Blood of a Boss II: The Streets Is Watching
Page 27
“Mr. Moreno! Mr. Moreno!” Roland Rushin called out as he positioned himself in front of the crowd. He held his microphone to Grip’s face. “Do you have anything to say about the recent attacks on your family?”
Grip scowled at him, and continued walking towards the parking lot where Muhammad was standing beside his Maybach with the back door wide open. Directly behind the large sedan, a black Escalade was parked with the engine running.
“Mr. Moreno!” Jessica Summers, the young white woman from Channel 9 News called out. “Is this your other grandson, Sontino Moreno? Is he the new boss of The Moreno Crime Family?”
Sonny too stopped walking and looked at her with a sinister glare.
“Yo, where the fuck is y’all gettin’ this shit?”
The young woman stood firm.
She held her microphone up to his face and asked him, “Aren’t you Sontino Moreno?”
“Yeah I’m Sonny Moreno,” he quickly confirmed, “but I never even heard of this so called Moreno Crime Family. Y’all mutha’fuckas is trippin’.”
He pushed the microphone away from his face, and then climbed inside of the Maybach. The multitude of flashing lights illuminated the car’s plush interior, causing him to close the curtain on his window. He looked out the corner of his left eye and saw Grip reclined in the white lambskin seat. He was fiddling with the diamond ring on his right pinky and flexing his jaw muscles.
As Muhammad pulled out of the parking lot with the Escalade close behind, he peeked in the rearview mirror and noticed that Sonny was cutting his eye at Grip. Muhammad didn’t say a word. Instead, he reached inside of his suit jacket and calmly removed the .45 that was nestled in his shoulder holster.
Sonny could feel Muhammad’s energy. He looked into the front seat and locked eyes with the old man through the rearview mirror. Disgusted, he shamefuly shook his head, and then reclined back in his seat. Damn yo, if only Mook could see me now.
“Sontino,” Grip spoke in his deep voice. “You okay?”
“Naw,” Sonny shook his head disdainfully. “What the fuck is The Moreno Crime Family? And how these mutha’fuckas got me mixed up in it?”
Grip sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“A long story?” Sonny repeated. “A’ight, well go ‘head, I’m listening.”
Grip nodded his head, and just as he was about to explain the legendary bloodline that ran through his grandson’s veins, his Samsung vibrated in his pants pocket. He retrieved the phone and looked at the screen.
“Hold on Sontino. I need to take this call.” He held the phone to his ear. “Hello.”
“Uncle G, it’s Gangsta. Where you at?”
“We’re just now leaving the hospital. It’s Me, Sontino, and Muhammad. Ahmed and Mustafa are riding behind us.”
“Sontino?” Gangsta questioned, wondering how Grip was able to pull off what seemed to be impossible. “That’s a good thing. It’s time for him to know what’s goin’ on, anyway.”
“I agree,” Grip said. “Where are you?”
“I’m at The Aramingo Diner, and I’ve got Murder and Malice wit’ me.”
“Did y’all get to the bottom of this shit?”
“Absolutely,” Gangsta confirmed. “Little Angolo and Carmine was behind this shit. That punkass Clavenski played a roll in this shit, too. It’s cool through,” he continued, and then looked down at the wounded prosecutor. “I’ve got him right here, and I’m about to tune his ass up somethin’ nice.”
“I fuckin'’ knew it,” Grip hissed through the phone. “I knew my brother was behind this shit. Now, as far as Clavenski, you just keep him nice and warm for me. We’ll be there shortly.”
Click!
Grip looked into the front seat. “Muhammad, take us to the garage on 22nd Street. We need to switch cars.”
Muhammad nodded his head, and then turned left on Erie Avenue.
Sonny was confused. He looked back and forth between Muhammad and Grip. “What the fuck is goin’ on?” He asked his grandfather. “You know who killed my pops and shot up his funeral?”
“I do,” Grip confiirmed. “It was The Gervino Crime Family. We’re officially going to war.”
Sonny screwed up his face. “The Gervino Crime Family? I ain’t never bump heads wit’ them niggas so why would they be comin’ at me?”
“Because,” Grip replied, “you’re a Moreno.”
“Yo, here you go again wit’ this Moreno shit!” Sonny snapped. “What the fuck is The Moreno Crime Family?”
Grip rolled up the partition, and then looked Sonny square in the eyes. “What’s the definition of knowledge?”
“The definition of knowledge?” Sonny continued his rant. “These mutha’fuckas murdered my pops and tried to blow up my family, and you got the nerve to ask me this dumbass question?”
As calm as still water, Grip stared at him with a blank expression. “Just answer the question.”
Immensely frustrated, Sonny shook his head and flexed his jaw muscles. “It means to know somethin’.”
“Not exactly,” Grip corrected him. “The definition of knowledge is to comprehend the reality of something as it truly exists, with certainty. Now, with that being said, do you know who you are?”
Sonny was speechless. He looked into his grandfather’s blue eyes, and then shamefully lowered his head. How could a question so simple embody such depth.
“I’m Sonny Moreno,” he answered while slowly raising his head. “A North Philly Block Boy.”
“Certainly not.” Grip checked him. “You’re my grandson. You’re Sontino Moreno, a worldwide boss.”
Again, Sonny lowered his head. His brain was moving at the speed of light, and mixed feelings permeated his heart. The newfound respect that was developing for his grandfather was conflicting with his feelings of hatred and contempt. He desperately tried to keep it together, but everything was hitting him at once. His chest became tight and his own tears betrayed him. He was doing the unthinkable. He was crying in the presence of his enemy.
“Sontino,” Grip addressed him. His voice was so deep and regal it reminded Sonny of James Earl Jones. “Tighten up and walk like a champion.” He reached out and placed his hand on Sonny’s left shoulder. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah,” Sonny sniffled and wiped away his tears. “I heard you.”
“Good,” Grip replied in a compassionate voice. “Now, let’s try this again. Do you know who you are?”
Sonny took a deep breath and continued to flex his jaw muscles. “Man, I don’t fuckin’ know.”
Grip chuckled and removed his hand from Sonny’s shoulder. “And that’s something that I do know! Why? Because in order for you to truly know who you are, first you need to know who I am!”
“Oh yeah,” Sonny challenged him. “And who the fuck are you?”
Grip’s face turned to stone, and he looked his grandson dead in the eyes. “I’m Gervin Moreno and I was born to be a gangster...”
To Be Continued...
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