Mafia Princess part 2 (Married To The Mob)

by King, Deja

  Gio smiled slightly at Semaj. It was obvious that she was built for the family business. He figured that she would blow her chances and he would close the door on her opportunity to assume leadership position, but unexpectedly she had won him over. As he looked his granddaughter up and down it was obvious that she was Kasey’s daughter.

  Semaj had paid attention to her surroundings and listened well. She was extremely knowledgeable on the game like Kasey had been, and it was unbelievable how she reminded him of his daughter. Like Kasey did when she first wanted to be a part of the family business, Semaj too proved that even in silence she was studying. Her demeanor was even the same. He watched as Semaj clasped her hand onto her arm and lifted her index finger to her chin just as her mother used to do while impatiently waiting on his response. Nonetheless, she had what it took to run a sophisticated operation—intellect.

  Without further consideration, Gio knew that the Milano family business was under new management. He arose and walked behind his son’s former chair. He pulled the chair out and rested his hands on the back. “Semaj, take your seat as the new head of this Family. But first I have to know: Are you ready to embrace this world completely?”

  Semaj nodded her head assuredly. “Yes, I’m ready Grandfather.”

  “In the coming weeks you will be attending one of the most important summits since the Dominican Republic Conference in 1993. It will reflect on the future of the underworld and the future direction of the families. This convention will be held in London, England as the European Union Conference, 2011. You will accompany Ortiz, and he leads all meetings. Are you sure you’re truly ready for this world, Semaj?” he asked one last time to make sure.

  “I’m certain of this, Poppa,” she reassured him with a convincing

  wink.

  Gio clapped his hands as he welcomed her as leader of the Family. Everyone at the table joined in on the applause, and then Gio went around the table and explained everyone’s role.

  “Jahnni Yates, as you know as Jah-Jah, is the accountant for

  Milano Enterprises. She’s half-crazy, but she’s a genius when dealing with numbers and technology. She keeps this family afloat as far as legitimacy goes. She is in charge of money laundering for our entire operation. Her job is to keep the Internal Revenue Service off our asses and to keep things in order. She pays off a lot of bigwigs in this country, from local to federal to keep us untouchable. She only comes out when needed, but has no problem doing so.”

  “Welcome to the family business,” Jah-Jah said politely.

  “Bonjo, the man responsible for your position, is something like your advisor. He’s the Family’s underboss and enforcer all wrapped in one. I’ve been in the game long before he was born, but I still find myself learning something new from him. He has all of your buyers lined up for you. You basically meet with the chiefs monthly and our clients annually to discuss all business for that year. That only changes if I give you the okay on it. Our operation is thorough and only we are aware of the locations where the sit- downs take place. The customers will only learn that once you’re on your way to the destination.”

  “Bonjo sets up all your meetings. You don’t have to worry about moving the heroin or pricing it. Bonjo does all of that,” Gio said. “His distribution skills are better than anyone I know, and he runs business with an iron first. Though he is not the one to represent us for the U.S. side of the business, he controls a lot of the black market here on the East Coast. He has his hands in just about everything and he will be the one to introduce you to our organization’s chiefs.”

  Gio looked over at his nieces and said, “Finally, The Milano Hitters. This is your protection, but as you know there are only four of them. Their role is simple; to shoot and to recruit soldiers that won’t hesitate to shoot. Their shooters have shooters, so you do not have to worry about having a hit squad. Everyone knows about our most valued murderous crew, but very few know that four beautiful women are behind the name. Many assume it’s a large group of Dominican men. That belief suits us just fine.”

  “Now that you know that,” he said as he returned to his seat and then leaned back in the chair, “I know about your issue tonight. I know about your father murdering Ortiz’s son the night you all set up Gabe. I know all about it. That’s what’s really making me believe that you have what it takes to be the leader of this Family. You have heart.”

  Semaj grew a look of confusion on her face. How the hell does he know about that shit at Gabe’s spot, and how does he know about tonight? she wondered.

  “I have my ways of reading you and my ways of finding things out,” Gio said as if he had read her mind. “I know everything. If I don’t, it won’t take me long to figure it out.”

  “I never even knew that I had a living maternal grandfather, let alone knew that I’d had a cousin there the night that my father killed.”

  “I know you weren’t aware. I don’t blame you. But know that you can’t blame me for anything I’ve done either. Everything we do is for the belief in the Family rules.”

  What do he mean? Semaj asked herself.

  “Now, what it basically comes down to is that I don’t want you getting your hands dirty. You have people to handle that for you. You are stepping into a much bigger arena now and you have to act accordingly.”

  “I understand,” Semaj replied as she clasped her hands and leaned into the table to look at them closely. “And just so you ladies know how serious I am, your first assignment is to deliver a message to our enemies. They need to know that this is still a family, and anyone that has the balls to try and go against us will suffer the consequences.”

  Marcela smiled at her cousin’s authoritative approach and knew that it was only a matter of time before she stepped up and claimed the position that was rightfully hers.

  No one knew if it was the death of her son or the fact that she had murdered a man that cracked Semaj’s shell wide open, but either way she had surfaced. It was the day Semaj took over the family business, and the day a “made bitch” was born.

  Concealing her identity behind a black Hijab headscarf and oversized dark shades to keep a low profile, Paris stood in front of her brother’s casket as Gabe had now joined their sister in death. As the pastor spoke the words, “…Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” it signified his finality and threatened her knees to give way. She and her brother were as thick as thieves, and she couldn’t believe that he was gone. First Egypt, now him, she thought somberly as she looked over at the two-dreadlocked goons. They stood beside her quietly.

  Paris could barely pay full attention to the preacher reading from the Holy Bible as she looked around apprehensively. Something told her that she shouldn’t attend, but her loyalty to her brother outweighed everything and her presence had to be felt.

  She wasn’t sure who was responsible for his death, but had a pretty good idea who contributed to it. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. It ain’t coincidental that the soldiers Ox sent with Gabe are dead too. But how did they know Gabe had affiliations with the shottas? They killed them and Gabe within twenty-four hours of each other. She was completely lost, and the sequence of murders let her know that they had found out vital information. I know they couldn’t have found out we’re related, she told herself.

  Fortunately for Paris, she and Gabe had been separated during early childhood, so there was no way to link the two together.

  As the preacher continued to read his message from the Book of Ezekiel 28:18, Paris peered out into the overpass. The stretch limousine with tinted windows didn’t go undetected, and she watched closely as it came to a slow halt at the end of the bridge. She knew exactly who it was and assumed they were there to confirm her brother’s death. How y’all killed him, y’all shouldn’t have to see if he’s dead, she thought. But as she looked at the coffin everything became clear to her.

  Her face dropped in shock as she noticed several red dots appear on the casket. She stepped back in disbelief,
but when she saw the red beams form on the back of the goons’ heads, she dove to the ground. What the fuck! she thought, and didn’t even bother pulling her pistol because her thirteen bullets were no match for what she knew was to come. “Fuck type shit!” she mumbled.

  There was no sign of any shooters nearby when she looked around to check the area, but yet the people on the ground were targets. She wasn’t stupid by far. Posing as an innocent bystander would give her a better chance of surviving, and she scrambled as fast as she could on her hands and knees to flee away from what she knew would become pandemonium.

  The fifty caliber bullets sounded off like soft door knocks as the Milano Hitters lit up Gabe’s coffin in broad daylight. The small eruption from the muffled silencers didn’t gain immediate attention, but the hail-sized bullet-riddled-casket and brain matter that flew everywhere got everyone’s attention. Bystanders screamed and scattered as they frantically looked around, trying to get out of the shooters’ way. Nobody knew it, but Paris had hidden in the reserved tomb.

  Releasing her clutched-hand from the fence, Semaj glanced up at her cousins a block over on the rooftop of a high-rise building. They slung the rifle cases over their shoulders, and from a short- distance she peered out at Sosa. She was the cockiest of the foursome and saluted her cousin. In exchange, Semaj flipped the platinum coin in her hand into the air as she watched them disappear as if murder hadn’t just occurred, and slid into the awaiting car. The coin toss was Semaj’s way of saying, “Mission accomplished.”

  As Semaj rode in the backseat, she knew that she didn’t really want to cause any more bloodshed, but it was all in the game and she had to make an example by having everyone of Jamaican descent touched at the graveyard. She had chosen this life, and there was no half-stepping. She had to either go hard or go home. Shit or get shitted on. Power was alluring, and she recognized that as her adrenaline pumped furiously at all that she had come into almost overnight. “Reign supreme” was the best way to describe her position, “gangster” was the right way to depict her demeanor, and “bad bitch” was the only way to explain her persona. Semaj had arrived.

  London, England

  Semaj got off the international flight as she tied the belt tighter on her cream wool trench before stepping into the airport. Huge coal-black tresses framed her face and a brown silk headscarf wrapped around her neck. Her French manicured hands gripped the gold handle on her Louis Vuitton luggage as she wheeled it through the terminal. Heads swiveled from both female and males alike as she confidently strode across the tiled floor as if it were a runway. Although she hardly got recognized from her one-time movie role anymore, her appearance gave her an aura of being a superstar.

  As she departed Heathrow Airport, she saw the limousine waiting curbside that Ortiz had arranged for her to be picked up in. She walked over to it and smiled slightly as she greeted the driver with a nod. He opened the limo’s door and she slid inside the vehicle. A full vintage wine bar was set up for her inside, and she decided to pour herself a glass of white wine.

  Semaj was silent as she slowly sipped from the crystal flute and watched the city streets pass by. She had been many places in her days, but never had she been in such an unfamiliar setting. London was a far cry from the destruction she’d seen back in New York. As they headed into city limits, she looked around in awe. Everything was so beautiful, so lavish and so rich.

  A day earlier, Semaj had witnessed a hit that she’d ordered, but today she was in a scenic city that tourists frequented. It was crazy, but it was the life of a person in her position.

  As the driver pulled up in front of the gorgeous hotel, Semaj pulled the snub .380 that Ortiz had stashed for her from the console and put it in her purse. He never traveled unarmed and was showing his niece to move accordingly.

  She glanced up at the 18th century-styled hotel that was owned by the Abbott Family. The British family was a part of the commission, and they had arranged for her to stay in their suite. The atmosphere was friendly, and as she stepped out of the car a bellhop immediately assisted her.

  “Welcome to London, Miss Semaj. Mister Ortiz Milano is waiting for you inside the lobby,” the young man said in a British accent. “Here’s your room key, and I’ll take your luggage up while you dine in our private dining hall with Mister Milano. Enjoy your stay, ma’am.”

  “I will. Thank you,” Semaj replied as she walked through the doors. Her stilettos echoed against the floor as she causally strolled in the direction of the man who arose, and she immediately knew it was her uncle before she even got closer to him. He was accompanied by three bodyguards draped in overcoats.

  “Hello, princess,” he greeted in a heavier Dominican accent than Gio’s. “You are just as beautiful as your mother was. Exquisite!” He reached out for her hand and kissed it graciously. He was much thinner and taller than her grandfather, but his handsome features were similar. “Niece, you should have traveled with some sort of security. You are royalty and a Milano successor.”

  “I didn’t think it was necessary now,” she replied, but had no idea that she was under protection anyhow.

  “After this meeting it will be essential that you always be escorted by a guard.” Ortiz led her into the dining room and pulled out her chair. “I know your flight was long. First let’s eat and get acquainted with one another. Then we can get down to business. Is that fine with you, Senorita Semaj?”

  “Of course, Uncle Ortiz.” Semaj smiled as she picked up the menu. She was looking forward to learning more about the family business from Ortiz.

  Kingston, Jamaica

  Oversized Prada sunglasses shielding her eyes from the intense Jamaican sunbeams and linen pants covering her plumped ass, Paris emerged from the large black tinted casino building and entered the back of the black town car. She arrived on the island earlier that morning, and as scheduled things was moving accordingly. Her glamour girl attire was a facade for the destruction she caused wherever she went.

  She reached into her purse and pulled out a small M.A.C. compact mirror and removed a Ziploc bagful of cocaine. The white powder was so pure that it gave off an incredible sparkle, and the sight of the potent substance caused her nose to itch in anticipation. She didn’t hesitate to sniff the fat lines of blow, using her nostrils as a vacuum cleaner. She quickly jerked her head back so that her nose wouldn’t run. She took a deep breath as the drug entered her system, allowing her to feel as if she was flying in the sky.

  The recent losses of her siblings had increased her coke intake and she snorted so much snow that her nose should’ve been diagnosed as glacier. Her heart was cold too, and throughout the last two years she relentlessly revealed her murderous nature. Her shoot ‘em up, bang-bang mentality had slightly died out though, and she had graduated to bomb hits. Whereas before she breathed to bust hollow tips, Paris now lived to blow shit up.

  After linking up with Ox, she had succeeded in numerous bomb hits. Most were business moves but a few were personal, in particular the bomb plots against Semaj and her family. She was out to get revenge.

  Paris knew Semaj from around the way and never liked her, but after learning how she set her brother up, Paris befriended her. Coincidentally, the day she planned to murk a major cat she was dating at the time, Semaj’s father came to rob him, and unknowingly Murder Mitch had allowed an enemy into the circle. From setting Tala up to be killed and snitching to Quasim about her involvement with his father’s murder, Paris had already made Semaj’s life a living hell.

  Paris couldn’t stop the devious smile that crept across her face as the vibration of the ground shook the car violently. Her wicked grin faded when she thought of all the times Semaj had bounced back. Everything about their interactions was like a game of chess, but every time she knocked one of her pieces off the board, Semaj didn’t stay behind for too long and strategically gained one up on her. Their moves seemed to be equal and balanced on a delicate scale. When Paris struck, Semaj struck back harder.

  “On my lif
e, before this shit is over I’ma make sure to make this bitch feel me!” Paris vowed.

  Her lazy eyes stared out of the window as she watched busy roadway turn into sandy beaches as the driver drove along the island’s coastline.

  In less than an hour, she was on Ox’s property. Armed Jamaican henchmen walked the perimeter while the others stood their post from high towers. Ox’s property was guarded like a fort.

  “Hello, Ms. Paris. Mr. Oku Oxlade is expecting you,” the dark-skinned heavy-set housekeeper stated.

  Paris followed the woman into the opulent mansion and through the sliding glass doors where Ox sat outside on the white limestone lanai. His daughter, Nyala sat on the ground playing with Barbies. She was adorable and her hair was long and silky. Her skin was the color of butterscotch, and although Ox never discussed her mother, Paris figured that the woman had to be exotic because Nyala was too pretty.

  Ox kissed his daughter on the top of her head and excused

  her before facing Paris. “Did t’ings go as planned today?” he asked.

  “Of course.” Paris picked up the remote from the coffee table and breaking coverage was on TVJ news:

  “…Late this evening, cops are on the scene of an explosion that has killed countless people, including casino owner Bark Lansky, a Jamaican native for over forty years. Local authorities are gathering up as much evidence as possible to see if there are clues to who may be behind this heinous act at this popular casino. More details on tonight news as this story develops… “

  Paris turned the television off and nothing needed to be said. The job had been done.

  Ox poured himself a glass of water and looked over at Paris. “Me sorry ‘bout what happened ta you bredda. Me didn’t mean fo’ dat, ya know.”