in one location, Bugsy saw problems already. But it was his father’s call, and Scott was adamant he wanted all of his goons on the 100 acres of farmland he owned.
***
It was another cold day in January, and there were over fifty cars, vans, and SUVs parked on the West farmland. Droves of thugs and gangsters had traveled nearly two hours from the city to the luxury farm in Hillside, New York for the impromptu meeting with the boss. The men were bundled up in their winter coats, Timberland boots, and ski hats, shielding themselves from the bitter cold.
Mafioso [Part 3] Page 3