Mafioso [Part 3]

by Nisa Santiago

  “Nah, I like her. She’s different. We goin’ out this Friday night. She picked this restaurant in the city—some shit called Eleven Madison Park. I checked it out, and you need a fuckin’ suit and tie to eat there. Fuckin’ place is high end and shit. I gotta come correct wit’ this one, Luna.”

  “You can afford it,” Luna teased.

  “It ain’t about the money. I don’t know . . . shorty got me thinkin’ about her and whatnot.”

  “Nigga, you pussy whipped before you even fucked?” Luna joked.

  “Nigga, you saw her . . .”

  “Yeah, I did. But I’m sayin, did you vet shorty? Is her shit legit like she says it is?”

  “I don’t feel no setup with her,” Meyer replied.

  “You never know, though. Beautiful woman like that happens to walk into the store and catch your attention, gives you her name and number. I don’t want you walking into anything treacherous. We got enemies, yo.”

  Meyer understood where Luna was coming from. They could take no one for granted, no matter how sexy they looked. Trouble could come in any form or shape.

  “I feel you. That’s why I want you to be my eyes and ears while I’m on this date wit’ shorty. Get a few goons together and watch my back. But I don’t want her to know y’all there—be invisible. I don’t wanna scare her off,” said Meyer.

  Luna nodded. “I got you.”

  They shared the last cigarette from the pack and waited. In mid conversation, a dark blue Escalade rolled by them and double parked outside the brownstone they were watching.

  “This is it,” Meyer said. He alerted his men. Everyone was on standby.

  The passenger door to the truck opened, and a tall, well-dressed man in a long, black trench coat exited and made his way toward the brownstone. Meyer was very familiar with the man. His name was Nicholas. He was the man of the hour—the accountant—and he had been on the team for as long as Meyer could remember. The driver was security.

  “Yo, let’s do this!” Meyer said to his henchmen via cell phone.

  The doors opened swiftly, and a gang of armed men flooded the cold streets. Tonight, Meyer chose the 9mm to do his dirty work. The confrontation toward Nicholas was quick. The gun was shoved into his back and Meyer spewed threats his way. “You fuckin’ move and I’ll blow your spine out.” Nicholas’s driver was also being held at gunpoint.

  Nicholas remained calm. He didn’t want to appear as a threat to them, but he had some words for Meyer. “This is how we’re playing it now, Meyer? You want to go there with your father? He’s not going to like this at all. You know what he’ll do to you.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about him,” Meyer spat back at him.

  He and Luna forced Nicholas into the building, through the steel doors, and into the brownstone. It was dark. Immediately, Meyer knew something was off. They were met with no resistance. There were no men inside, and even worse, there wasn’t any money. The place was empty.

  “What the fuck is this! Where the fuck is everything!” Meyer cursed.

  Nicholas slowly turned to face Meyer with a mischievous smirk. “What did you expect? He knows you and her better than y’all know yourselves,” Nicholas calmly said. “They expected this from y’all. It was cleared out weeks ago, and I was merely sent to give you a message.”

  Nicholas was cocky and arrogant. He didn’t fear Meyer. He didn’t fear Luna. He was one of Scott’s top guys in the organization. He was good with numbers and he knew how to launder millions. He did wonders for Scott and the family’s finances—a cash guru.

  Meyer frowned with the gun aimed at Nicholas’s head.

  “He says it’s not too late to come back where you belong. Your father wants you home, Meyer. He’s giving you a second chance,” Nicholas told him. “And the same goes for Lucky.”

  Meyer frowned even harder. The audacity of Nicholas trying to convince him to go back to his father—a man who disrespected and humiliated him. He wasn’t taking the bait. He would rather starve than take anything from Scott West.

  “Fuck him! I’m not goin’ back! And fuck you too!”

  “You’re making a very bad choice, Meyer. Do you think you and your mother can go against him? It’s suicide,” said Nicholas calmly.

  “I’ll take my fuckin’ chances. And I’ll leave him my message for him—one that he’ll clearly get.”

  Meyer’s trigger finger squeezed back, and the outcome was fatal—Bak! A bullet tore through Nicholas’s forehead. His body jerked from the impact of the bullet, and he collapsed facedown near Meyer’s feet. A pool of blood collected around his head. He was a bleeder.

  “Fuck him!” Meyer said. There was no turning back. He was on Team Layla.

  Luna knew the blowback of this would be massive, but he was in this civil war between families at full throttle. He never liked Nicholas anyway.

  The driver was hit with two shots to his head, leaving his body slumped over the steering wheel. They retreated from the area empty-handed and knowing there would be consequences. But they were ready.

  It all was all a failure. His father and brother had changed everything up. Every stash house he knew of was empty. Sneaky muthafuckas! Worse than that, Meyer had to relay the news to his mother.

  Two miles away from the bloodshed, Meyer finally called Layla.

  “Tell me what I want to hear,” she said.

  “It was a bust. Ain’t shit happen,” he said.

  “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

  “They changed up on us, Ma.”

  “What the fuck you mean changed up?”

  “It’s what the fuck I mean. They moved shit around and cleaned house. We came up empty on everything.”

  She was livid. Scott was one step ahead of her and she would not tolerate it. She refused to accept failure. The thought of her husband gloating and feeling victorious over her created some desperation inside of her to be triumphant, and there was a way to turn things around.

  “Change of plans, then,” Layla said.

  Meyer was listening. Luna was driving. Layla didn’t want to say too much over the phone, so she spoke carefully.

  “I want you and Luna at the hospital,” she said.

  “To do what?”

  “It’s where Scott is spending his time, now, right? And he has men coming and going. I want you to follow one and find me something new. They’ll lead you somewhere. And when they do, we fuck ’em up!”

  It was a plan, but Meyer felt it wasn’t perfect. They could be following these fools right into another setup.

  “And don’t fuck it up, Meyer. Don’t get caught tailing anyone. I’m counting on you,” she added.

  The remark angered Meyer. “I’m no amateur in these streets, Ma. I know what the fuck I’m doin’!”

  “You do, huh? Well tell me something. Is the bitch dead yet?” she said.

  “What bitch?”

  “Maxine. Did she die from complications? Is my husband still by her bedside, grieving over her trifling ass?” She didn’t want to say too much, but she almost couldn’t help herself. Her anger was getting the better of her. Maxine—fuckin’ Maxine! And then she exploded. “Did you kill her yet, Meyer?! No! So don’t tell me you know how to handle things when that bitch is still breathing!”

  Meyer quickly hung up. His mother was losing it. The boldness and stupidity of her to speak about murder over the phone was insane. She should’ve known better than to talk reckless on an open line like that.

  20

  Whistler curved over from the bed and placed the tightly rolled-up hundred-dollar bill into his right nostril and inhaled a line of cocaine from the small mirror on the nightstand. It was a definite pick-me-up. He did another line and felt the white girl straddling his mental and physical being and riding him into greener pastures at full speed. The bitch was a beast!

 
; “Damn,” he muttered.

  The drug hurled him into a euphoric state. The nigga almost felt like he was Superman! Cocaine was one hell of a drug. He was shirtless and clammy, and lying beside him was a naked, young whore. She cradled against him, and he felt her breasts against his back.

  “Can I have some too?” she asked.

  He eagerly welcomed her to the party. The pussy was better on cocaine, and the young girl was a freak. Whistler shimmied to the side to allow the girl access. She picked up the same C-note and inhaled a line of coke. It picked her up like a rocket taking off, and she giggled. It was high quality—some potent shit! She wasn’t done yet. She did another line. She had a nose like a vacuum. Feeling the influence of the white girl made her pussy spark and her body light up like a Christmas tree. She turned to Whistler and opened her mouth for him, and the two kissed fervently. She slid her tongue into his mouth and cradled his balls in her palm and massaged them.

  The party was about to start, and they were the main attraction—the only ones on the dance floor. She lowered her face into his lap and enveloped his erection between her lips. He tilted his head back and enjoyed the moment. A moan escaped his lips as her head bobbed up and down.

  “Oh shit,” he groaned.

  “Relax . . . I got this,” she said evenly.

  It would be an all-night thing for them. Neither of them were tired or ready to call it quits after several hours of fucking and cocaine—the ultimate Viagra.

  Whistler felt like he was living that DMX song . . . I’m slipping, I’m falling, I can’t get up. He had been on a downward spiral since his abrupt departure from Scott and Lucky. His drug use was becoming more frequent, and he wasn’t as sharp on the streets like he was in his heyday. He was getting sloppy. His association with Deuce was an illusion. He thought he had a plan to thaw out Deuce and Jimmy and get out from under their thumb, but things weren’t working out as planned. They steadily had eyes on him.

  It was after midnight, and Whistler and his chick were twisted in each other’s arms and legs once again, after doing more drugs and having multiple orgasms. The muscles in Whistler’s back, thighs, arms, and butt flexed repeatedly and he cried out into the night. “Oh shit . . . Ooooh God! Ooooh, right there!”

  Their freak fest was interrupted by a hard and loud knock at the door. It brought a stop to everything and made Whistler climb out the pussy. He reached for his pants and his .45 and carefully approached the apartment door. The knocking didn’t sound too welcoming. He looked through the peephole and saw it was two of Deuce’s men. Seeing them at his apartment door at such an early hour had him worried.

  He cocked back the gun and said, “What’s up?”

  “Deuce wants to see you,” they said through the door.

  “Now?”

  “Right now, nigga,” the young goon exclaimed.

  “Give me a minute to get dressed.”

  “We ain’t got all night,” the goon responded.

  Whistler went back into the bedroom and collected a few things, got dressed, and shoved the gun into his waistband. His young companion looked at him puzzled. “You leaving?” she said.

  “I gotta go take care of something.”

  Whistler left the room and left the eight ball of cocaine for her to enjoy. She beamed. For her, it was still party time.

  Whistler followed behind the young goons and got into a black Chevy. It drove off with him the backseat. During the ride, he couldn’t help but to wonder how he’d gotten to this point. He was a god in New York and elsewhere. He was respected and feared, and now he was being summoned by someone he’d once considered inferior to him like some young boy on the block.

  Crazy!

  The drive to meet Deuce was on the other side of town. It was a warehouse near Browntown, and it was a stone’s throw away from the I-95 expressway. Whistler ascended from the backseat of the Chevy and followed the two thugs into the building. The cold night had everyone wrapped up in winter coats and ski hands. At the door, he was immediately searched and his pistol was removed from his person.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked them.

  They didn’t answer him. They were just following orders. He was escorted farther into the warehouse and to another room. Deuce, Jimmy, and several other men waited inside. The congratulatory vibe Whistler had experienced the other day now seemed cold and aloof. He was met with scowling faces. It was a nerve wracking moment, and he feared for his life. But regardless of what was about to go down, Whistler wasn’t going out without a fight. He was a man built for that life and had done seen it all and been through it all.

  “What’s this about?” he asked in a stern voice. There was no bitch in him.

  Deuce, who was seated in an old chair, stood up swiftly. Whistler noticed the money in his hand. They were all hundred-dollar bills. Deuce stepped toward Whistler in an aggressive manner and threw the money at him. It sprinkled everywhere. Then Deuce shouted, “It’s all fuckin’ fake!”

  “What the fuck you mean fake?” Whistler questioned.

  Deuce, scowling heavily at Whistler, said, “Every last dollar of it! It’s fake—fuckin’ counterfeit!”

  Whistler was taken aback. He didn’t see that one coming. He marveled at the boldness of Scott, but he knew this was more Bugsy’s doing. Bugsy was the real brains of the organization. To set them up to rob counterfeit money, it was a priceless scheme. But where was the backlash? Once again, Whistler was puzzled by it.

  “You fuckin’ knew about this, muthafucka?” Deuce hollered. He was livid.

  “I didn’t know shit! But I told you it was too easy! We should have waited!” he countered.

  “Fuck him, Deuce!” Jimmy chimed. “I’ll do him right now.” Jimmy was itching to put a bullet in Whistler.

  Whistler didn’t flinch. He locked eyes with Jimmy and stood his ground.

  “Fuckin’ counterfeit!” Deuce screamed, kicking over a barrel of the fake money.

  Whistler found himself in a sticky situation. He knew it was too good to be true. A lot was going through his mind. Why would Scott keep the bins there with the fake money? They weren’t into counterfeiting or selling it. And it wasn’t a trap because they would have been attacked at the warehouse. Whistler didn’t know what was going on, but his situation with Deuce was looking bleak.

  “Yo, I want y’all to burn it all—every last fuckin’ dollar,” Deuce instructed his men.

  “And what about Whistler?” Jimmy asked him.

  Deuce swiveled his head in Whistler’s direction with a menacing scowl. “He’s coming wit’ us. We ain’t done conversing yet. I need answers.”

  The three men left the building while DMC soldiers burned the fake cash.

  Outside, they got into a Suburban truck and sped away. Unbeknownst to everyone, there was unwanted company approaching the building.

  21

  The van doors opened, and several men stepped out into the cold air. It was dark and cold with temperatures dropping below twenty degrees. It was game time, and things were about to go into overtime with some serious offense. Their target was several blocks away, and their foes had no clue what was about to come their way. The element of surprise was a beauty in the art of war, but they needed to prepare themselves for battle.

  Each man with Bugsy was dressed in black military gear, and they all had tactical training. Many were ex-military—Marines, Navy, Special Forces—who had transitioned into cold-blooded mercenaries. Bugsy had the cash, and they were ready to slaughter for a good price. Along for the ride were AJ and Choppa, Bugsy’s two right-hand goons.

  The big-boy toys came out for the action. They all carried high-powered weaponry meant for complete chaos and total annihilation.

  Bugsy briefly held court in the cold, saying to everyone, “Everything dies tonight!”

  Each man nodded. Their weapons went hot—locked and
loaded—and the night vision goggles adorned their heads. Bugsy armed himself with a machine gun.

  The warehouse was a quarter of a mile away. They approached the location in two groups, one marching toward the front entrance and the second advancing from the rear. They looked like a SWAT team, but were delinquents of the law. They even brought their battering ram to break down the doors.

  “On three,” Bugsy said.

  They were in position, and mayhem was only moments away. They stood poised near both doors with their assault rifles ready to burst out. The men swung the battering ram and the front door crashed open. Immediately, several flash grenades were thrown into the building and exploded.

  Confusion and chaos ensued inside the warehouse. The blasts had temporarily disoriented the senses of the men inside, including their vision. They believed it was a police raid. The barrels with the counterfeit money were on fire, and there was screaming and yelling, and then intense gunfire.

  Bratatatataatatatatatat!

  No warning shots!

  “What the fuck!” someone screamed out.

  Tchu-Tchu-Tchu-Tchu-Tchu-Tchu-Tchu!

  “DMC for life!” a young goon yelled before opening fire.

  “Aaaah, I’m hit! I’m hit!” another DMC soldier cried out.

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

  Quickly, several DMC goons went down as the bullets tore into their frames. The remaining men scrambled in confusion, knowing it wasn’t a police raid. It was a hit. They attempted to shoot back, but were at a grave disadvantage as Bugsy’s henchmen came well equipped from both sides and could see through the smoke and darkness with their goggles and masks. Easily, they hunted down everyone inside the warehouse and gunned them down. The assault was swift and effortless. When the smoke cleared and the gunfire ceased, bullet-riddled bodies lay everywhere in a pool of blood.

  “Too fuckin’ easy,” one of Bugsy’s men exclaimed.

  There was no remorse. They searched through the dead to check for survivors. If they found any, they quickly put a bullet into their heads. Bugsy scanned the sea of dead men to see if Deuce or Jimmy were among them, but he didn’t see them. He only came across another man barely living. He was shot multiple times and sprawled on his back. There was a gurgle in his throat, and he was spitting up blood. His eyes were open, and he glared up at Bugsy. Bugsy towered over the dying man and pointed a pistol at him. Scowling down at him, he asked, “Where is he—Deuce?”